Page 54 of How To Plot a Payback

“Finn,” Paula repeats.

I turn. Face her head-on. “Sorry. Just daydreaming.” Nightmaring. “Where were we?”

I try to listen while the topic of Ashley Krane carries on.

“I just don’t think that’s the right move for her,” Heath, the line producer, interjects. “She’s engaged now. We have to pull the elastic on this as far as it’ll go. There’s available space on outside Lot 12. We could throw some pink ribbon on a few chairs and gazebos. Venue shopping could be an interesting topic for a few episodes—”

“Compared to her getting cold feet after being stuck between two feuding honeymooners on a twelve-hour flight?” Erik interrupts. “Not to mention the hassle of outdoor sets. We’d have to deal with the weather—”

“Oh sure. That one day a year it rains in LA will be a craaaaazy risk,” Paula retorts, setting her empty Yoo-hoo can on the growing pyramid in the center of the table. “You know what I think? I think you’re all wrong. What Ashley should be doing is having an existential crisis as she narrows down her bridesmaids list. Turn it into some Hunger Games bridesmaids’ battle involving envelope licking and tackling men who try to stand up during the ceremony—”

“Right after the Hunger Games baby-shower battle the girls dealt with six episodes ago?” Erik cuts in. “Do you even watch the show?”

An outsider would think they hate each other.

To us? Just another productive brainstorming session.

I set the muffin on the table. I’m going to have to ignore the message. But I turn my chair to face the door.

“Ashley said in”—I lean over, running my finger over the touch pad of my open laptop, scrolling down through my notes—“season 2, episode 13 to boyfriend of failed attempted elopement, Greg Links, that she, quote, ‘could never take away this moment from my family. They’ve been rooting for me since you first slipped that valentine into my desk in second grade that said “I’m Batman. Will you be my Robin?” I can’t not let them see how it ends.’”

I look up.

“Let’s bring him back. Drop him into a pastoral role at the church where they decide to wed. Have him be Lance and Ashley’s counselor during premarital counseling sessions. Find him still madly in love with her to the point of making chaotic decisions. Sabotaging sessions. Causing fights. Kidnapping.” I shrug. “The usual.”

“Her former fiancé being the pastoral counselor for the wedding?” Paula begins. “I like that.”

“Can’t,” Erik jumps in. “Greg Links was played by Tom Hammon. Rehab.”

I frown. “What about the chef from season 4?” I pause, scrolling through the document until I see what I want to see. “Similar breakup story.”

“Trent Hathaway. He’s booked out on Cooking with the Stars.”

“I bet we could break him out for a few episodes,” Heath says. “Nobody’ll miss him. He never gets higher than a two-spatula rating—”

We go round and round into the evening, papers flying, fingers running madly across keyboards and screens. It’s crunch time given the massive engagement plot shift. Instead of editing an existing script, we are creating one from scratch. And instead of merely getting words on the page to be edited later, we make great time and, at the end of the day, have it polished to perfection.

We are a team with all cylinders firing. It’s my first real day and I already feel as in sync with this team as I did after eight years with Higher Stakes.

By nine o’clock, my legs are aching from all the pacing, but I feel alive. I feel good. Plot twists have been conceived. People have fought. Foosball has been played and carpal tunnel has flared. Caffeine has been consumed, fueling thoughts and propelling ideas.

I didn’t lead the room at first. Co-execs Cindy and Ken did. But the two stepped out to handle rehearsals with Goodwin halfway through the day, and before I knew it, by title and rights I was in charge.

Before anyone could second-guess it, I grabbed the bull by the horns.

Now all that was left was to hand off the script to Mr. Goodwin on a silver platter (aka printed neatly inside a bright red notebook fresh out of the cellophane wrapping) for his review. And inevitable red-pen slashes.

But Mr. Goodwin would be proud. I felt sure of it.

The tic I’d developed of constantly checking over my shoulder dropped after the second hour, and by the time the full moon was hanging in the ink-black sky, fears of Lavender destroying my life had temporarily subsided.

Never had our paths crossed throughout the day—though that was intentional on my part. I kept close tabs on where she was during rehearsals and snuck away only when they were hard at it. Every time I opened the door to her dressing room, there would be Miles sitting in the corner, watching the great big puppy rip Lavender’s pink dress to shreds or throw all the paper coffee cups around as if they were rubber chickens. The place smelled ripe, and the rug in the center of the room sported several new yellow spots. But not from Miles. Every time I’d bring Miles back to the room, he’d look up at me with those big gray eyes as though to say, Must we? Must we come back here again?

I didn’t even dare go into the bathroom.

The cats had been let loose in there, and I learned via a pink Post-it on the door that they had been supplied with a plate of sushi. Frankly, I’d rather not see the damage.

Suffice it to say, the custodial team will be working extra hours tonight. And Lavender will walk in tomorrow morning, saying something mind-numbingly oblivious like, “Oh! Isn’t this a nice surprise. A new pink rug.”