Page 64 of How To Plot a Payback

Finn rakes a hand through his hair and paces to the wall and back.

He looks furious.

I suck in a breath. Thirty?

Ten minutes possibly. Twelve at most. How could it possibly have been thirty?

“Oh.” I begin to push myself up. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“Don’t get up.” He throws a hand from his temple to me. “Lavender, you’re shaking. I just need to figure this out.”

Bernie has put his head in my lap, and the weight of his head is somewhat comforting. The rhythmic movement of my palms against his fur seems to force my heart to beat in sync with the slow strokes. I settle back down, my back against the wall, a bundle of satin blooming out around me. The dress is covered in fine white hairs Bernie has shed, and I find that the least I can do is begin to pluck them off with my free hand. One.

Then another.

Then another.

“You said in an Elle interview that you don’t like chickens. Not that you have a legitimate phobia.”

Again, he’s speaking in an accusing manner, but the way he takes breaths and cuts corners in his pacing, I’m not sure if he’s accusing me or himself.

“This shouldn’t have been traumatizing, Lavender. A mild annoyance at best.” He throws out a hand. “Something you could work with,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “For the good of the show.”

So he has done his research.

Knows a bit of my past.

At least, one interview.

“Well . . . I am afraid of chickens,” I say with a shrug.

“No.” He waggles a finger. “No, that’s the thing. You’re not scared of chickens. What you are is petrified of chickens,” he replies. Then, as if thinking through all of this and coming to a horrible conclusion, he exhales heavily. “We have to rewrite. Rewrite it all.”

Suddenly he is pulling out his phone, tapping madly, pulling it to his ear, muttering to himself, “If I don’t get fired for this too.”

“Now, stop,” I say, and with some effort I grab the bottom of my dress and pull myself to standing, using the wall for support. I feel the flap on my back and pull up the zipper. “It’s fine. See? I can just get used to them. They’re just—just tiny little—things.”

“You are supposed to swim with them in a kiddie pool next week.”

The image makes me feel nauseous, and I lean back against the wall. “Right. Well.”

“Hey, Paula,” he says, his attention on the phone. Then taking one look at me, he opens the door and moves out into the hall. His voice is low, but the door is cracked, his hand on the knob. He’s speaking low, but I can hear. “Tell everyone to wrap up—we’re done for the day. No, not the writers. The audience and cast. We’re going to have to do some rewrites. And lay it straight: we’re going to go late. Go ahead and plan to bring in some dinner. No, make it worth it. Go for sushi.”

He pauses.

One arm is crossed over his chest. His stance is stiff as someone passes by. He gives a curt nod, clearly waiting for them to pass.

“Right, well, let’s just not tell Goodwin about this while he’s out of town, okay? With any luck we can resolve the whole situation while he’s gone. He’s the type of man you share these details with after, when it’s all fixed up—”

He’s overreacting.

Not to mention, taking a whole lot of responsibility for something that is my problem, not his.

Still, the pressure hangs heavy. Never in my career have I been the difficult one. Some people call it people-pleasing. I call it what it is: never letting anyone down if I can help it.

It’s logical. A strength, not a weakness.

So yes, I did have a little reaction to the surprise of the . . . the . . . animals, but I will absolutely not let my castmates down, much less the audience who waited so long to get in, much less make the writers throw away words they labored over and stay late on my account. I will just have to snap out of it. That’s all there is to it.