Page 98 of How To Plot a Payback

She dodges the oversized Venus flytrap, its vibrant pink needlelike teeth poised to strike.

Was that why her shoulders tensed? Or was it me?

“And who else lives in the building?” she asks casually, turning her head at the various mustard-yellow doors and mint-green stucco walls. “Any other writers?”

“Writers?” I say through a laugh while flipping the keyring for my key. “Well, Sherry keeps saying she’s putting out a novel, but apparently she’s been saying that the past fifty years. No. Just me.”

I step beneath the little awning that spans my and Mrs. Teaberry’s doors, then reach down to move aside the water bowl Miles sometimes drinks from. It’s five twenty already, thanks to Lavender insisting I walk her back to her flat to drop off Bernie. She insisted I stay with her, actually, as though afraid I was going to dash off the second we parted and then never relay my address.

Which, to be fair, I might have done—but for her sake as well as mine. It was one thing to rescue her from the clutches of her well-meaning best friend.

It was another to let the little charade go on any longer than that.

And as I absolutely have no intention of telling her directly why I feel it’s impossible for us to match up, and as it is very possible that she, being the social butterfly, has no intention or real interest anyway, seeing each other more than absolutely necessary will only muddle things further.

Really, because everything is complicated with her.

Because nothing, not a single thing, is simple.

“We’d best get a move on. Show starts in ten minutes, and they get cranky if I’m not there for the start of it.”

“They?”

“Well, yes. On Saturday nights, it’s more of a they. You’ll see.”

“So who else lives here then?” she says, pulling up behind me, her back towards me as she scans the courtyard and its surrounding doors. “A lot of people our age?”

I step up to the door.

“I’m the youngest by half a century. The complex is rent-controlled. Once people get into Casa Laguna, they stay. I lucked out years ago when I hit it off with one of the temp actors and he tipped me off about the place before he moved.” I wave my key around. “So essentially, it’s me and a bunch of senior citizens. And just wait. You’ll see how I spend Saturday nights since I got on Neighbors. You’d think I was”—I pause—“well, you. Which is why this is going to be fun.” I raise one finger. “Just . . . try not to give anyone a heart attack. Bill just got his pacer in. Don’t”—I wave my hand around—“touch him. And try not to be so—”

She raises a brow. “So what?”

“You know. So . . . magical. Maybe don’t smile directly at him.”

“Be less magical and dispense smiles at palm trees. Got it.” She reaches down and gives Miles a distracted rub on the head, her attention still facing the courtyard. “So . . . just you then. And you’ve been here for quite some time.”

I’m just putting my key in the lock when she says this.

And then it clicks.

So . . . this is the cause of her bristling.

I take a breath, my eyes on the knob, mind calculating what and how much to say. “Why?”

“I just know someone who used to date someone in this building. She said he essentially lived in a—”

“—in assisted living. Yes. How is Delilah?”

I turn around just in time to see Lavender’s mouth pop open. Mrs. Teaberry’s door swings open and five women burst out, each carrying casseroles and bowls covered in aluminum.

“Oh, Finn,” Mrs. Teaberry says, “Jack just picked up a projector and he’s heading this way now. We’re moving the party outsi—”

Then Mrs. Teaberry locks eyes on Lavender.

And the entire set of ladies collapses.

Chapter 19