Page 113 of How To Plot a Payback

“So you think she deserves someone better. Like Kye.”

“I think she absolutely deserves someone better. Most specifically anyone else besides Kye. I just caught him feeling up that intern in his dressing room—”

“The one you felt up?”

“I was the victim of hallway stalking.”

“Interesting,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “Maybe that’s what Maggie did to Kye too. Maybe she’s just lurking, pouncing on men every chance she can.”

“Yes, well, whoever started it, it was clear Kye wasn’t planning on ending it anytime soon. And then, five minutes later, he hops on set and tries to do the same thing with Lavender.”

Silence settles around us. Paula takes this in and, from the way she’s watching me, I know she’s deciding how to address me. I am trying to force the tightness in my chest to ease up to a rational (at least breathable) level.

“Lavender’s a kind person,” I say quietly. “Sometimes, I think, too kind for her own good.”

“Lavender’s her own woman.” Paula considers me. “But if you really feel this way, why don’t you try doing the one thing you haven’t in all of this?”

“What?” I say.

“Talk to her.” Paula shakes her head. “If you haven’t noticed, for whatever reason, she trusts you. Maybe before throwing Kye into space, you try having a candid conversation.”

I don’t move.

To be frank, I have no intention of moving, until she adds, “And for the record, considering everyone is heading to their cars to spend the rest of the night as they please, now may be a good time.”

* * *

I’m very nearly jogging as I see the glint of Lavender’s golden ponytail slip into the driver’s side just before her car door closes. Automatically my eyes swivel to the passenger seat, hoping nobody is in it.

I squint, but the glint of light against her windshield makes it impossible to see.

This whole ride-into-the-desert-at-sunset plan feels more and more impossible with each step. But reason, it seems, flew out the window the moment I saw Kye with Maggie. And now it’s too late to call it back.

The car door pops back open, and Lavender looks at me as she climbs down from the SUV, a question in her eyes.

I began this day with the intent to stay cool and detached.

And now here I am, running after a woman after declaring we kill off a man.

“Finn? What’s wrong?” she says, just as I’m putting a hand behind my neck and pulling to a stop at the car door.

I hesitate.

“Nothing,” I say. I take in a breath, hands on my hips as I suck in lungfuls of air. “Nothing . . . just . . .”

How am I going to say this?

How am I possibly going to open up about this?

“Look. I think there’s something you should know.”

And then she blinks, and her expression shifts as if to say, I know. I know what you are about to say.

“Right now?” Her gaze darts to a group of tourists in the distance, several of whom have phones out as their guide directs them onto Stage 4. “How about we talk at home?”

She means her home. Obviously she means her home. But the familiarity sends a zing up my spine that I have to neutralize to maintain my composure. I find I’m shaking my head.

“No.” I realize I sound brusque and add, “I have to get back to work. I just . . . I saw something today and think you should know.”