Page 88 of How To Plot a Payback

“And he broke your heart with that—that young girl—”

“He didn’t.”

And when he just looks at me with this unreadable mix of emotions, I add, “Haven’t you ever been told not to believe anything you hear in Hollywood? Ever?”

And then, when he still just flickers his gaze to the floor and keeps it there, falling into what I believe is a deathly sorrowful stare of thoughtfulness, I say the truth. “Adam and I dated for a few months, but when I decided to leave the relationship, he”—I tread carefully here, then say lightly—“struggled. He was also under the impression that it would help his reputation and career if he was the one to leave me, and I was happy to help him out. We kept the breakup a secret for a couple of months, he met that girl you spoke of and began dating her, and voilà. The story went public. The only trouble is that he apparently is not over me, and, well. You can see how he lets his emotions get the best of him.”

“Do we need to help you get a restraining order?” Finn says, rubbing his temple. Honestly, he looks so frazzled by the entire situation it’s a wonder he gets through life.

I laugh. “Against Adam? No. He’d never hurt a fly.” Finn looks dead serious, so I add, “Or even threaten to hurt a fly. He’s just dramatic. He . . .” I pause for the right words. “Feels feelings very intensely.”

There’s silence.

A couple passes by in the hall, and we stand there, mouths shut. He holds the can of sparkling water awkwardly.

At last, I bend down slightly to catch his downcast eyes. “Finn. It’s okay.”

“I did it,” he says suddenly. “I was the one who thought it would be good to have him on the show.” There’s a long pause. “We’d done it several times with other real-life couples on set. Viewers always loved to see them on-screen. And you two brought so much attention. And I thought, well, I didn’t think it was going to be this intense. A little awkward, of course. But nothing . . . well, nothing like that.”

“Finn.” I touch his hand. It’s as cold as the can, nearly as sweaty too. Gosh, he’s really worked up about this. A thousand words fly through my head. What can I say to get him to calm down, to see reason, to help him understand this is not the end of the world? It really wasn’t the nicest idea to throw my feelings under the bus for the sake of ratings, but it also wasn’t all that over the top. In the end I settle on this: “I forgive you.”

That one lands.

And he looks up.

“No, Lavender. I very much do not deserve your forgiveness.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” I say, “but that’s the beauty of forgiveness. You don’t get the say. I do. And I say”—I shrug—“I forgive you. Life’s much too short for me to hang on to resentment, especially as none of us is perfect. But for future reference, I don’t recommend throwing your actors’ personal lives into the script for the sake of ratings. I mean, at least ask us next time.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know . . . what I was thinking . . .”

Oh for goodness’ sake.

“C’mon, Finn. We all get caught up in our heads sometimes. I got a little caught up a few years ago. Swept up in”—I gesture around the room, stopping at one of the (admittedly many) shiny golden Emmys I’m currently using as an earring holder—“all this. For quite a few years, I made the mistake of believing this was more than pretty plastic.”

He frowns. “That’s actually dipped in gold, Lavender. And no, you didn’t.”

“Hand on heart, I did,” I reply. “For a bit, I really believed I was something else.”

Suddenly it clicks. That’s what draws me to him. He has never once looked at me and seen the person I am not. This entire time he has seen me for exactly who I am: just an average person.

An average soul among billions of average souls—and together this way, on this even plane, we are all somehow extraordinary.

“You are far too hard on yourself,” I say. “Everyone deludes themselves a little when they want what they want. It starts with a little white lie to ourselves, then another one, then a bit bigger one. People rationalize their actions all the way up to genocide, if we want to be grim. You hardly can beat yourself up for making a misstep for the sake of the show.”

He’s shaking his head, so I add, “Or even just for the sake of making yourself look good. You know,” I say, “when I first landed the role of Ashley, I promised myself that Hollywood wouldn’t change me. I would be the same person, the same Lavender Rhodes—”

“Your name’s Mary—”

“Come off it; it’s my middle name. I have a point here,” I say. “I would be the same person my parents raised me to be. But someone can only serve you as a human side table for your cup of coffee for so long before it starts to get to you. If you let it. And it started to get to me. People laughed at my jokes while they whizzed around doing my hair and makeup, Finn.”

He screws his brows together. “I’m . . . not following.”

“I’m not that funny. A little funny, sure. But not that funny.”

At this I see his lips twitch, the tiniest bit of a smile starting to break through the clouds. I grin.

“I mean,” I continue, “they’d howl at one-liners you’d chuck your writers out for. D’you know how terrible it was?”