Page 116 of How To Plot a Payback

* * *

I never knew the inside of a car could smell so strongly of jalapeños.

I hear the crunch of more than a few fast-food bags beneath my feet. Something jabs me in the back. At least ten empty to-go cups are stacked inside one another in a cup holder. And at least six gold medals hanging from the rearview mirror on red, white, and blue ribbons clank against one another when she puts the car in Reverse.

“Where are we going?”

“My son’s wrestling match.” She peels out of the space so rapidly my hand snaps for the handle, which is suspiciously sticky. “He has a meet at six. If you want to talk, you’re going to have to talk on the drive. That alright with you?”

I have my choice of at least a dozen napkins littering my surroundings.

“Sure,” I say, wiping my hands and trying to decide exactly how desperate I am to get answers tonight. “Fine.”

As she squeezes us into the flow of traffic, a move I had hitherto thought would be impossible, she gives me a sidelong glance. “So. What do you know?”

“That’s what I’m hoping to find out from you. What do you know?”

“My car. My rules,” she says. “And while we’re at it, don’t waste our time holding on to your cards. You flagged me down in the parking garage. You’re in my car on the way to a wrestling match, where you’re about to be swarmed by a bunch of thirteen-year-old males. Let’s not play games.”

“Fine,” I say. I’d respect her more for all this big talk, except for the fact I am sitting on potato chips. “To put it bluntly, I may . . . do . . . have feelings for Finn.”

“I knew it!” The childlike thrill in her voice throws all her respectable big talk out the window. Now she’s wagging her finger. “I knew you did. You had to.”

“Had to?” I retort. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” I do have my dignity.

“Of course you did. Look at the way he looks at you. I haven’t seen him like this since . . . well . . . since ever.” She’s shaking her head as she swerves unnervingly into the next lane and, I’m 99 percent certain, clips the car in front of her.

Her words boost my spirit, however, and a warmth creeps to my cheeks. “Oh, I don’t know about that. There was that Delilah he was pretty chummy with once upon a time.”

“Oh, her,” Paula says, her lips puckering as if I’d suggested spoiled taco meat as a refreshing appetizer. “No. She was more like a shadow.”

“Of what?”

“Of you. Of the real thing.”

I’m starting to recognize a pattern among the people in Finn’s life. I saw it several days ago when visiting his flat. Everyone speaks of him like proud owners of a pristine lawn, smug gardeners of perfectly pruned azalea bushes, openly gushing about the number of birds that like to visit this beautiful landscape each day.

People in his life care about him, take pride in him, are anxious to see and rejoice in his success. It makes him look wonderful.

If he ran for president, they’d vote for him.

Out of loyalty.

“Well, here’s the thing, Paula. The way I see it, there are two problems.” I squeeze my eyes shut and pray for dear life as she cuts off a tractor trailer to swing towards an exit. “One, he is giving me mixed signals. And two, I stumbled upon this list.”

“Those aren’t two problems. It’s one and the same. He’s giving you mixed signals because of that list.” After a pause she adds, “Which, for the record, I can’t believe he’s kept all these years and which, for the record, I’d like to say was the effect of a momentary lapse in sanity. Really, honey, he’s the stablest man I know. It’s just . . . when it comes to you . . .”

“I apparently drive him mad. And it’s somehow causing him to want to stay away.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t know . . .” Her eyes widen. Like she’s just now putting together that all this time I have been clueless as to the missing key. “You don’t know the big thing,” she finishes. She clicks her tongue and looks at the traffic ahead. Considering that good driving skills are the only thing she seems to have skipped so far, I take this as a clear indicator she’s deep in thought. Probably about whether she should tell me.

“From your response just now,” I say, jumping in before she decides to back out, “you seem to be in support of Finn and me having a go at it. And on my end, at least, I’m getting nowhere—unless you count that kiss a few nights ago—”

“You two kissed?” she sputters.

I get it now. I get why she is a writer. She lives for the drama.

“Well, I sort of coerced him into it, to tell the truth.”