Page 14 of How To Plot a Payback

“No!” Sonya says resoundingly. “No white fur. No black fur. No depressed dogs, no puppies. The only acceptable level here is no fur.” And lest I pull a hairless dog out of my bag of tricks, she adds, “Because of having no dogs.”

“But you would get to make use of that nice new vacuum of yours,” I say.

At this she pauses.

Considers.

Shakes her head. “No. And most importantly, Lavender, you’re about to be late.”

I can see by the way her arms cross that I’m not going to make any headway today.

I press my lips together.

Consider my situation.

“Fine,” I say lackadaisically, waving one hand in the air and gathering my skirt to stand. “That’s completely fine. I am happy to keep your”—I say the next few words in a rush—“adorable little miracle until you are ready for him to come home. In the meantime”—I gather up my leashes—“if you’ll excuse me . . .”

I’m halfway down the hallway when Sonya calls in an exasperated tone, “Lavie, wait.”

I spin on my heels.

She nods down the hall.

“Try Kye. He’s idiot enough to take on a life-altering responsibility on a whim because you asked him. And then hurry up,” she adds, louder, “because I’m not sure even I could fix what you’ve done with that hair.”

Hmm.

Kye.

Well. I had planned to head to the writers room next. Knew several people there who were for a fact lonely, not to mention the fact they could use a room mascot. But Kye did just go through a pretty terrible breakup. Yes . . . he probably could use a pup after being dragged through the news. (Is it really dragging when you’re to blame?)

I look down at the brood. Doleful eyes look up, and I feel a pang for them all.

Which one? Which one would be perfect for Kye?

The scraggly red corgi with the banana eye patch to match his winning personality? The pair of really, really large Saint Bernards, who may have barked the past thirty hours (and I must make this very clear) without ceasing, but did so with the biggest, sweetest eyes? The fourteen-year-old terrier with a shocking level of bad breath, but who gives the most darling kisses? The Basset Hound puppy who can’t stop tripping over his ears—but yes, does have a bit of a psychotic, growling, sinking-teeth-into-people’s-skin problem? (Nothing a good first-aid kit can’t handle.)

It’ll be a mystery. They’re all just so perfect.

The dogs tug me down the congested hallway, and I gather up my skirt and tumbler with one hand.

The scent of popcorn trickles down the hall, and I’m nearly hauled right past Kye’s door.

At the very last moment, I manage to grab the door casing with the heel of my shoe like I’m rock climbing and hanging on to the ledge for dear life. Barks echo off the concrete walls and down the hall while I call with a feeble, “Kye? You in?”

Now, what I’d planned to do was present each dog to his or her future owner in a more ceremonious style. Create a calm environment. Give a little speech. Hold the dog out to the chosen owner, who would take the animal with awe and humble pride (as they should). As if I’d knighted them, maybe. I wanted them to feel the honor bestowed upon them.

Just then, the man with the popcorn rounds the corner and heads straight for us, and the dogs go absolutely wild. The hallway behind Stage 2 is narrow, and the dogs (particularly Basset Hound Flesh Eater) are making it difficult for people to pass. I’m trying my best to get the dog treats out of the tiny leather purse at my hip, and having a rather hard go of it, when Kye’s door opens.

The dogs make an almighty lunge for the popcorn and my shoulder makes a loud pop. I cry out, biting my bottom lip, then quickly smooth my expression into a smile. “Care if we come in?”

Kye, to his tremendous credit, doesn’t hesitate. Brandishing a laugh that echoes down the hallway, he flings the door open.

Kye, for the record, is the love of my life.

At least on-screen the past ten years.

“Lavender. What. On earth. Have you done?” he says in amusement.