Page 32 of How To Plot a Payback

But honestly now. Finn Masters. I know I’ve heard the name.

Kye’s/Lance’s hands find mine.

I set the phone down on the table.

Feel the broken (props has to fix this) barstool wobble with the shift of my hip. Kye gives my hand a squeeze and props one foot on the bottom rung, steadying it. It’s subtle enough no one can tell.

I’d thank him silently, but there’s a large camera swinging around us, zooming in on my eyes, which are supposed to be full of intensity. So instead I squeeze his hand back.

A ding rings out offstage and I pretend, just as he says, “Hang on,” and reaches for the phone, to read the text that comes in.

I ignore the camera zooming in even further as my brows furrow. I also ignore the massive curl blocking one eye while I drum up a sense of betrayal to accompany my next line.

I look up from the phone. Back into Kye’s ever-startling blue eyes.

“Patricia says she’s looking forward to your date tonight,” I say weakly.

There’s a gasp from the audience. Someone in the audience hisses, “The floozy.”

Floozy is a bit harsh, given the guest star is playing a blood-donating, plant-loving kindergarten teacher who may or may not end up temporarily engaged to Lance before she joins the Peace Corps.

My voice wobbles. “Guess you’ll have to be the one to break the news you’re leaving for training in three weeks.”

You know, that new guy has a point.

It wouldn’t kill Ashley Krane to put up a little fuss every now and again. After all, he did just declare his never-ending, undying love at the end of last season. Right before “accidentally” snogging with his boss while stuck in an elevator, and believing, due to a series of misunderstandings, the end of the world had come and they were the only two survivors.

By the end of the day today, at the end of this episode, I’m going to be standing at that door, hiding my sadness over the fact that Lance has found himself beguiled by this Patricia across the hall. Once again I’ll be using that face that says I’m heartbroken but will move on because within eight episodes we’ll be back together—or, at the very least, stealing a few kisses we both declare we regret.

But honestly now. If Ashley were my real-life friend, I’d tell her she really, really, really needed to move on.

And if Ashley were Sonya’s real-life friend, Sonya would steal her keys, kidnap her, and drag her around to parties surrounded by attractive and available men, demanding she wake up and move on. (Speaking from personal experience here. It’s equal parts terrifying and helpful.)

But seriously, how far and how long can an audience suspend their disbelief for the sake of the story before it loses its magic? How much can you stretch the elastic band before it snaps? What was it Finn Masters said again? “Ashley either needs to stand up for herself or leave him.”

Was that it? Is that why he looks mad at me? Because I turned down his idea?

Well.

Fine.

Let’s just take a stab at fixing that and see what happens.

Lance makes a reach for the phone, and I pull it towards me.

“You know what, Lance?” I pitch my voice higher as I clutch the phone a little tighter. “I think . . .” I shoot him a look that says Kye, bear with me as I go off script but also pairs nicely with the Lance, I’m about to throw down some heavy things. “I think it’s time.”

Kye’s eyes flash, and I could swear that vein on one of his giant biceps grows even bulgier with adrenaline. He loves going off script.

He loves improv. We don’t go there often, because it frays Goodwin’s nerves, but when we do, you’d think Kye just flew down a waterslide the way he comes out all grins on the other side.

Improv to Kye, particularly in a live studio, is the equivalent of a hundred-dollar bill to a kid in a candy store.

He checks his watch. “Time? We don’t have to leave for the movie for another thirty minutes.”

I suck in a breath, figuring the best way to put it. Then I recall Finn’s words. “Time that our fate be sealed one way or another. I’m . . . tired.” I throw out my hands. “Maybe finding out you’re leaving the atmosphere gives me a little perspective. Maybe I’ve just woken up and realized it’s time we stop these charades. Aren’t you tired of it too?” I say, wrinkling my brow. “Someone told me just today that if I have half the intelligence and self-respect people claim I do, I should’ve stood up for myself long ago—”

“Who told you that?” he says, moving to stand. “It was Rick, wasn’t it?”