Page 63 of How To Plot a Payback

Finn swings back around.

“It’s just—I’m having a hard time seeing your enthusiasm, Lavender. Oh. Watch out.”

He points down.

To my horror, one of the little birds has pushed its head out of the box and is standing on the precipice, about to jump.

Finn takes the bird in his hands, cradling it, and shows the tiny yellow puffball to the audience. Despite the fact there is a comedian, despite the fact we are not taping, despite the fact nobody should even be looking in our direction, a round of fawning aahhhs resounds.

Everybody loves baby chicks. I am, without question, the odd one out.

“It’s just . . .” I scramble to put the box back on the little table, then give it a discreet push to edge it to Kye’s side. “I’m having a hard time believing poultry is the answer here.”

“Oh, of course it is,” Finn says carelessly. “It’s the perfect addition. Stats show the audiences love to see pets on-screen. Chicks rank number three. Dogs. Cats. Chicks. It’s a nice segue into the next phase of your relationship, while at the same time providing a number of comic challenges.” Finn waves at Kye. “Big city boy who has enjoyed being the know-it-all prior to meeting”—he waves at me—“small-town transplant who is now going to show off her low-country skills. The road will be riddled with bumps and laughs. Runaway chickens that make it into residents’ flats. Lance and Ashley missing a Halloween party, ironically dressed as scarecrows, to do late-night scarecrowing over a threat of hawks. And of course, the inevitable references to the chicks as your children, and the inevitable arguments when Lance forgets his daddy duties. Pool time with the chicks—that’ll be a cute one, Lavender. Viewers will love when you take a dip in a plastic tub with all the chicks surrounding you—”

“What?”

“Really, this is going to take on a life of its own,” Finn continues flippantly. “Goodwin loves it. Props has already been remodeling the existing rooftop set, getting ready for the chicken coop.”

I scramble. “But here’s a thought.” Then pause, hoping something, anything, comes to mind. “Have you . . . have you thought about . . . zucchini? What if his token of commitment was a nice zucchini?”

Finn throws his head back and laughs.

Laughs as though I’ve just made a hilarious joke. “Zucchini? Do you think Ashley Krane could possibly bond with a zucchini? Oh, Lavender,” he says, and there’s a twinkle in his eye as he says it, “can you imagine anything more out of character?”

For a moment, I’d say he was throwing the words I said upon our first meeting at me.

But then he winks, takes a chick from the box, turns towards the audience, and sets the chick on the ground. Immediately, the big yellow puffball begins tottling and chirping, and the audience laughs and swoons right on cue.

He turns back to me with a shrug that says, See?

“Right.” I inhale. This is fine. This is all fine. But the bodice on this too-small dress is rubbing at my rib cage and the room is beginning to spin. I push myself to standing. “But first, I have to run to the loo. I’ll—I’ll be right back.”

And before I know it, I’m passing by flashes of silverware and pulling open several doors. I must have forgotten to breathe until I got inside my dressing room, because my chest expands so much that a seam in the back of my top gives a distinct pop. I reach back to unzip it, just enough for breathing room, and sink to the floor.

Sometime later I hear the padding of paws across the rug and feel the tickle of Bernie’s tricolored hair against my face. His big face presses against mine, and then his tongue is licking my cheek, my neck, my hair. My hand finds his face and begins rubbing his ear.

It is helpful, actually, and I keep rubbing.

“Lavender?”

I look up and realize Finn is standing at the open door, one hand on the handle.

He takes one look at me and shuts it quickly behind him.

“Oh, hey,” I say. My voice is soft, light as a feather, as if I just ran into him at a bookshop and am surprised to see him there.

He’s screwing up his face, however.

His hands are on his hips.

Actually, he’s not looking at me at all. He’s looking at the ceiling. Muttering to himself.

“What are you doing?” he says at last. His voice is accusing.

“Just went to the loo and decided to pet Bernie here for a sec,” I say. I take a breath. Laugh a little. “Got distracted for a minute.”

“It’s been thirty.”