Page 65 of How To Plot a Payback

I draw myself up and prepare to open the door. But just as I do, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stop, startled.

Who is that?

I look like the ghost of myself. My face is pale. My dress is covered in dog hairs, the corset top twisted. What was a charming ensemble at first, with the heart-shaped fitted black top melting into a flared skirt, is now a disaster: the dress looks like an exploded chocolate cupcake, the tulle-satin combination puffing out everywhere except where it should. The wall was unkind to me. It has gathered my curls into hairballs.

I lock eyes with myself and step towards the lighted vanity mirror. Have I been crying?

No.

I couldn’t have.

I of all people would know it.

But there are two dry streaks running down my cheeks, where tears have cut through all eight carefully applied layers of makeup.

I hear the door open and see Finn step inside as I’m rubbing madly at my cheeks to smooth out the makeup.

Swiftly, I turn. My hands grip the vanity behind me to stay steady. I say with an overbright smile, “Alright. I think we’re ready to get back in there.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. He’s holding a can of sparkling water in his hand. And with the most resigned voice possible, he motions to the couch. “Here.”

I push the water away and move past him to the door. “I’m really fine. I just needed a minute.”

“Don’t.” He’s shaking his head. “Don’t make me have to beg you to sit down. It’s already done, Lavender. They’ve made the announcement. People are leaving.”

I can’t help it.

A part of me flinches as adrenaline pumps through my veins at the thought of letting down so many people, of being the cause of so much commotion. But another part of me, a more desperate part, can’t help but feel massively relieved.

There will be no more of them.

No rooftop scenes.

No pool of chickens.

I take the can of water and sit down on the edge of the couch.

I take a sip.

There’s a long moment of silence, aside from Bernie in the corner, who has taken up chewing on the heel of a discarded pink shoe.

“Well. I’ve got a lot ahead. So.” Finn, who looks strung out, stands there as though about to leave, but surprisingly, he doesn’t. He keeps standing there, rooted to the ground. Then, looking as though he’s conceding something, he throws his hand out toward me. “So what exactly is wrong with chickens?”

“Nothing—”

“We both know that’s not true. And frankly, if I have to lose my job—again, which I’m just sure is going to happen, again—I’d at least like to know why. What exactly is it that petrifies you? Do you”—he furrows his brow—“eat chicken?”

“Yes. And you won’t get let go for this. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Oh”—he gives a humorless chuckle—“I’m sure you will. Are they too fluffy? Too yellow?”

“No, I just . . . I had a bad experience as a kid,” I say, my fingers fidgeting, pushing on the hem of my dress. “My great-aunt and -uncle lived in the country, and when I was a little girl I visited for the summer, and there was this rooster, and it was always chasing me, and one morning it got my great-aunt as she was gathering eggs.”

“Right.” He’s looking at me blankly. “So . . .”

“And it hit a varicose vein on her calf, and I knew I had to run to get help while she was hemorrhaging, but the bloody thing kept attacking her, so I had to pick it up, and it brutally pecked at me the mile to the neighbor’s house. Was the scariest moment of my life.” I shrug. Glance briefly to the tiny pinprick scars that run up and down my arm. “So. Suffice it to say . . . I don’t like birds.”

There’s a long silence while I’m staring at the carpet.