Page 66 of How To Plot a Payback

I don’t like to tell people the story.

I don’t like to think, let alone speak, of the memory. It feels like I’m contaminating this room, this spot on the couch, and piling rubbish over the good memories. I don’t want to sit on this couch and be reminded. I want to think of the good things, the memories taped up on the walls.

I feel him sit beside me on the couch.

His face looks hard, his brow knitted.

His lips are pressed together so tightly they disappear.

He rubs a hand down his face.

His unreadable face.

I can’t tell in this moment what his thoughts are. They could be anything from desperately wanting to get out of this situation to judging me for letting one of the hazards of existence cause lifelong fear.

Office supplies could kill you too, maybe, but I don’t go around avoiding staplers.

A steaming mug of coffee could kill you, but that won’t stop me from owning a bar cart full of it.

Anything and everything in the world has the potential to bring harm.

And, obviously, a few baby chicks can’t do anything.

Surely . . . probably. And I know that.

It’s all just so silly.

My face grows hot as my thoughts spiral.

Already I feel I shouldn’t have said anything.

And then I feel the weight of his hand on mine, stilling my fidgeting. His voice is low, serious. “Lavender, I’m really, incredibly sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.”

“No, actually,” he says, shaking his head, “pretty much everything here I have to apologize for. I had seen that interview and underestimated your reaction.”

“It’s fine,” I say, shrugging. “I tend to play it down. It’s silly, really—”

“It’s perfectly legitimate.”

I screw my face up into a smile. “Yes, well, easy to say when you are”—I wave my hand around vaguely at him—“who you are.”

His brows angle down behind his glasses. “And who do you think I am?”

“You know.” I shrug. “The serious producer who has it all together. Even your dog looks like he’s better at playing an adult than me. But look at you. I bet you go to bed at some decent hour like ten—”

“Nine.” Finn pauses, then adds, “Excluding work events. Particularly of late.”

I grin. Shake my head.

Finn studies me for a moment before his lips purse.

He lets go of my hand and pulls off his glasses.

Rubs one hand down the side of his face, then puts the glasses back on with a determined expression.

“Do you know what’s silly? I’m a thirty-year-old man, and I can’t bear to be the only one in a pool.” A smile creeps up my face as he adds, “I play it off, of course, but always in the back of my mind is one of those Goosebumps books I read when I was eight, about an invisible man in the pool, and now, without fail, I’ll find a reason to hop out before I’m the last one in.”