Page 92 of How To Plot a Payback

“I want community,” she says, overtaking my words. “And a life I haven’t got to worry about turning into a pool of soggy sand if and when I stop acting. Or get my first wrinkle. Or the show ends. So as of three Novembers ago, I decided to finally do something about it. And I haven’t looked back.”

Her smiling eyes look up into mine, and I feel, just for a moment, like time stops.

I take in all of her, from her bright, wonderful eyes to her bright, wonderful words.

Then she blinks. “And before you think I’m getting all philosophical on you, frankly, if I ever wanted to see that view again, I can just pop over to Sonya’s. It looks like a castle, you know. She has gargoyles.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least. And you . . .” I hesitate. It seems like I’m pressing this point, but really, I’m having such a hard time getting over it, I just want to ask one more time. “You really don’t miss the gargoyle lifestyle? Not one bit?”

“There’s a man who sits on my front steps who looks like a gargoyle. His name is Cyle. So look at it how you want, but my gargoyle talks, and hers is concrete. Now, c’mon.”

And that’s the end of the conversation. Because next thing I know, she’s pushing herself to standing, then turning and grabbing my hand with, “Show me that trick you do where you get Miles not to chew up your shoe.”

“Ah yes. The don’t-chew-my-shoe trick,” I repeat. “That one is popular among the trainers.”

“That’s the one.”

And for the next hour, I do.

Because after that grand, terrible mistake on set with Adam Glassner, I ran up the white flag. I gave up.

I recognized I lost.

I’m terrible at paybacks, and more importantly, she is not at all the person I suspected for so long. Even more important, I’ve learned I’m not the person I thought I was either.

I’m worse.

Up till now, I thought I was doing a pretty decent job at life. I call home every week. Remember my parents’ birthdays. Drive the speed limit. Check on my neighbors with meticulous care. But with this? With everything revolving around Lavender Rhodes, I’ve failed spectacularly.

All this time I suspected she was the villain. But it was me.

I was the villain.

And I owe her now.

So. If she wants to take Bernie to the park? Sure.

If I see a little bandanna as I pass a shop window and think she will enjoy it for her pup, so be it.

I will go the distance with her, whatever she wishes.

Well, to a point.

Because when the blindfold was ripped from my eyes during that exchange in her dressing room two weeks ago, something else happened. Not only did I realize just how crippled my own bitterness made me, but I realized how wonderful she is.

Wonderful.

Whereas I’ve clung to every rotten moment, she lets trespasses slip through her fingers like sand.

Whereas I’ve spent countless nights staring down at my journal, writing down my woes, she spends her nights looking up, counting the stars.

I grumble; she cheers.

I grimace; she smiles with eyes as bright as the sun.

Somehow I have become darkness, and she is light.

And of course, darkness cannot mix with the light.