Page 40 of How To Plot a Payback

I check my phone again, hoping for news.

Nothing.

Despite the fact that the bed beckons, I drag myself to the closet because I need to gather my thoughts, as well as my things.

I need a failproof plan for tomorrow.

Thirty minutes later, a freshly pressed blue button-up and navy trousers hang on the knob of the closet door. The alarm is set, the second alarm is set, and two bottles of ibuprofen rest at the bedside. The coffeepot is set to brew at 5:15 a.m., and I get (read: crawl) into bed, full of hope.

That tomorrow will be a perfect day.

That my ensemble will be professional and spotless.

That my shoes will shine—with no broken shoelaces.

That my hair will be kempt.

That my creativity will flow.

That I will be quick to produce zingers when asked and fresh thoughts when prompted.

That I will walk into that room well before anybody else with laptop ready and script in hand.

That I might even throw a couple dozen doughnuts on the table in a display of goodwill.

I will be Finn Masters, “unstoppable force of creative genius” (Welling’s Daily Gazette’s “Thirty Under Thirty”). “A forge of wit and wisdom” (again, their words, not mine). “Handsome as they come” (it’s possible the interviewer was hitting on me, but again, her words, not mine). Respectable. Innovative. The kind of guy who should be supervising producer at the world’s most addictive sitcom.

Tomorrow, simply put, will be perfect.

And Lavender Rhodes, without question, is not going to get in the way.

Chapter 6

Lavender

I open the door and step inside.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I pull down the bill of my baseball cap as I hear a man’s words somewhere amid a slew of barking and meowing.

The sound inside the narrow vet clinic rivals the cacophony of buses, taxis, and automobiles blaring horns on the street. The 7:30 a.m. light is bright, beams of sunlight bouncing off car windshields and parking meters, promising that today will be another unseasonably warm February day.

Paper hearts are strewn across the window display of Jones Animal Clinic.

My shirt is on inside out (something I discovered on the way here), but all in all I consider that a success given the night I’ve had with little Bernie here.

(Shockingly enough, Sonya still hasn’t come to accept this wonderful gift to her life, and so for a little longer he’s bunking with me.)

Which isn’t so bad, of course.

He’s an absolute sweetheart with those big brown eyes and his cuddle-up-with-you-at-all-times spirit.

And surprising amount of fur.

I mean, it just drops off by the handful. Great big balls the size of mice that end up on your bed. In the bathroom. In your mouth.

It’s impressive, really, that he has any fur left at all.