When it all came crashing down—as was inevitable with him; he was a person for whom (or because of whom) Plan A never worked out—he found himself on the receiving end of a fair amount of sympathy. He didn’t deserve the sympathy—he was the one who had cheated after all—but sympathy found him nonetheless. People understood they said; they totally got it; he wasn’t a villain. Not that a lot of people knew, but the ones who did wanted him to know that “they were his friend” and “they were there to support him.”

“Do you want to get a drink?” Penny asked him when he told her he had been caught. She knew about the infidelity already, had guessed early on. “What’s going on with you and T——?” she’d asked a couple months ago, the first sign that his secret was not so secret. At first he’d lied, gave Penny his practiced look of incredulity and confusion, calling on all his acting talent to appear as if he had no idea what she was talking about. But he’d never been able to hold out against accusations, especially when the accusations were true, and so had fessed up and gone to Plan B: turn the accuser into a conspirator.

Making Penny a conspirator wasn’t hard. Penny was no stranger to infidelity herself and so totally got it, and assured him he would find “no judgement here.” Plan B was usually a success.

“Let me buy you a drink,” she said. He didn’t really want to talk about it with Penny. Not because he didn’t want to talk about it in general, but because he’d rather do something productive like go to a bar and hit on a bartender, or read a book, or even something healthy like go for a run. Talking about it seemed unnecessary and tiresome. What would come of it? He’d already thought it through.

He knew he should want to talk about it; he knew he should be a mess and in need of a friendly soothing shoulder. It was what was expected of someone in his position and so he agreed to the drink, which was Plan C once the conspiracy was blown: give the jury what they want. In this case, that was a contrite and broken up human being, someone who is just so sorry, but who also has their own side to this all-too-human story.

“Yeah, you know? I think a drink would be really helpful right now,” he said, and so they headed to a nearby bar.

Plan C was usually a success.

He let her steer the conversation in hopes that she would feel like she’d helped and that would be at least one person in his corner. She asked if he felt it was over; he hung his head and said quietly, “I don’t know.” She told him of her past infidelities; he asked how she dealt with the moment of being caught and then pretended her advice “made a lot of sense.” He counted the minutes until he could reasonably tap the bar and say “Ok, I should go home and face the music,” and they would hug and she would tell him to be strong and he would tell her that he would try. How long does someone need to be supportive in order to feel like they have been supportive? he wondered. This was the strategy of Plan C: make others feel like the people they want to be.

After an hour, he took advantage of a lull in the conversation and tapped the bar and said it was time to go home and face the music. Penny smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “Ok,” she said. “You are not a villain here. Be strong. I am here whenever you need me.”

“Thanks,” he said. “It really means a lot.” They hugged, stood there awkwardly, and so he mumbled something about catching his train. “Yeah, you should go,” she said. “Be strong.” He nodded and pretended to fight back something emotional. “Ok,” he said and turned towards the door, catching the eye of the hostess as he went.

The thing with being a villain is that you need to care deeply about the people around you. You need to anticipate how they will bring you down, and then you need to play them so they don’t.

That was always Plan A.