Page 1 of The Worst Possible Plan

1

SOPHIE

You’re too much. Life’s too short.

I stared at my phone’s screen. Those were Henry’s last words to me. More like his last text to me. He broke up with me via text message, not a face-to-face conversation or a last dinner at a fancy restaurant to do the deed. At least then I would have had a nice meal and some wine. But no.

What kind of a man breaks up with his girlfriend of six months by text? A coward, that’s what.

Also someone who still somehow expected me to send him twelve dollars for “my share” of takeout two days earlier through PayPal.

The guy was scum. A scummer. I just made that up.

And what did it say about me that I still had the text message?

That maybe I enjoyed torturing myself. Or maybe I kept rereading it because a small part of me still expected another message underneath it saying “Just kidding. I’m outside. Let’s get tacos.”

I was a mess.

In the space of two weeks, I’d lost a boyfriend because I was “too much,” lost my job because of a minor printer incident, and lost my apartment because of a tiny illegal yoga studio I’d set up.

To be fair, the printer incident only became an incident after the printer started smoking.

And the yoga studio had technically been successful. Very successful. People loved Wine & Wind Down Wednesdays. Apparently the city of Maplewood Falls just had very strict opinions about commercial businesses being run out of basement apartments. Especially when one of the clients accidentally blocked the fire exit with a meditation fountain.

At this rate, by the end of the week, I’d gain fifty pounds, drown in Turtle Pond, or end up in jail for accidentally setting fire to the Hartwell Inn. Which would be very inconvenient since I lived there now.

Jail might actually be cheaper than rent at this point. Not ideal, but at least meals would be included. I took that as a win.

I tossed my phone on the bed and glanced around the room. It was the smallest in the inn according to my cousin Sarah, the owner, and the good Samaritan who let me stay here on a “family rate,” which was extremely cheap. The walls were covered in faded pink floral wallpaper that looked like it had survived at least three divorces.

The narrow bathroom had an old claw-foot tub fitted with a shower that groaned every time I turned the handle. I had a view of the garden, not the ocean. But it was clean, safe, and Sarah said I could stay here for as long as I wanted.

The room still smelled faintly like lemon cleaner and old wood. My suitcase sat half-unpacked near the dresser because even my clothes lacked the emotional strength to fully commit to this situation.

One of my bras hung from the bedside lamp.

I stared at it for a long moment. “Wow,” I muttered to myself, “really pulling your life together, Sophie.”

But I couldn’t stay here indefinitely. I was almost thirty years old. It was time I grew up, took charge of my life, and did something.

Something stable. Something respectable. Something that didn’t end with local authorities knowing my full name.

I grabbed my phone, tapped on my diary app, and started typing.

Day 1:

Will take charge of my life and find a job.

I stared at the statement.

It sounded less like a plan and more like the kind of thing someone wrote right before things got dramatically worse.

A sudden banging from the other side of the wall made me flinch. And then voices rose. I recognized one in particular. Dottie, the inn’s breakfast chef shouted orders. If Dottie was barking out orders, that meant breakfast would soon be served.

A second later something metal clattered loudly.

“Move your ass, Frank!” Dottie yelled through the wall. “Those eggs aren’t gonna scramble themselves!”