Page 21 of The Worst Possible Plan

I raised my glass to that and took another mouthful of wine.

Margot thought I was a mess, that I couldn’t hold a job for more than a month. To be fair, historical evidence wasn’t entirely on my side. Still, family was supposed to ignore facts and support your delusions.

Well, I would prove her wrong. Even if proving her wrong killed me. Which, given the current trajectory of this festival, felt slightly more possible than it should have.

My thighs ached, even while sitting down, and that was saying something.

Apparently chasing livestock counted as extreme cardio, the kind that should come with a waiver.

Who knew?

If I’d lost two pounds, I’d count that as a win.

Still, if someone had told me twenty-four hours ago that I would spend today sprinting after livestock while arguing with an alpaca and embarrassing myself in front of a sheriff who looked like he’d been handcrafted by extremely ambitious women, I would’ve suggested they seek professional help. And maybe a hobby.

I flipped the binder shut. Every time I opened it, I discovered a brand-new problem. It was less a binder and more a magical portal to fresh anxiety.

Who planned festivals voluntarily? Who woke up one day and thought, You know what sounds fun? Managing hundreds of moving parts while strangers complain about parking.

Psychopaths.

That was my current working theory. And honestly, I felt pretty good about it.

Do you know who else was a psychopath?

Henry.

And what did single women do when they’d been dumped and were emotionally compromised by wine?

They drunk-texted their exes, that’s what.

I laughed. And when I realized that my wine glass was empty—again—I leaped to my feet and hobbled over to the two dressers—I mean, the one dresser. I stared at the wine bottle for a good three seconds before setting down my empty glass. Then I picked up the bottle instead. Seemed more efficient.

Moving over to my bag, I reached inside, pulled out my phone, and sat on the edge of the bed. Then I slipped and crashed onto the hardwood floor on my butt with a thud.

I held the wine bottle up in triumph. “Didn’t break.”

Another win.

After my vision stopped spinning and I could focus on the screen, I tapped Henry’s last text message, and my fingers fired away.

Deearr Hjenry.

You’r a jerk.

Jerkk.

I let out a laugh as I dropped my phone. That felt good.

For one glorious second, I considered staying in my room forever and becoming part of the furniture. I could let history remember me as the woman who disappeared into a guest room and never came out.

However, if Helen discovered I’d abandoned the festival to hide in my room, she’d drag me back herself. The woman looked like she could wrestle a bear if properly motivated.

The rain had started now, a steady rhythm against the glass. It was soft at first but quickly got heavier, drops tapping against the windows and then drumming.

The sound should’ve been relaxing. People paid money for rain sounds. Instead it reminded me of tomorrow, and tomorrow was the enemy.

Tomorrow meant more questions I probably couldn’t answer combined with more problems I definitely couldn’t solve.