Page 46 of The Worst Possible Plan

“Then you’ve spent twenty minutes interrogating an innocent man over a poker hand.” She looked around the table. “Which, now that I say it out loud, somehow feels even sadder.”

Dave leaned back in his chair. “He folded ace-king.”

Carol stopped serving pie. “He what?”

The entire table nodded in perfect unison.

She looked at me. “You folded ace-king?”

“I did.”

She stared another second before slowly setting the pie server back down. “Huh.”

I pointed across the table. “See?”

She shrugged. “I never said you weren’t acting strange.” She crossed her arms. “If Mike folded ace-king, I’d probably schedule him a doctor’s appointment.”

Four idiots burst out laughing.

I rubbed my temples. Even the voice of reason thought I’d lost my mind.

It was going to be a long night.

11

SOPHIE

The last strand of café lights finally clicked into place.

I climbed down the ladder—carefully this time, making absolutely certain my feet weren’t wrapped in electrical wire again. I even checked twice before stepping off the last rung. Trust, I’d learned, was something you earned. Extension cords had not.

I stepped back, tilting my head as I admired my handiwork. I’d never been good at anything. Not really. And not that I remembered. But this? This looked good. More than good. It was beautiful.

“Not bad, Sophie,” I told myself. “Not bad at all.”

The lights stretched across the square in soft golden arcs. The banners fluttered gently in the evening breeze, flower boxes lined the sidewalks, and volunteers packed away ladders and extension cords with satisfied exhaustion, knowing they’d actually accomplished something. For once, nobody was shouting my name across the square.

This felt… right.

I smiled. A real one. Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t completely ruining everything for once. Maybe I was only ruining it in manageable, reparable ways. That felt like progress too.

Dottie waved from across the square before climbing into an ancient station wagon. “Don’t stay too late, sweetheart!”

I waved back. “I won’t!” That was probably a lie. At this point, I was developing an unhealthy relationship with optimism. It kept convincing me I was leaving “in five minutes,” yet somehow thirty minutes kept mysteriously disappearing.

I couldn’t leave. Not until I felt like I’d given it my all. Not until I felt it was perfect and that we were ready for tomorrow.

As everyone else slowly drifted home, the square settled into a quieter rhythm. The volunteers were gone, leaving only the distant hum of cars drifting through Maplewood Falls. The café lights glowed warmly overhead, softening the edges of the town after a long day.

I hugged Helen’s binder against my chest. I should go home, take a shower, relax a little, and eat something that hadn’t come from a food truck. I might have a glass of wine—maybe a bottle—and sleep for approximately three days. If I woke up sometime next week, maybe I’d find somebody else had magically finished organizing the festival.

Instead, my eyes wandered toward the temporary fencing behind the community center.

The petting zoo.

I frowned. “I should probably check on them.” The words came out before I had a chance to stop them, like my mouth had made evening plans without bothering to consult my brain first.

Because I was a responsible adult. Mostly. Still, I couldn’t just leave until I knew they were okay.