Page 53 of The Worst Possible Plan

Halfway there, I overheard her talking in that easy, conversational way people usually reserved for dogs.

“I’m still pretending,” I heard her say.

I stopped and listened. My first instinct was to announce myself. My second instinct was to leave.

Instead, I stopped just outside the pen. Her back was to me, and the animals had her full attention.

I suddenly felt like I’d wandered into a conversation that wasn’t meant for me.

An alpaca rested his head against her shoulder while she scratched behind his ears. A goat sat nearby, his head angled toward Hartwell. A smaller alpaca stayed back along with a miniature donkey, both eating hay contently.

“I’ve had a lot of jobs.”

Her voice carried easily across the quiet grounds, soft enough that she clearly wasn’t talking to be heard but loud enough that the words drifted through the night all the same. There wasn’t any performance in them now. Just honesty.

“Receptionist.” She held up one finger. “Travel agency.” A second finger. “Dental office.” A third.

I leaned one shoulder against the fence post without thinking. The rough wood pressed against my sleeve, grounding me there while I listened to a conversation I probably shouldn’t have been hearing.

“I even worked in a candle store.” She sighed dramatically. “Turns out scented wax isn’t really a long-term career path.”

I smiled before I could stop myself. She had a way of making even failure sound oddly entertaining, like she’d already decided she might as well laugh because the alternative wasn’t improving anybody’s day.

She turned her head just enough that I caught the smile on her face.

Then it faded.

“Nobody ever says they’re going to grow up and become professionally unemployed.” The joke landed with a little more weight than she’d intended. I could hear it in her voice. She probably could too.

The goat wandered over and started chewing on her shoelace.

She pulled her foot away. “Hey. Stop that.”

The rest of her words were lost as she moved around. Then she leaned back and scratched the alpaca absentmindedly again.

“You would’ve liked my old bosses.” There was humor in her voice, but not much of it. “You all would’ve gotten along. They were very good at nibbling away at my confidence one little bite at a time.”

Something about the way she said it wasn’t funny. I’d heard that tone before. People used it when the truth hurt too much to tell it straight.

Witnesses making jokes after bad accidents. Victims smiling through statements because they weren’t ready to admit how much something had hurt. It was easier to laugh than say the words out loud.

The alpaca leaned harder against her. Like somehow he understood she needed the extra weight keeping her anchored.

The rest of her words were mumbled again. And then her voice carried over to me.

“I wasn’t always fired.” She laughed, like people tended to when nobody else was around to hear it—not because the joke was funny but because people laughed when they didn’t know what else to do.

I didn’t.

I’d spent two days assuming she lied because she was overconfident. Because she thought she could bluff her way through anything. That she’d walked into town believing charm could solve logistics and optimism could replace experience.

I’d been wrong.

She wasn’t bluffing because she believed she could do it.

She was bluffing because she was terrified she couldn’t.

Big difference.