Page 104 of Josephine and Clay

I sigh.

Josie: Some.

Penny: Better. Breakfast?

Josie: Crackers.

Penny: That's not breakfast. That's sadness with salt.

I almost smile.

Josie: I have a plan.

Penny: That’s worse.

I look at the notebook again.

No. A plan isn't worse.

A plan is how things don't fall apart. A plan is how I got through school while working part-time and pretending it didn’t hurt that my family treated my ambition like an inconvenience. A plan is how I moved to Buckhorn with two suitcases, a job offer, and no guarantee that starting over would feel any different than leaving.

A plan is stable.

A plan stays where I put it.

People don’t always do that.

Josie: I’m fine. Work soon.

Penny: We’re discussing this later.

Josie: Looking forward to being interrogated.

Penny: You should be. I’m very charming.

I set the phone down before she can make me laugh properly.

Then I return to the lists. By seven fifteen, I have a weekly budget. By seven thirty, I have a tentative savings goal. By seven forty, I've calculated the approximate cost of raising twins through the first year and immediately decide math is cruel and should be illegal.

Still…

Numbers are numbers. They may be frightening, but they’re honest.

Unlike feelings.

Feelings are slippery. They change shape depending on whether Clay McCoy texts me with too much honesty, or whether I catch myself remembering how his hand felt at my waist, or whether I think about the way he looked on crutches in the dust at his family’s ranch, hurt and proud and trying so hard not to need anyone.

That's not helpful.

So I draw another line beneath the list and write:

Don't rely on Clay.

I stare at it.

Then I write it again, smaller.

Don't rely on anyone.