Page 115 of The Worst Possible Plan

“What?”

“I think I’ve finally figured out his name.” The realization settled over me with ridiculous confidence. There would be no committee meeting. No further discussion. My brain had already filed the paperwork.

Eric looked over. “And? What is it?”

I nodded slowly with the absolute certainty of a woman making an extremely important life decision that had somehow become my responsibility despite absolutely nobody asking me to name someone else’s donkey.

“Douglas.”

The donkey lifted his head almost immediately, which I chose to interpret as active participation in the naming ceremony. He brayed once, long, loud, and ridiculously dramatic.

I pointed triumphantly. “See? He likes it.” Frankly, I considered the matter legally binding now.

Eric raised an eyebrow. The skeptical one. He possessed separate eyebrows with entirely different personalities. “That’s your scientific evidence?”

“It was an enthusiastic acceptance.” I nodded with complete confidence despite possessing absolutely none of the credentials required to make donkey-related behavioral assessments.

“It sounded more like a complaint.”

“You clearly don’t speak donkey.” Which was unfortunate for him because I was becoming increasingly fluent through absolutely no training whatsoever.

Eric let out a laugh. “No. No, I don’t.”

“I do.” Apparently. Another unexpected skill I’d discovered this week. Festival planning. Emotional catastrophes. Advanced donkey interpretation. My résumé was becoming wonderfully confusing.

Another bray.

“There.” I smiled and folded my arms. Case closed. “Douglas has spoken.” The jury had reached its verdict, and I was delighted to announce unanimous approval from the defendant himself.

Eric chuckled. “I’m not arguing with Douglas.” Wise decision. Douglas struck me as someone who held grudges and remembered faces.

“Smart man.” Nobody wanted to start a neighborhood dispute with a donkey on the first day.

Douglas wandered off looking deeply satisfied with himself. His ears bounced gently with every step. Bandit tried chewing on his tail. Naturally. Because respecting personal space remained an optional concept in goat society.

Douglas ignored him. Didn’t even turn around. He simply continued walking with patient dignity, like he’d already accepted that this tiny horned nuisance wasn’t going away anytime soon.

I grabbed my wine glass and leaned farther back in the Adirondack chair while the evening settled gently around us. As the chair creaked softly, I realized my shoulders had finally relaxed. My neck wasn’t stiff, and I could finally let myself just… breathe.

Crickets had started singing. Their steady chorus drifted across the property, blending with the occasional rustle of leaves and the soft sounds of happy animals settling into their new home.

A breeze stirred the trees, carrying the scent of pine, fresh hay, warm earth, and sawdust from Eric’s latest project. It was clean, simple, and peaceful—the kind of evening people wrote country songs about.

Somewhere farther down the property, a bird called once before everything became wonderfully quiet again—not empty quiet, just comfortable quiet. The kind that didn’t demand filling with conversation because somehow everything important had already been said.

Forty-eight hours ago, I’d been convinced I’d ruined my life. Spectacularly. With commitment. If there had been a medal for impulsive decision-making followed by catastrophic overthinking, I’d have been standing proudly on the podium wearing the gold.

I’d kissed the sheriff. Been arrested by the sheriff. Stolen a truck. Gone to jail.

Yet somehow, everything important had fallen into place. Not because I’d planned it. Heaven forbid I receive credit for organization outside of festivals. It had simply… happened. Like the universe had finally decided to stop laughing at me for five consecutive minutes.

The festival had worked, against all reasonable expectations, including several of my own. It hadn’t been perfect, but I’d figured it out. Somehow I’d kept everything moving forward with equal parts determination, caffeine, panic, and what I now suspected was blind optimism disguised as leadership.

I actually did know what I was doing.

Which came as something of a surprise considering I’d spent a solid portion of my adult life convinced I was professionally unemployable outside of accidentally creating minor disasters. Competence had been hiding underneath the panic all along.

Not because I’d read a book. Heaven knew I’d bought enough self-help books over the years. They mostly ended up on shelves making me feel guilty every time I walked past them. Or because somebody trained me. No wise mentor had appeared with a clipboard and inspirational speeches. No magical event-planning fairy had tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “You’ve got this, kid.”