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“How did you know that?” I slide off the bed laughing.

“I’m not deaf.” She winks. “I heard you talking to yourself.”

“I’m officially crazy.” Stepping forward, I kiss her cheek. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

In my bedroom after dinner is put away and Ma has gone to bed, I put the tip of the paintbrush against the thick paper. I’ve sketched out an image of a girl with flowing curls sitting in the lap of a boy with strong arms, a square jaw, and dark hair, messy over his forehead.

Another day without a text or a call, but Mrs. Irene’s words give me hope. I sent him a brief text before I sat down to paint. I hope you’re having a good week. Miss you.

It’s what I hope for him, how I feel. Perhaps not every single thing I’m feeling, but we’ll get there. For now I have to get here. I have to finish this painting, and I’ll be up all night doing it.

My phone buzzes, and my heart jumps. I put the thick pad down and rush to my nightstand, scooping it up to see…

My shoulders drop.

A text from Deacon. No more stalling. Lunch tomorrow. Your plan is being made.

Deacon is an arrogant, rich, bossy man.

He’s also right.

It helps I no longer think I’m ready to throw in the towel and start a new life in the big city.

I quickly tap back. When and where?

Gray dots precede his reply. Burgers n Suds, noon thirty.

Done.

A deep inhale, and I’m back to my art. Having a plan is a good thing. Oprah says you get in life what you have the courage to ask for. Know your value.

Holding my brush above the paper, I know the most important thing is keeping my commitments, which means tonight I’ve got to finish this painting.

“If you follow this, Dallas is optional.” Deacon hands me the stack of papers, and my stomach squirms when I see Melinda Ray Five-Year Plan across the top. “Actually, everything in here is optional. It’s just a plan.”

“Jeez, it looks so official.” I hold the document, not opening it. “It makes me nervous.”

Today he’s in a short-sleeved button-down shirt with navy slacks. He’s so casual. We’re sitting at the Burgers n Suds over hamburgers and French fries, holding my future in our hands.

“What are you nervous about?” He takes a sip of his drink and watches me.

“I guess…” I lower the sheets the table. “It’s like, if I don’t do this, I’ll be a massive failure, and it’ll be right here in writing for anyone to see.”

He pops a fry in his mouth. “It’s what you said you want to do. It’s not a government document. You won’t be a failure if you change your mind.”

“What if we pretend like this never happened?” I pick up a fry and bite off the end.

“You’ve been telling me you want to do this for years. Haven’t you?”

I stir the fry in my ketchup, nodding.

“Then whether it’s written down or not, if you don’t do it, you’ll be a failure.”

“You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

He breaks into a laugh. “I’m just messing with you. But studies show if you write down your goals, you’re a hundred times more likely to accomplish them.”

“A hundred times?” I arch an eyebrow, and he grins.