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Plan B

By Erin Stevenson

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“So, Kelsea Denise, what’s your Plan B?”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed another tissue.
“And don’t roll your eyes.”
My head flopped back on the pillow. How could my mother know I was rolling my eyes, over the phone, from two hundred miles away? I rolled them again to see if they made any noise. No sound whatsoever.
“I’m working on it, Mom, I’ll be fine.”
“You have to have a Plan B, sweetheart. You can’t just pick up and move on without a plan.” I tuned her out. I had heard this more times in my almost three decades than I could count. My brain rejoined the conversation a few moments later.
“…and if I hadn’t had my teaching degree to fall back on, you and Morgan and I would have starved when your father died,” Mom said softly.
I stopped my eyes just as they began to roll. Dad had been well insured, but I knew it gave Mom a sense of purpose to have gone back to teaching.
“I know, Mom, but Ryan didn’t die.” However, that could be arranged.
“Breaking your engagement four days before the wedding! I never would have believed it from that boy. He was so nice.”
“Yeah, I know, Mom. He had everyone fooled.” Most of all, me.
A maternal sigh rippled through the miles into my ear. “And so handsome! Both of you with that gorgeous dark hair and brown eyes. You would have given me beautiful grandchildren.”
Would you like some cheese with your whine, Mom?
My mother was desperate for a grandchild, and that task rested completely on my slim shoulders. All of her close friends had about seventy-five grandchildren apiece. My sister, Morgan, was off the hook. She’d breezed through college, motored through a master’s and Ph.D., and was now Assistant Professor of Art Therapy at the Midwest Art Institute in Chicago. She wasn’t even thirty yet. Morgan was too busy with her teaching and her patients and her research to think about dating or marriage or children, but because of her sparkling success, Mom never harassed her.
Time to shut this down. I tossed the crumpled tissue into the overflowing wastebasket and rose up from my messy day bed, where I’d spent the last day and a half sobbing my soul out. I walked through the living room into the kitchen (which took a full five seconds), grabbed the plastic container from the bottom shelf of the pantry, and shook dog food into a bowl.
If masked men with automatic weapons burst into my tiny apartment to abduct me, my dogs would sleep through it and never see or think about me again. But the tinkling sound of their food landing in the ceramic bowl was all that was needed for the barkfest to commence.
“Mom, I’ve got to let the dogs out,” I yelled over the din. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“All right, Kelsea, remember your Plan B. I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Love you.”
Oh, joy. “Love you, too, Mom.” I hit end and tossed my phone down on the counter.
I did love my mom, but I was nothing like her. Morgan was like her. Morgan always had a Plan A, B, C, and D. If, on the other hand, flying by the seat of one’s pants was an Olympic sport, I would win the gold medal.
I shuffled to the fridge and pulled out the milk. According to the date stamp, it would expire today. How does the milk know to just give up on the 29th? I decided to take my chances. It wasn’t like Ryan or anyone would know or care if I died from milk poisoning or whatever happens when you drink expired milk.
I grabbed the Oreos and sat down at my small table. Penny and Sheldon were still scarfing down their food. The two Poms came into my life about four years ago when I first started volunteering at the animal shelter. They were the best thing to ever happen to me.
I looked at the clock and decided that this was dinner. After polishing off a few—all right—a lot of Oreos (and the milk, which tasted fine), I wiped my hands on a napkin and opened my laptop. I had ignored all the notifications and messages of shock and awe about the canceled wedding. I had no desire to talk with anyone about it. Thank God we had kept things relatively small and local, despite Ryan’s mother’s attempts to make this the social event of the season. Morgan was my only attendant, and Ryan’s best friend was his best man. It should have been easy enough to cancel the church, photographer, flowers, cake, and the restaurant where we were going to have the reception. Since Ryan’s mother arranged all of it, I suppose she canceled all of it.
A new message popped up in my e-mail. Flight itinerary for Ryan Patrick Singer and Kelsea Denise Anderson.
I groaned out loud. The honeymoon! How could I have forgotten? The tears began to flow again, and I reached into my pocket for a rumpled tissue.
It was the only aspect of the entire event in which I had any say. The moment we announced our engagement, Jasmine Singer morphed into the monster-in-law-slash-wedding-planner-from-Hades.
She even chose the wedding date. New Year’s Day.
I finally convinced Ryan to let me arrange the honeymoon and pay for it. And keep it a complete surprise from everyone, including him.
I blew my nose with a loud honk. In exactly three days, I would have been with the love of my life on a plane to a Caribbean island for a week at a romantic honeymoon resort. Just the two of us and approximately one hundred other bridal couples. No single lotharios, no families with noisy children, no old people.
I took one more drink of milk and, just to punish myself, clicked on the link for the resort at the top of my Favorites. I already had the pictures memorized. All that sand and surf and romance! I stamped my feet and let out an angry squeal. Sheldon and Penny looked up at me, and Penny padded over. “Come here, baby,” I cooed, picking her up.
Her large, innocent eyes stared at me, and she rubbed her head under my chin as I hugged her close. Penny always knew when I needed comforting.
Tears blurred my vision as I looked at the screen again. Wait a minute…I perked up and started clicking. What if…?
I already knew that there were absolutely no refunds in the event of a cancellation. That had been spelled out loud and clear in several places throughout the resort’s website. After a thorough search, I made up my mind. There was nothing whatsoever that stated that I couldn’t still go there alone. I had scrimped and saved for it, and painstakingly rearranged my schedule and gotten coverage to be gone for the week. A shiver rippled through me. Most of all, I had looked forward to a break from the St. Louis winter.
Who would care? All those couples would be staring into one another’s eyes. No one would even notice me. I could still read and take walks and swim and soak up the sun. I deserve this.
I kissed Penny and held her up in front of me. “That’s it, girl, I’m doing this! I’m going on a honeymoon!”
Her reply was an enthusiastic yip.


I stared out the window as the jet began its descent into St. Jardin International Airport. I was completely mesmerized by the blue and turquoise waters, the sun sparkling on it like diamonds. In the distance, on the island itself, I could see foliage in myriad shades of green. The effect was incredibly soothing. “Nice job, God,” I whispered. Then I began to think about what it must have been like during Creation week. Did He get everything right on the first try? Probably, because He’s—well, God. But what if even He didn’t get it right every time, and occasionally had to come up with a Plan B? What if He realized that the giraffe’s neck was too long, and instead of shortening it, decided to add some taller trees?
I collected my luggage and climbed aboard the first of two shuttle buses that were waiting just outside the terminal, as promised. Even if I hadn’t been directed where to go, the two-tone pink bus with the sprawling words “St. Jardin Honeymoon Resort” in silver script would have been the first clue.
“Kelsea, um, Anderson,” I said in a low voice to the petite, young woman with the clipboard standing at the top of the steps. She was dressed from head to toe in the same colors as the bus, and her bright pink nametag read Molli, with an i. How appropriate.
“Anderson, Anderson,” she murmured, a frown creasing her brow.
“It might be under Singer,” I whispered. “But Ryan Singer isn’t coming.”
Her head snapped up, and her blue eyes popped wide open. “Isn’t coming?”
“Correct,” I replied. “I’m here alone. I paid for our reservation.”
“This is highly unusual,” Molli stated. Her blond ponytail danced as her head shook back and forth. “We’ve been open for almost three years, and we’ve never had—”
I interrupted her, trying to sound authoritative without being mean. “It may be unusual, but your website didn’t say a thing about not being able to come alone. I’ve paid for the week.” I kept my gaze even and steady.
“Well, all right, Mrs.—Miss Anderson.” She pointed to the empty seat behind the driver. “Take a seat. You’ll have to talk with the owners when we get to the resort.”
“Thank you,” I managed to croak as I pushed by her and slid into the seat. At least she didn’t throw me off the bus.
I set my purse and carry-on next to me, turned my head toward the window, and swallowed the lump in my throat. Breathe, Kelsea, you can do this. Once I got to the resort and into my room, I could hide in there, order room service, and figure out ways to keep to myself, especially to avoid the advertised “newlywed games” and other social mixers.
The palm trees swayed in the warm, tropical breeze as I stared out the window. Even if it was uncomfortable to be at the couples’ resort alone, it was worth it to be away from the snow and ice at home. I could spend the week figuring out my Plan B. My mother would be so proud.
Happy, smiling couples boarded the bus two-by-two, just like Noah’s Ark. I averted my gaze and tried to tune out their laughter as they began socializing with one another.
“Miss Anderson?” It was cute little Molli-with-an-i, all efficiency. “We have a situation. A couple of our entertainers missed their flight last night and just arrived, and we need every seat on both shuttles.” Her gaze flicked to the items sitting on the seat next to me.
“Oh, okay,” I mumbled, gathering my things onto my lap. I turned my attention back to the scenery outside the window.
A moment later, the seat shuddered as a weight landed on it. A solid arm pressed into my shoulder, then shifted away.
“Sorry,” a deep male voice growled. He didn’t sound sorry at all.
Gosh, this guy was big. Not fat, just—well, big. Muscular with long legs that stuck out into the aisle. Still, his knees were nearly touching his chest. This shuttle bus wasn’t made for someone his size, and he more than filled his half of the seat. I scooted closer to the window and snuck another look at him.
A blond Adonis. Not bad looking, if you liked the type, which I didn’t. My type was TDH—tall, dark, and handsome. Ryan.
I opened my mouth to offer a sharp retort, then thought better of it. If this guy was one of the entertainers, he might be one of the few people at the resort that I could talk to or even hang out with a little, just to pass the time.
I pasted on a smile. “So, are you a singer, or dancer? Wait, let me guess. A magician?”
His amber eyes blazed. “Mind your own business, lady,” he snapped, and turned away.

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