When I was a kid my dad had always had big plans—huge, wild, exciting plans that honestly would have wowed anyone. We were going to explore every subterranean inch of New York City; we were going to ride wild horses and camp on the beach; we were going to follow rainbows and go on real-life treasure hunts; we were going to be mushers in the Iditarod. And the plans and promises got wilder every summer. I believed in all of them and was disappointed again and again. There were always reasons we couldn’t go—the timing, the money, a mysterious dog allergy—and one by one, each idea faded from our conversations and daydreams, only to be replaced by a fresh new one. I had stopped believing at thirteen and vowed to escape into books. Definitely not the sort where kids were having adventures—I wasn’t ready for such flagrant unfairness—I martyred myself with one of my mom’s dog-eared romances.

And so began my love affair with Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice appealed to me from the very first pages because I admired Elizabeth Bennet as much as I commiserated. I was comforted by the idea that if a person was clever and sensible—maybe a little charming—things could, even without any bona fide adventures, turn out all right. And while that certainly wasn’t my ideal—I had a clipboard list of ideas and dreams and things to get done—as a backup plan it wasn’t too horrible.

So I’d made my Plan and promised myself that I would follow through—I would do things. And if I didn’t, well, then somehow I’d make it work on my own terms. But I wasn’t about to go haring off in pursuit of a man at the bullied urgings of “Mr. Darcy” and a lesbian version of Mrs. Bennet. So I just let Leslie’s jabs roll right off me as I awkwardly stood and moved casually toward the buffet table.

Still, she seemed smugger than usual tonight, and I couldn’t think why. I was inching even farther away when it hit me: Could she know about my journal? I’d left her and Laura with a house key over Christmas when I’d headed home to Houston—could she have had it copied and then used it later for a little casual snooping? Could she even now be using it in an elegant yet unethical scheme to prod me into a little lesbian experimentation? I turned to stare, slightly horrified and a little overawed. God, I hope it hasn’t come to this.

I grabbed a tortilla chip, vigorously crunching as my thoughts raced over opportunities, possibilities, and unlikely scenarios. They all screeched to a halt at the sound of Leslie’s voice, at the need to listen for clues.

“I don’t plan to stop introducing you to the fabulous women who pop over here—you’ll just have to buck up your willpower.” Her knowing smile started the warning drums in my head, making me wonder: Just what does she know? How to make words disappear without a trace? How to really mess with a person’s head? Was it possible I’d been too hasty in assuming Leslie’s innocence? Well, I suppose technically speaking, I’d really only assumed ignorance and incompetence....

Leslie winked as she walked away, sending me into a veritable tizzy.

Laura snuck up behind me as I stared, wide-eyed with worry, at the fajita buffet sprawling over the white mosaic patio table that had been crafted literally from the broken pieces of Leslie’s short-lived marriage (or at least her wedding china).

“Did you try the tofu?”

A ponytailed brunette perpetually outfitted in workout clothes and athletic footwear, Laura owned a fitness store right off the running track snaking along Lady Bird Lake, and as far as I could tell, her life goal was to exorcise a person’s every self-indulgent tendency before shoving them bodily down the path toward total fitness. Odd that she’d partnered herself with the greatest lover of Hostess Ho Hos the world had perhaps ever known. Their relationship was one of life’s great mysteries.

“Maybe I’ll try it later,” I stalled, sidestepping away.

“Are you chicken?” Evidently she’d forgotten that I didn’t do dares.

“Well, I’d like some chicken,” I tossed back at her, filling a tortilla with black beans, guacamole, and pico de gallo. Honestly I just wanted a drink, but didn’t think the cupcake I’d wolfed down could hold its own against the alcohol. I grabbed a hard cranberry lemonade and headed for my still-vacant chair. Once the sour-sweet buzz of the lemonade began to swim through my veins, the karaoke would start to sound a lot better—this I knew from experience. And maybe if I was really lucky, the liquor would make a magical journal seem like a good thing.

Despite the nip in the air and because of the knot of nerves in my stomach, I stuck it out for another couple of hours, and through it all, there was Leslie, blithely mingling with her Shiner Bock and her outside voice. Solid alibi ... should any further suspicions arise.

Now, with everyone either going or gone, I was just trying to work up the gumption to face my journal with the headache drumming behind my eyes. I’d almost rather karaoke ... Almost. My buzz had definitely faded, and a certain magical journal was once again a blight on my well-ordered life.

As I was prepping myself for the papasan extrication process, Leslie sauntered into my field of vision with a stack of leftover containers. She hovered a moment over the remaining cupcakes on the table before selecting one and peeling back the wrapper. Excellent. Leslie was infinitely more predictable with her mouth full.

I watched, slightly envious, as her eyes closed on that first decadent minty bite. “Mmmph. It was a good crowd tonight. Did you see Ginger up there, braving it out?”

“The redhead? I did.” I knew exactly where this was going and figured I’d rather duke it out with the journal, much as I’d been dreading it. I stood awkwardly and haphazardly folded the blanket that had, at least for a little while, been a refuge.

“You can’t be a karaoke voyeur forever, Nic.”

I heard myself snort, but I refused to take the bait.

“Come on, Nic. Just try it once,” Laura urged softly from her crouch beside the karaoke machine.

Before I could respond, Leslie was turning toward me, one hand propped on her jean-clad hip. “It isn’t about the singing at all, is it, Nic? I think you can’t put yourself out there just for the hell of it and take a chance, go crazy, and have a little fun. Karaoke is not, after all, in ‘The Plan.’ ” She made the air quotes look more like a dance move from “Thriller.” “Or maybe you really do suck—I guess we’ll never know.”

Feeling that this was all a little uncalled for, I simply stared before finally bumbling out with, “You’re a real ... peach, Leslie.” In my head it came out as “bitch” and felt so right.

“And you’re the pit, my dear.”

And here we go... . Rubbing my arms against the pervasive chill, some of which I knew was mental, I headed for the buffet table to retrieve my stoneware platter on my way back home.

“Ease up, Les,” Laura warned.

“I’m just trying to make a point here,” Leslie backpedaled. Her voice softened slightly, and a little of the tension eased out of my shoulders. “You’re the pit to my peach because while I’m out there on display—for better or worse—you’re hiding from everyone, following a preprepared, preemptive, preposterous plan that doesn’t make room for anything. I’m getting the nicks, the cuts, and the bruises, but I’m also getting the nibbles.”

Don’t think about it. Don’t picture it.

“Nobody’s making a cobbler out of you, honey,” she tossed off before popping the last of the cupcake into her mouth.

“And the bad news is ... ?”

“Honestly? You’re starting to remind me of Tattoo from Fantasy Island, but with you it’s ‘De Plan, de Plan! ’ Let me just say, it’s not a good look for you.”

I couldn’t help it—she had me smiling a little now.

“I say screw ‘De Plan,’ and have a little fun. Chances are everywhere, Nic. Reach out, grab one by the horns, and ride that baby. Sure, you might be thrown, things could get ugly, but you’ll get up with a flush in your cheeks, a smile on your lips, and the courage and confidence to try the next big thing.”

“Cowgirl up.”

I glanced at Laura and shot her my best “not helping” look.

Leslie stepped closer to me, and there was no escape.

“What about Elizabeth Bennet, hmm?”

Now she had my attention, in a what the hell? kinda way. “What about her?” I said warily, a little weirded out at the P&P mention, given my current situation.

“She was a wild woman, and she ended up with a man women still fantasize about.” Overly smug, she snapped the lid on the leftover guacamole.

“A wild woman? Really? Are you referring to her snarky attitude, her scandalous walks in the rain, or her refusal to accept a shoddy proposal? Because if that’s all it takes to keep you off my back, I can handle any one of those.”

“Well, that was plenty two hundred years ago. I hate to tell you, but you’ve gotta up the ante a little, sweetie.” She tried for an apologetic smile, but it slid away from her, pushed out by ill-concealed glee. “Keep your eyes on the prize, chickie.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I muttered, desperately wanting to add “Mrs. Bennet,” but too chicken to pull it off. I grabbed the platter, slid the remaining cupcakes onto the table, and skirted around her on my way toward the gate. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”

“Come on, stay for a while, Nic. If you leave now, things will just get awkward.” Laura’s voice slowed my retreat but didn’t halt it.

“Inconceivable,” I answered, still moving. Too late ... things had gone way beyond awkward.