“Holy shit, Rachel.” Her list hurts my head. And my chest. Though maybe it’s not the list that gets to me. Maybe these aches are how I imagine the triple whammy must have felt to her.

“It got blown up, though. My plan. Items four through eleven, obliterated. Triple whammied: job, boyfriend, and apartment in one day.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I reach out and put my hand on her thigh. Not to cop a feel, although, God, she’s soft. Just to give her comfort.

“Thanks.”

I leave my hand there, and she weaves her fingers with mine. It feels so good, I almost drive off the road. I close my hand, squeezing hers.

“It’ll be okay,” she says, after a moment. “I sent out a bunch of cover letters and resumes yesterday. And Louisa is going to sublet me a room in her apartment.”

And you’ll find another awesome boyfriend.

I hate the idea, even though I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t qualify as awesome boyfriend according to the Master Plan’s criteria. I almost ask what they are, then decide I don’t need to rain on our picnic. She’s here with me today, we’re both in good moods, and I’m going to show her some of my favorite things. Then I’ll make her cry my name in the open air. That’s all the plan I need.

“I’ve never had a plan,” I tell her.

“For anything?”

“I mean, sometimes I have a plan for a day. But not usually.”

Of course, not having a plan doesn’t mean you can’t get triple whammied.

I don’t say that out loud.

We’ve been driving thirty or so minutes when I spot what we need. It’s a roadside stand, the semi-permanent variety. I haven’t seen this particular one before, but I would have been willing to swear we’d come across something like it. We pull into the gravel-and-overgrown-grass parking lot.

“Elk jerky,” Rachel reads off the hand-spray-painted sign. “Buffalo jerky. Beef jerky.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I say. “And cherries. For lunch.”

“That’s not lunch,” she says, but she’s definitely smiling.

“Do you not like elk jerky?”

“I do like it, actually.”

“Cherries?”

“Love ’em.”

I buy a bunch of both and a couple of bottles of water. “Lunch,” I say, holding the paper bag out to Rachel. “Do you have any paper towels?” I ask the cowboy behind the stand.

He tears a bunch off a roll and hands them over.

I take the opportunity to inspect the back of the truck. There’s no blanket, but there’s a scruffy blue tarp that hasn’t seen too much wear and tear. “Will this do?” I ask Rachel.

“Yeah.” She’s definitely smiling.

I pull her close and kiss her nose. She lifts her chin and our mouths meet, a soft settling into each other.