Page 10 of Knot the Last Chapter

I pull out my phone, open my notes app, and write a new opening line to my book: “The body wasn’t cold yet, but her instincts were heating up.”

Perfect.I debate sharing with Pine, but I hesitate and hold off. I’m not ready to share my work with him, just yet.

Chapter six

Lila

For a second, I thought I had it. But since then, I’ve written and rewritten the first sentence at least sixteen times.

None of them feel right. One of them starts with a body; another with the sound of rain against a tin roof. One of them involves a raccoon, inexplicably.

They’re all terrible.

I lean back in the armchair in the corner of my mom’s sunroom and sigh dramatically, as if the weight of literary expectation has crushed my soul. Really, it’s just a lack of caffeine and an overabundance of self-doubt. I pull the fuzzy blanket over my lap and glare at my laptop like it personally offended me.

Outside the wide windows, the world is golden and green. Starling Grove’s late spring is the kind of romantic backdrop I’d mock if it weren’t so stupidly charming. Birds chirp. Bees hum. Somewhere in the distance, several neighbors are mowing their lawn like it’s a competitive sport.

My stomach flutters, and I tell myself it’s just because I haven’t eaten lunch.

My phone buzzes against my leg.

How goes the book, Plot Bunny?I smile before I even read the rest.Is the body buried? Is the detective smoldering? Are you drinking enough water?

I bite my lip and settle deeper into the chair, blanket pulled up to my chin like I’m hiding from the weight of my own imagination.

I have a first sentence. It’s maybe the worst sentence ever written.

Lay it on me. Let me suffer with you.

I hesitate, then type:

“The body was not quite cold, but her instincts were heating up.” ??

He takes a moment to reply, and I immediately regret everything I’ve ever done.

...Honestly?

Uh-oh.

I kind of love it.

I blink.

You’re messing with me.

I’m not. It’s got voice. It’s got tension. It’s got a body. 10/10. Would turn the page.

I laugh, a little giddy. It’s stupid how much that matters. How much he matters, when I don’t even know his face.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I start sketching him again, mentally.

Tall, probably. His words have height. Confident, but not showy. There’s a steadiness to him. I picture strong hands, callused. Dark hair, always a little messy. A brooding expression that softens when he types something ridiculous about trail mix or plot bunnies. Eyes that crinkle when he laughs.

My body hums again. That low, unfamiliar ache that’s been creeping in more and more lately.

It shouldn’t be possible to feel like this over texts. It shouldn’t be possible to want someone you’ve never touched, never heard. But here I am, imagining the weight of his hand on my knee, the rasp of his voice at my ear—

Buzz.