Page 3 of Knot the Last Chapter

But I already want to text them again.

Chapter two

Lila

The kitchen smells like rosemary and garlic, and my mother is humming off-key while peeling potatoes over the sink. My brother, Jake, leans against the counter beside me, slicing carrots at a lazy pace designed solely to annoy me.

“You know, some people use an actual cutting board,” I say, nudging his elbow with mine.

“I am using the cutting board,” he says, deadpan. “The problem is you want me to use it like a machine.”

“I want dinner before midnight.”

He grins, pleased with himself. He’s older by two years but acts younger on principle. I swat a carrot piece off his pile and pop it into my mouth.

Across the kitchen, Mom doesn’t turn from her task. “If you two are done bickering like children, I could use someone to stir the sauce.”

Jake and I both reach for the wooden spoon at the same time. I win, only because I elbow him in the ribs. He groans dramatically.

“It’s like you never left,” he says, rubbing his side.

And he’s not wrong.

Except everything is different.

The kitchen has barely changed—same faded blue walls, same collection of copper pots hanging above the stove, same tiny window with the view of the lake in the distance—but I feel… off-center. Like I’ve stepped into a version of my life I no longer fit quite the same way.

I’ve only been back for three days.

The city’s still in my bones. The constant rush, the buzz of traffic and deadlines and anonymous coffeeshops where no one knows your name. I used to hate how quiet home felt. Now I find myself craving the slower pace. It’s unsettling.

Mom glances over at me while drying her hands. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” I say, stirring the sauce. “Even if Jake’s still useless.”

“Excuse me,” he says. “I’m doing artisanal chopping.”

“Is that what you’re calling slow now?”

We dissolve into bickering again until Mom snorts and tells us both to shut it with a fond sort of sigh. I watch her for a moment—her gray streak is a little wider than I remember, and her hands are more lined. But her movements are efficient, her energy steady. It’s comforting. We don’t talk about the empty chair at the table. We haven’t in years.

Dad’s been gone three years, but somehow tonight, I feel the ache like a bruise I forgot was there.

Maybe it’s because the house feels too warm. Maybe it’s the kitchen clock ticking in that same rhythm I always imagined echoed his heartbeat. Maybe it’s just that coming home always makes the losses louder.

Jake must feel it too, because he says, quieter now, “He’d love that you’re writing again.”

I nod. “I think so.”

“He always said you’d be published by twenty-five.”

I smile around the sting in my throat. “Well, I’m running a little behind.”

“Still time,” he says, gently.

I press my lips together and change the subject, grabbing my phone from the counter. There’s a message waiting from Pine.

How’s dinner prep? Bet you’re elbow-deep in carrot shavings.