Page 6 of Knot the Last Chapter

“Honestly,” I add, “he might’ve been onto something.”

We fall quiet after that. Not awkwardly. Just… naturally. Like silence is the only thing big enough to hold all the things we wish we could say.

A breeze picks up, rustling the leaves overhead. I close my eyes for a second and let the air brush past my skin like a ghost of a hug.

“I miss his laugh,” Mom says suddenly, her voice steady. “It filled up a room.”

“I miss him stealing my fries,” Jake offers.

“I miss how he always knew when I was lying,” I whisper. “Even when I convinced myself I wasn’t.”

We stand there a little longer, each holding space in our own way.

Then Mom loops her arms through ours. “All right. He wouldn’t want us moping. Let’s go get pie. Or lemon bars. Or both.”

“Both sounds good to me,” I say.

We walk back to the car like a three-headed creature—awkward limbs, interlocked arms, memories trailing behind us like leaves in a breeze. We’re not whole, but we’re still together. And somehow, that’s enough.

As Jake fumbles for the keys, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Unknown Number.

My heart skips. I swipe to read it.How’s the day, plot bunny?

Just that. Simple. But the timing slices right through me.

I smile, slow and soft, fingers curling around the phone like it’s a secret I want to keep close.

Bit of a rough day. Grave visit. Lemon bars pending.

The reply comes quick.

Those times are tough. You deserve lemon bars. And maybe a chapter or two. Sending all the strength in the world.

I glance out the window at my mom and brother bickering over music choices, the sun glinting off the hood of the car, the day somehow lighter than when it started.

Thanks, Pine. I needed that. And I’m working on those chapters, I promise!

And, with that, the weight I’d carried with me into the cemetery feels lighter. Still there, and probably forever, but it felt like my texting stranger now shouldered part of it, through shared experiences and caring.

Chapter four

Pine (Tyler)

There’s nothing like the smell of fresh-cut cedar and old sweat to remind you that you're alive and employed.

The summer sun’s already beating down hard by the time I haul the last stack of two-by-fours off the truck bed. They thud against the driveway in a clean line, and I take a moment to stretch, roll my shoulders, and regret every life choice that led to me agreeing to this weeklong porch rebuild.

Mrs. Kendrick, the homeowner and reigning queen of passive-aggressive lemonade offerings, watches me from the front door like she’s waiting for me to steal her begonias.

“Tyler,” she calls, pronouncing it like Taaah-lor, “don’t forget the joists this time. I had to call your boss about that last time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. I’d been barely twenty last time I’d helped build this, almost a decade ago. Time flies by when you’re building porches. “They’re stacked and ready. You’ll have the most structurally sound porch in all of Starling Grove.”

“You say that now.”

She disappears inside, but I swear I can feel her eyes through the blinds.

I wipe my hands on my jeans and pull my phone from my back pocket. It’s already buzzing. Two messages. One from Wes, the contractor I technically work under. One fromher.

---