the inciting incident[trope]
the moment in a romance novel when fate decides, “let’s shake things up”
“Rooo.”
“Shut up,” I croak. Sherlock’s version of ameowis the last thing I want to hear after two hours of sleep.
“Rooo.”
“I said shut up.”
Sherlock’s tail tickles the tip of my nose, then his butt is on my face. “Rooo!” he insists.
“You can’t bethathungry.” I push him off my face, then blink one eye open and find his yellow-green eyes staring back at me, unimpressed. I scratch the back of his neck, my fingers sinking into the black fur. “I don’t care—too tired.”
I close my eyes again, but I can feel him staring in that judgmental way only a cat can manage, so with a groan, I drag myself up intoa seated position. I guess I’m also late for work, so I can’t resent himtoomuch.
I grab my phone and scroll through the notifications. Nothing. I stumble out of bed, pulling on yesterday’s shirt. Sherlock brushes against my leg, yowling as I head to the kitchen. Once he’s fed, I fumble for the coffee machine, only to find it blinking “low water.”
Great.
I fill it, waiting impatiently as it burbles, then pour myself half a mug. I grab my phone again and check through the notifications I’ve gotten in the last ten minutes—none. Maybe I should text him.
Yeah. You know what? I can. Iwill.
I open up my conversation with Ethan and stare at the screen. The last bubble is green—sent by me—and so is the one before. The last message he sent reads “Bet,” which left me puzzled for a good five minutes. It’s like he’s learned a new language since he turned fourteen. I hesitate for a while longer, then type.
Scarlett
Hey! It’s been a while. How’s school?
Nah. He won’t answer that.I glance at the haphazardly hung poster that reads, “Dysfunction: Just another word for family,” with a doodle of a crooked house, then study the screen again.
Scarlett
It’s my birthday! I’d love to talk if you have the time. Maybe after school? Or we could grab dinner. Or lunch. Or anything, really. If you’re free! No pressure. Love you!
I run a hand over my face, delete almost everything and send:
Scarlett
I’d love to chat if you’re free!
Sherlock lets out a disapproving “Roo,” his eyes trained on me as I shuffle to the bathroom, tripping over my half-zipped pants and dodging the piles of laundry lining the floor. I stuff my phone and keys into my purse and bolt for the door, praying I remembered deodorant.
The warm summer air carries the sweet scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass. The sun kisses my cheeks, making me loosen my cardigan as I descend the steps. But the peace of the suburbs is quickly interrupted by the neighbor across the street.
“Scarlett!” Mrs. Prattle—Brattle, actually, though everyone knows her as Mrs. Prattle—calls as she hurries over. Despite her age, she’s as spry as ever, with her short silver hair pinned back and deep wrinkles that crinkle when she’s gossiping. “Did you hear about John Gray, dear?”
Looking for my car keys in the impossible mess of my oversize handbag, I side-glance at the Grays’ place, right beside mine. “Hey, Mrs. Pr—Brattle.” Keys in hand, I point at my car. “Sorry, I’m late for work.”
“I would haveneverimagined,” she says, reaching my side with a determined step. She falls into pace with me as I walk to the car, her foldable shopping cart rattling behind her. “You know, Maria—the hairdresser with the tattoos—said she saw him the day before. Looked as healthy as a horse, she said.”
“Uh-huh.” I open the car door, then check the time on my phone. “Really, Mrs. Brattle, I—”
“Did you see the undertaker? Handsome fella, huh?” she continues, turning to my old gray Toyota.
“Undertaker?” I freeze. “You don’t mean…”
