The first sentence of any story is the most important. That's what they say. And that's what I remind myself as I sit at my cozy corner table, praline latte in-hand, and stare at the blank screen before me.

It's not that I've been trying to write the next great American novel for long, more like forever. It started with the short stories I'd write during recess in elementary school. Then it progressed to the complex, half-finished novellas I drafted in high school study hall. The journey peaked in my semester abroad, where I managed to scrape a win in our university's essay contest.

And it has all led to this moment now: me in my favorite café, panicking, and counting down to the deadline.

The deadline is two-fold. Part self-set, fueled by my growing disgust for my own procrastination and desire to finally publish something already! And then partly it's a real deadline set by the contest I'm planning to enter.

It's the same city-wide contest that's held every year. And every year I say I'm going to finish my novel in time. And of course, by finish I mean start. Yet here I am, two weeks and 12 lattes in, with no story in sight.

I don't even have a title to work with!

I've thought of all the obvious choices, you know. There's the unrealistic romance with some charming prince sweeping an unassuming small-town girl off her feet. Holiday-themed, of course. A murder mystery that unravels its tangled web of deceit with every page turn. Something with world-building. Or maybe a horror piece.

The café door opens and the mild jingle from its acorn-shaped bells jolts me back to reality. With a very dramatic and resigned sigh, I slam my laptop shut and slump into my chintz chair. There's no use!

My eyes rest on the couple that's just entered the coffee shop, the acorn-bell jingling culprits. It's clear from their starry-eyed gaze at the menu that they've never stepped foot in here before. He gets a black coffee and she's tossing back and forth between the tres leches latte and a good old fashioned pumpkin spice. A real Sophie's Choice.

If only coffee selection was my biggest concern right now.

I lift my own almost-empty cup to my lips. The dregs of praline are my favorite treat at the bottom. My reward for pretending to write today. I gulp it down and savor the sugary bits, swearing to myself it's the last praline latte I'll have before I write something!

My phone buzzes with texts, all flying in one after the other. I pull it open, already knowing what it is.

Ah, the group text. I swipe up on the critically acclaimed A Very Friendsgiving chat, a name my best friend Sharvi decided was perfect for the occasion. She was right.

It's one of the largest group texts I've ever been in and has almost all of my close-knit twenty-something friends.

I got my yams all ready :)

Vegan mashed potatoes here I come

Don't forget, Evie. 3 PM sharp!

Sharvi singles me and my lack of attention to time out. My eyes dart up to the time in the corner. 2:37 PM.

"Damn," I say to myself.

I start gathering all my notes (*empty pages*), my laptop, and inpso books. I shove everything into my satchel and toss my coffee cup in the trash. With one last sweep to make sure nothing is left behind, I exit the café with nothing to show for the morning apart from my butt print fading in the chair.

I step onto the bustling side street and breathe in that slightly stale, yet autumnal city air. It smells vaguely of bonfire, a pastry candle, and a bitter cold sewer grate. I have 20 minutes to walk the five blocks to Sharvi and Ben's apartment, and I'm really regretting the booties I picked to wear today.

Since I know myself, I did not volunteer to make any dish or dessert for the Friendsgiving party. Instead, I nominated myself to bring bottles of wine. I duck into my favorite liquor store on Sixth Street to carefully curate the perfect red and white combos

Ten minutes later, I am thanked out the door by the clerk, who wishes me a Happy Thanksgiving.

"You too!" I called over my shoulder on my way out the door.

It's not actually Thanksgiving yet. It's still two weeks away. But I guess once you cross into mid-November it's fair game to start wishing it on others.

I find myself standing on the pumpkin-patterned door mat outside Sharvi and Ben's place, eyeballing the brass #4 on their door. I can smell the samosa pot pie in the hallway. With one last tug on my accidentally skimpy sweater dress, I knock.

"That the door?" I hear a muffled voice.

"Coming!" Calls another.

The door swings open to reveal a crowded apartment full of vibrant fall-colored decorations, people mingling, and a rectangular table piled with enough food to feed a small army.

"Evie! You made it," Luna greets me.

"I did. And I come bearing gifts," I say, holding up my brown bag.

"Right on time, girl," Sharvi says, appearing at the door.

"Hey, Sharvi." I hug me, careful to avoid what looks (I hope) to be stained cranberry sauce on her apron.

"Still cooking? Didn't you start three days ago?" I ask, teasing her.

"She sure did," Ben says. "Hey Evie."

"Hey. Thanks for hosting this."

More people welcome me –some I know and others I don't. There's Luna, who is Sharvi's old nursing school roommate, and her new boyfriend Zayn. I know Manish, Sharvi's brother. He introduces me to his friends Dean and Lee. Then there's Chennie. She's new.

It seems I was last to arrive. No surprise there.

The farther I migrate into this toasty apartment, it's more and more like I'm journeying into the center of a cornucopia. By the time I reach the kitchen breakfast counter, I've already tried three appetizers and I'm holding a glass of my own wine without any idea how I got it!

"So," Sharvi says, her voice lowering so it's just for the two of us.

"So, what?" I ask, finishing my last bite of Brie.

"What do you think of Lee?" She asks, smirking.

"Oh, don't start with that!" I laugh.

Sharvi, and Ben for that matter, is always trying to set me up with their friends. It's not that I always say no, it's just that I'm always preoccupied.

"I am only trying to suggest! How else will you meet someone if you're always holed up in your coffee shop?" She asks, transferring a crispy kale casserole of sorts from the oven to the counter.

"How do you know I was at the coffee shop?" I ask, folding my arms.

"Please. You are so predictable."

"I resent that." I polish off my first glass of wine. "Plus, I'm just not searching for love right now."

"Oh, I know. You're just waiting for it to show up in front of you!" She laughs.

"We can't all have a Ben." I shrug. "And speaking of... I'm going to go get myself a refill."

The evening passes in a blur of turkey slices, candied yams, and copious glasses of wine. My stomach hurts but I cannot tell if it's from all the food or all the laughter. Dean and Lee are quite the comedians. It takes real talent to turn a joke about pumpkin pie into something dirty.

This is everything a Friendsgiving should be. Maybe I'll spend three hours tomorrow trying to come up with a way to turn this into a story. I poorly stifle a yawn from the couch when at last everyone starts to leave.

"Promise you'll text when you get home?" Sharvi asks from the doorway.

"Yes, yes." I nod, my grip slipping on the three Tupperware of leftovers she's sending me home with.

"And are we still on for the spin class Sunday?" She asks.

"One hundred percent, yes. I'll meet you at the corner by that salad place we like!"

"Text me! Goodnight, girl."

"Bye!" I shout as she closes the door on me.