We Showed Up Late

Z’s car won’t start again,
because of course it won’t.

“She’s not broken. She’s selective. Like me.”
he announces.
I slide behind the boot like we always do.

One, two, push.

The engine sputters, stutters—
then clears its throat like Z’s grandfather,
revving up from the grave
to tell the tale of her glory days.

He whoops,
fist in the air like he’s just won the Grand Prix.
“H3ll yeah! You’re hired as my permanent pit crew.”
Then he adds, the same old joke,
“But like, unpaid. I don’t believe in exploiting friends with compensation.”

We drive—windows down,
no music,
just Z’s live podcast no one asked for.
“This car isn’t a car.
It’s a rebellion. A protest against Teslas.”

“Certainly a protest against carbon neutrality.”

We showed up late, of course.

Inside, the lighting is dramatic.
Soft piano in the background.
I whisper,
“They got a pianist, huh? Not a playlist?”
and you would’ve laughed,
that chest-deep chuckle that always
made me feel like I’d won a prize.

Z elbows me.
“Look sharp. Royalty at 9 o’clock.”
Your mother—
still wearing that halo of restraint,
still looking like she’s bracing for water
she’s already swallowed.

I move toward her—
but Z cuts in, like always,
wraps her up like she’s made of porcelain and memory.
“Still rockin’ those pearls, ma’am?
They real or just extremely confident?”
She laughs, sort of.
Then steps back.
I move in, arms open.
She hugs me like she’s afraid
I’ll dissolve.
Then—
reflex—
she opens her arms again.
But no one steps into the gap.
Just air.

She blinks.
Nods.
Then adjusts her bracelet
like it’s a task she’s suddenly remembered.

We all see it.
And none of us say anything.

They start the speeches.

I pick at the hem of my dress
and Z whispers,
“If someone says ‘heaven needed another angel’
I’m chucking the soup.”
I snort.
You would’ve rolled your eyes and said,
“Play nice.
Throw the dessert instead. More effective. And sweeter.”

They talk about your scholarships,
your “radiant promise”,
your sports medals and debate wins.
They forget to say
you always swam past the safety ropes,
brown eyes laughing like you dared the water to fight you.

They don’t mention the way
you punched a guy square in the jaw

Or how you stared your father down for hours,
Not giving in.

Or how you always fought with your cousin,
but never, ever, in front of your parents

Or the time you ate all my burnt brownies in one gulp—
And lied they were good,
so Z wouldn’t get to them first and roast me for a week.

Or the time when you refused to admit
you were wrong about that offsides
even after I googled the bl00dy rulebook
and showed you diagrams.

You know, Real’s tanking lately
Arsenal cooked them real good last time
You would've launched a cushion at the screen,
Swearing and shouting it was all rigged

Z leans in and whispers,
“Did you hear that guy? He said water was his home.
Dramatic much?”

I glance sideways.
Your father remained composed–
eyes forward, jaw set like marble.
Your mother touched her cheek with a gloved hand—
careful, precise, as if any more would be indulgent.
Your cousin nods at me and for the first time
I see a human emotion on his cold face

Someone reads your last race time like scripture.

We slip out during dessert—
coconut mousse, gold leaf, curated grief.

Z doesn’t speak for ten whole minutes.
Then:
“He would’ve hated that tribute video. That song?”
He shakes his head.
“No taste.”
I blink.
Then I laugh- “Him and taste in music?”
“Oh. Right. He loves Coldplay.” Z laughs—
“Not an epitome of taste.” Louder now.

Z’s hands—
trembled like antennae picking up every signal.
“I do love a good pa-rty,”
he stutters—
“but not one where everyone smells like fake..fake lilacs and”
—a gasp—
“ and repressed grief printed on cardstock”

“***” he breathes
And then—

He breaks,
like a windscreen cracked too many times.

I reach for him,
slow circles on his shoulders,
like the time he lost qualifiers and blamed gravity,
like when his girlfriend dumped him via a text
that autocorrected his name,
like the day you...

He cries
in sharp, crooked gasps
like his body forgot how to be soft.

I don’t cry.
I haven’t in years.
I just stared ahead.
“It’s not fair.”
And that’s all I have left to say.

Later—
we walk.
Quiet shoes on quieter ground.
We climb the back wall—
the one we used to conquer like daredevils.
Now it’s mossy.
Wiser.

The pond—
unchanged.
Still and dark.
A bruise in the earth.

Z picks a stone—
not big,
not important,
just a thought made solid.
Tosses it.

Plink.
One.
Two.

Gone before I can say three.

We showed up, finally.
But god, I wish we hadn’t had to.