Never Too Late

Lucy's Point of View

“What the fuck are you so sweaty for?” I asked John as he sat down across from me in the booth at Denny’s. “It’s October, John. There’s literally no reason for you to be so Goddamn sweaty.”

“I, uh, met up with Taylor,” John explained, turning slightly pinker in embarrassment. “Sorry I’m a little late.”

“We were getting ready to eat and take off,” I told him. I was already pissed off about the ridiculous bullshit that Lacey and I had been through that day, and the fact that John was blowing Mason and I off to hook up with his stupid girlfriend annoyed me even more. “Have you ever heard of a text message? It’s this amazing invention that you can use to tell somebody when you’re running late.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m sorry,” John said with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, you’re here now, so it’s all good,” Mason declared and flipped his menu open again. “I think I’m feeling breakfast, what about you guys?”

Good old Mason, diffusing the situation as usual. John, Mason, and I had all been friends for years – John and I had first met in kindergarten and shared crayons, and then we adopted Mason into our friend group in second grade when he was the new kid and no one wanted to sit with him at lunch. After all that time, we’d settled into our roles within the group nicely: John was Mr. High Maintenance, and he sometimes needed to be taken down a peg by me, the sarcastic hothead. Mason treaded between us easily as the peacekeeper. Lacey was sometimes part of the group, depending on if she was in the mood to tag along with us, though that could be rare. She got along with Mason just fine, but she and John butted heads quite often.

“I think I’ll go with breakfast too,” John agreed, the tension immediately ending. “What about you, Luce?”

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” I complained, groaning. “I’m not in the mood for it. And no, no breakfast for me.”

“How’d court go?” Mason asked, closing his menu up and sliding it to the end of the table.

“Do you even need to ask?” I replied and rolled my eyes. “My dad passed us off to our uncles. I told you that’s what was going to happen.”

“Well, I mean, you don’t even like your dad and stepmom anyway, you know?” Mason pointed out hesitantly. “Maybe it’s for the best?”

“Maybe.” I shook my head and pushed my menu over to where Mason’s was. He didn’t get it and I didn’t feel like explaining. “Let’s just order and forget about it.”

Mason and I continued to bullshit for a while as we waited for our food, though John joined the conversation sparsely. His eyes and fingers were glued to his phone, something that was really starting to get on my nerves. Why show up if he was just going to pay attention to his phone the whole time?

“Amazing how your phone works now but can’t seem to send an ‘I’ll be late’ text,” I frowned.

“Huh?” John looked up from his phone. He reddened again slightly as he realized what I’d said. “Right, sorry.”

“Taylor can wait.” Taylor and John had been dating for only a few months, and aside from my step-monster, I found her to be the most loathsome creature that I’d ever had the displeasure to come across. She was rude and a bitch simply for the sake of being a bitch. I had no idea what John saw in her.

“I know, I’m done, sorry,” he said and slipped his phone back in his pocket, just in time for the food to arrive. The waiter set everything down, asked if there was anything else we needed, and let us be.

“So is your uncles’ place cool at least?” John asked, finally re-entering the conversation.

“Yeah, it’s pretty nice,” I answered, rearranging my chicken tenders and fries on my plate so that I’d have room to squirt a mountain of ketchup. “They were rock stars though so I don’t know that I expected anything less.”

“Yeah, true,” Mason nodded. “Do you like your room?”

“It’s way bigger than my room at my dad’s,” I replied, finally satisfied with my plate. “I need to paint it and unpack, then maybe it’ll feel more like mine.”

“John and I will help,” Mason volunteered. John started to protest and Mason elbowed him in the ribs. “Does Lacey need help too?”

“I have no idea what she’s planning on doing with her room,” I told him. “I didn’t even look at it.” I reached for the ketchup and flipped the lid open, squeezing the bottle and making the ketchup pour out. It was nearing the end of the bottle, so it started to make a farting noise.

“God, I hate that sound,” John complained, reaching to cover his ears. “It’s like the sound equivalent of ‘moist.’”

Mason laughed and I made sure I gave the bottle one last squeeze. “Moist, moist, moist.”

“Stop, God Lucy, I hate you so much sometimes,” John whined, throwing his head back in mock agony.

I smiled. “Aw, I love you too.” I wasn’t kidding about that.

I left John alone and we all enjoyed our food. The waiter brought our check, we split it up, and paid, heading out to the parking lot. John waved and went to his car, while Mason and I headed over to mine.

“You be careful with that fucking milkshake, or so help me God, I will end your life,” I threatened Mason as we got buckled in. My car had been my mother’s, a 1972 El Camino. The car screamed “badass” and it was my prized possession. I cared for it like it was my child, and I very rarely allowed anyone to bring any loose food or drinks in it. Mason had proved himself careful over the years, but he was occasionally klutzy (thankfully in other peoples’ cars, not mine).

“Jesus, I won’t spill it,” he replied, putting the milkshake between his legs to buckle himself in. “Now are you taking me straight home or are we going anywhere else?”

“It’s up to you,” I said, turning the key in the ignition, giving the engine a chance to roar up a little. “I have to go to Hobby Lobby and buy some more canvasses, so you can either come with me or I can take you home.”

“I’ll go with you.” Mason didn’t get along with his parents so well either, so he was always looking for an excuse to get out of the house and stay out as long as possible. “I thought you just bought canvasses last week.”

“I did,” I told him, pulling out of the driveway cautiously. “But I used them all already.” Rather, I’d hated everything I’d painted, gotten angry, and slashed them all. It had been a tough week.

“Hope you painted something good,” he remarked, steadily bringing the milkshake up to his mouth. “Although it’s all good.”

“It’s not, but thanks,” I said. I’d always been interested in art, but it wasn’t up until I was in middle school that I’d really started to love it. Thanks to an incredible art teacher in the seventh grade, she’d helped me explore many mediums, though I’d found that there were few things I loved more than a blank canvas and some paint, and there was nothing like the lure of an empty sketchbook.

“That was a dick move of John to blow us off for Taylor,” Mason said, changing the subject. “So annoying.”

“Yeah, I know,” I agreed. “Very annoying.” It was more than annoying to me. I’d never been able to figure out what had even attracted John to Taylor. Sure, she was pretty, but she was an asshole. And she didn’t really love him. Not like I did.