Winnie’s performance—6:30 p.m.
I cursed under my breath and glanced at the time.
6:01.
Shit.
I sent a quick text to Selene.
Me
Almost there.
Then I threw the car into gear and peeled out of the lot like I still had a chance.
The first stoplight took too long.
Some minivan stalled in the intersection, the driver waving cars around like she was directing traffic instead of causing it. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel, every tick of the turn signal syncing with the pulse in my neck.
6:07.
It was fine. The elementary school was close. Close enough that if everything else went smoothly, I’d slide in with a minute to spare. Maybe two. Just enough time to sneak into the gym, find the seat Selene had probably saved for me, and catch Winnie’s crooked ponytail and wide, determined eyes right before the music started.
The light changed. I took the turn too fast, tires squealing a little as I veered around a van and gunned it.
Almost there. Come on.
But then there was the construction.
Orange cones lined the two-lane road like a fucking obstacle course. Flashing arrows pushed traffic into one narrow lane, crawling past a backhoe and a guy in a neon vest who didn’t look like he gave a shit that the clock was chasing me down.
“Come on,” I muttered, inching forward behind a dump truck hauling gravel and regret.
I tried not to picture it. I tried not to imagine the gym packed shoulder to shoulder, folding chairs squealing across the tile, parents fanning themselves with paper programs and checking their watches.
I tried not to see Selene scanning the crowd or her holding a spot beside her that stayed empty.
I tried not to picture Winnie stepping onto the risers, eyes flicking toward the back of the room with that quiet, hopeful expectation.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying to stay focused. The car finally crawled past the last cone and I gunned it, tearing through a yellow light, letting the curse catch in my throat.
I turned onto school grounds at 6:40, the tires crunching across the gravel shoulder as I pulled into the overflow lot.
I didn’t even park straight. I threw it into park, slammed the door, and sprinted.
My boots hit pavement hard, lungs burning as I jogged up the sidewalk. The front entrance buzzed with late arrivals, but the gym doors were already closed.
A woman stood outside with a clipboard. She smiled politely as I approached, chest heaving.
“The first group just finished,” she said gently, stepping aside to let someone out. “You can head in, though. Grade one is performing next.”
I was frozen.
I stood there, one hand on the frame of the open door, as the sound of applause swelled inside—loud and proud and final.
My heart dropped like a stone in my chest.
I stepped through the door.
