Short Story Feature: Better Late Than Never by Koda Christensen

Better late than never, I think. The bus is brimming with bodies. Our breaths form fog on every window, and I wonder how the bus driver can see. We’re all fighting for space while the bus rattles its way through downtown streets. I really need to get a car.

It’s raining. A downpour, even. On my way to the bus stop, a colossal transport truck slammed into a puddle as I was walking by. Then, my umbrella bent back from the wind, its waterproof fabric ripping. I had to retire it in a trash can. To top it off, my bus ticket fell into a sewage drain’s rushing whirlpool, swallowed by the Earth. I managed to sneak on the bus through the back door.

Who has a rain-themed wedding? This is their second time getting married. They’ve been divorced for years— who knows what sparked this epiphany? I’m sweating buckets.

The bus screeches to a stop. My shoe slips on the wet, mud-trekked floor. I stumble into the back door. The impact of my body pushes the door open, and I fall out onto the soaking street. My hands scrape against the concrete, blooming spots of red. The bus drives off, splashing me. I need to take another bus to catch my train and it’s almost at the station.

“Nice dress,” someone says. “Are you okay?”

The rain tangos with a couple of tears.

“Fine, thank you,” I reply. The woman who spoke is sitting in the bus shelter, perfectly dry and unfazed by the storm in front of her. Her big, round frames feel like a magnifying glass as she sees the way my dress fits. “I’d prefer to be wearing something else. Something less wet,” I sigh.

“What would you prefer to wear?”

“I don’t know. Anything else.” I pull myself up, standing in front of the bus shelter. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

I sit down beside the woman. The train of my dress has fallen over her pretty red heels. She’s wearing a black-on-black suit that hangs off her. Her hands are folded neatly on her lap,

and the top hand is wearing a beaded bracelet. Red and black beads and white beads with letters that spell out “MOM”.

“Only one bus comes to this stop,” she states while eying the mess on her heels. “What are you waiting for?”

“I need to take another bus. Where are you going?”

“My house.” She rips off a hangnail, revealing tender red skin beneath. “But I’d prefer to go somewhere else.”

“Where would you go?”

The sound of static rain fills her silence. I fidget with the sequins on my dress while waiting for her.

“A wedding...” she says to the space in front of her.

“I’m trying to get to my parents’ wedding, hence the dress. Are you hoping to get married?”

“No, not my wedding...” She studies me, from my small hands to my jaw. She peers into my eyes. Does she know? I hold my breath.

Finally, she looks down and twists the beads on her bracelet.

“My daughter is getting married today. The woman I divorced told me an hour ago—maybe to make me jealous—I don’t know. I’m estranged from them, but I wish I weren’t. I don’t regret choosing myself; I regret losing my daughter.”

Her eyes are like roses, now avoiding my own. The sun is starting to set, stippling us in a golden hour. She’s the type of person you can tell was born in the deep end of the pool. Her short hair is deep maroon like a cherry, feathered with split ends. Her jaw is sharp, like the lines of her lapel. Do I know?

“Why can’t you go see your daughter?” I ask.

“She wouldn’t want to see me.”

“That’s hard to imagine.”

“Besides, I would have to book a train ticket for this evening. Time isn’t so tangible. The seats are full.” She rubs her face with a sigh and then pulls loose the knot on her tie.

“I’m supposed to be on a train in an hour,” I say. “Maybe half now. I’m not estranged from my parents, but the real me is, you know?” I hold my elbows. The shelter is foggy from our quiet breathing.

“I know. I—”

“Do you want my dress?”

“What?”

“I don’t want it. I don’t— you said you chose yourself?” Mascara has dripped down my cheeks, mixing with the lipstick that I rub away with the back of my hand. “I’ve never done that before.”

My parents still don’t know my name. I look at the woman’s heels as she gets up. She’s leaving, I guess. It’s almost time to catch our bus. I stand up too, still staring at her heels. She turns to me, sliding one heel in front of the other, and I look up.

“Do you... Want my suit?” The woman’s hands hover over the buttons on her blazer.

“Yes, thank you.” I smile.

The fog shields us from view as we shimmy into each other’s clothes. My dress looks like it was tailored for her.

“Do you need help?” she asks, gesturing to my poor tying skills.

“Yes, please.” I give up and hand her the tie. I feel her hands glide along my neck and collar with ease. I can’t help but look at her face, peeking through my eyelashes.

“That dress looks great on you,” I say.

“I wish I could wear them more often. Heels are already pushing it at my company.”

I hold my breath when she leans in to tie the knot. For a moment, her eyes flicker to mine.

“I think your daughter would be happy to see you,” I blurt.

“You think so?” She chuckles and it feels like warm honey. “It’s okay, I’ve made my choice and I live with the consequences. Could you zip me up?” She turns around. I grab the zipper on her dress, lifting it.

“You could always change your mind. You know, like, take a day trip and go see them,” I say.

“It feels too late. I can’t even make her wedding— her biggest day.”

“Better late th—” I start, but a puddle splashes just outside of the bus shelter, cutting me off.

“Oh, the bus is here,” the woman says. I finish zipping up her dress.

We leave the bus shelter. The rain has stopped, leaving the air new and refreshed. The bus jerks to a stop in front of us.

“Which train would you have to take?” I ask.

“I think the 85.”

The bus’s doors open. She slings her purse over her shoulder. I stumble ahead.

“Which stop?”

People finish falling out of the bus.

“Ottawa, why?” She raises a brow at me.

I reach into my wallet, pulling out something white. The driver looks at us. The woman looks at me, then at the paper, then back at me.

“The bus,” she says.

“Take it.” I hand her the paper. It is a single printed sheet with a QR code for my train ticket. For her train ticket.

“I—I can’t.”

“Are you two coming?” the bus driver says.

“Just her,” I say. “I heard Ottawa was cold anyways.”

“I would still arrive late,” her voice trembles.

“Better late than never.”

Her hand squeezes tight around the ticket.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Yes, thanks for the suit.”

Her smile glows. She leans in and pecks me on the lips.

I blush and nudge her towards the bus.

“Thank you.” She steps up and turns around at the doors begin to close.

“You’re beautiful.”

She holds the ticket against her heart. My hand lingers over my tie.

I lean back in the bus shelter across the street, waiting to go home. The sky is a wonderful shade of crimson red that bleeds yellow and orange like fire. The clouds don’t have to fight for space because there is so much room in the sky.

I fish my phone out of my bag, pulling up the family group chat. I text them,

“I’m not going to be able to make it to the wedding.”

I wipe the mascara off my face.

“By the way, my name is Nick.”

Better late than never.

Koda Christensen is a Canadian, London-raised author and poet who explores themes of growth, truth, death, and belonging. In 2023, he won second place in The Humber Literary Review’s Flash Fiction contest. He is currently attending Humber for their creative and professional writing program.