Too Late

  I refuse to close my eyes as I watch Ryan kick open the door and rush in, followed by several other men.

  I refuse to close my eyes until Asa is on the floor--several feet away from Sloan--being handcuffed.

  I refuse to close my eyes until they meet Sloan's.

  She's off the bed, across the room, on her knees, pressing her hands to my chest, doing everything she can to keep the rest of the life from seeping out of me.

  I don't even have enough energy left to tell her it's too late.

  I close my eyes for the last time.

  But it's okay, because she's all I see.

  She's the last thing I'll ever see.

  This feeling is nothing new to me. I've experienced living through the death of someone I've loved before. Horrendous, heart-wrenching, soul-crushing death.

  It was one month before I turned thirteen.

  I had twin brothers, Stephen and Drew. From early on I basically became their caretaker. Both my brothers had a lot of medical issues, but my mother used to leave all hours of the night, regardless of their needs. She would go through spurts where she could be the mother she needed to be. She'd get them to their doctor's visits for the medications they needed in order to convince the state she was a decent mother. But then she'd leave the majority of their everyday care up to me while she went out and partied or did whatever it was she did until the early hours of the morning.

  The night Drew died, my brothers were in my care. I can't remember all the details because I try not to think about that night too much, but I remember hearing him fall in his bedroom. He had seizures frequently, and I knew he had more than likely just had a seizure, so I ran to his room to check on him.

  When I opened the door, he was on the floor, his whole body jerking from the seizure. I dropped to my knees and held him as still as I could, but since he had turned ten, it became increasingly difficult for me to help him due to the fact that he and Stephen were already bigger than me. I did my best, holding his head until it was over.

  It wasn't until the seizure had stopped completely that I noticed the blood. It was all over my hands and on my clothes. I started to panic when I saw the gash on the side of his head. Blood was everywhere.

  When he had fallen from the seizure, he hit his head on the door hinge going down. We didn't have a phone, so I was forced to leave him alone in the room while I ran to a neighbor's house and called 9-1-1.

  By the time I returned, he was no longer breathing. I'm not sure he ever took another breath after the moment I left him. I wasn't aware at the time that he had died from the blow to his head, but I realize now that he had probably died before I even dialed 9-1-1.

  I changed after that night. Before that moment, I still held on to a little hope for my life. I knew that no one could be cursed as a child with such awful parents, only to then go on to have an equally awful adolescence and adulthood. Until that point, I thought maybe everyone's life had an equal balance of good and bad and the only difference was that the good and bad luck was dispersed to each person differently at different points in their lives. I had hope that all my bad luck had been dispersed early on in my life and that things would only get easier.

  But that night changed my way of thinking.

  Drew could have fallen anywhere in that bedroom other than where he did. In fact, the doctor said the location of his injury was so unfortunate, he could have fallen a mere six centimeters to the left or right and he would have been fine.

  Six centimeters. That's all that separated Drew from life.

  The impact to his temple killed him almost instantly.

  I obsessed over that six centimeters for months. Long after my mother had stopped pretending to grieve his death.

  I obsessed over it, because I knew that if he had fallen six centimeters to the left or right, his survival would have been referred to as a "miracle."

  But what happened to Drew was the opposite of a miracle. It was a tragic accident.

  A tragic accident that made me lose my belief in miracles altogether. By the time I was thirteen, anything labeled a "miracle" pissed me the hell off.

  That's one of the main reasons why I never partook much in social media. The amount of "miracles" seen in my Facebook newsfeed would make my eyes practically roll out of my head. So many people "cured" of cancer, thanks to the prayers of all their Facebook friends. "It's benign! Hallelujah! God is so good to me!"

  There were so many times I wanted to reach through my laptop screen and grab those people by the shoulders and scream, "Hey! Guess what! You aren't special!"

  Lots of people die from cancer. Where was their miracle? Did their Facebook friends not pray enough? Why did their chemotherapy not work? Because they didn't post enough public prayer requests on social media? Why didn't they get their miracle? Does God think less of their lives than those whose lives he spares?

  No.

  Sometimes cancer is cured...sometimes it isn't. Sometimes people hit their heads and die, most of the time they hit their heads and survive. And anytime you hear of a person beating the odds...that's all they're doing. Beating the odds.

  Because people never really think about how, in order to beat the odds, a lot of unfortunate deaths have to occur for that particular survival to be considered "out of the norm."

  Maybe Drew's death hardened me to the idea of miracles, but in my mind, you either survive or you don't. The journey from first breath to death has nothing to do with miracles, how much you pray, coincidences, or divine intervention.

  Sometimes a person's journey from first breath to death isn't always part of a master plan. Sometimes the only thing that separates your final breath from your death is a mere six centimeters.

  That's why--when the doctor walked into the waiting room to update me on Luke's condition--I had to sit down when he said, "If the bullet had made impact just six centimeters to the left or right of where it did, Luke would have died instantly. Now all we can do is pray for a miracle."

  I failed to tell the doctor that I don't believe in miracles.

  Luke is either going to survive...or he's not.

  "You should go grab some coffee," Ryan says. "Stretch your legs."

  Luke came out of surgery over eight hours ago. He lost a lot of blood and had to have a transfusion, and I've refused to leave his side since.

  I shake my head. "I'm not leaving until he wakes up."

  Ryan sighs, but he knows there's no talking me out of my decision. He walks to the door, "I'll bring you a coffee, then."

  I watch as he exits the room. He's been at this hospital the entire time I have, even though I know there are probably job-related things he should be doing right now. Giving statements about what happened last night. Taking statements. Dealing with a murder, an arrest, an attempted murder.

  I never saw them take Asa out of the bedroom last night because I was too worried about Luke to care what happened to him. But I could hear him. The whole time I was pressing my hands against Luke's chest, waiting on the paramedics to arrive, Asa was behind me yelling, "Let him die, Sloan! He doesn't love you! I love you! I do!"

  I never turned around to acknowledge him or his words. I continued to try to help Luke while they pulled Asa out of the bedroom. The last thing I heard him say was, "It's my fucking cake! Let me take my fucking coconut cake!"

  I don't know what's going to happen next with Asa. I'm certain there will be some sort of trial, but I honestly don't want to testify. I'm afraid if I testify, he'll get off easier than he should. Because I would have to be honest. I'd have to tell them about all the things I've witnessed in his behavior, specifically the drastic changes in recent weeks. It's obvious to everyone who knows him that he's more than likely developing symptoms of schizophrenia--the same hereditary illness his father had. But if that's the case, he'll more than likely be sentenced to a high-security mental health facility than a prison.

  And even though I do want him to get help for whatever is going on with him, I also want him to pay
. I want him to pay for every single thing he's ever done and I want him to pay forever. In a prison. Where he'll rot with men who are probably twice as evil as he could ever dream of being.

  Some might call that bitter. I just call it karma.

  I grip the arms of my chair and whisper to no one. "I'm done thinking about you, Asa Jackson."

  And I am. He's taken up way too much of my life already and now I just want to focus on the future. On Stephen. On Luke.

  There are tubes and wires and IVs hooked up to him, but I'm somehow still able to find an area on his bed where I can fit if I curl up just right. I crawl onto the bed with him and I wrap my arm over him, lay my head on his shoulder, and close my eyes.

  Several minutes later, Ryan's voice pulls me out of my slumber.

  "Coffee."

  I open my eyes and he's sitting on the chair by the bed, holding a coffee out to me. It's probably the fifth cup I've had since Luke came out of surgery, but I'm pretty sure I'm good for about a million more if it takes that long.

  Ryan sits back in his chair and takes a sip of his coffee, then grips it with both hands and leans forward.

  "Did he ever tell you how we met?" Ryan asks.

  I shake my head.

  I can see a nostalgic smile begin to play on Ryan's lips. "We were assigned a job together a while back. He broke cover the second night we were there," Ryan says, shaking his head. "I was so angry at him, but I knew why he did it. I can't go into all the details, but if he hadn't outed himself when he did, a kid would have lost his life. Luke couldn't have lived with himself if that had happened. I knew in that moment that he had the worst kind of heart for this job. But as pissed as I was at him, I respected the hell out of him for what he did. He cared more about the life of a kid he didn't even know than he did about his own career. And that's not a flaw, Sloan. That's a character trait. Pretty sure they call it compassion," he says with a wink.

  Ryan's story makes me smile for the first time in forever. "That's the sexiest thing about him," I whisper. "His compassion."

  He shrugs. "I don't know...he's got a great ass."

  I laugh. I wouldn't really know--Luke was sitting down when I had my only chance to see it.

  I put my coffee on the bedside table and then lean in and give Luke a peck on the mouth. I've made sure to kiss him every chance I get, just in case I don't get many more chances.

  When I pull my lips from his and start to rest my head on his pillow, I hear a quiet noise come from his throat. Ryan leaps out of his chair at the same moment I lift my head back up.

  "Did he just make a noise?" Ryan asks, his voice full of disbelief.

  "I think so," I whisper.

  Ryan waves his arm toward Luke. "Kiss him again! I think it woke him up!"

  I do. I kiss him lightly on the lips again and there's no mistaking the noise Luke makes this time. He's definitely waking up.

  We both stare at him for a moment while his eyelids flutter open and then shut, several times. "Luke? Can you hear me?" Ryan asks.

  Luke finally forces his eyes open, but he doesn't look directly at Ryan. Instead, his eyes move painfully around the room until he's looking down at me, curled up at his side. He stares for a moment, and then with a weak voice he whispers, "Kaleidoscope belt buckles see leprechauns when the fog drops it like it's hot."

  Tears immediately form in my eyes and I have to choke back my cry.

  "Oh, God," Ryan says. "He's not making any sense. This isn't good. I'll go get the doctor." He runs out of the room before I can tell him that Luke is perfectly fine.

  I lift my hand to Luke's face and touch his lips. I whisper, "Depressed baguettes linger on the playground eating bowls of cereal until the slugs wilt." My voice cracks with my relief--with my happiness--with my gratefulness. My lips meet his, and even though I know this isn't good for him and he's probably in a lot of pain, I hug him wherever I can and kiss him in all the places I can reach on his face and neck. I wrap myself around him, careful to keep my arms and hands away from his injuries. I lie quietly with him while the tears roll down my cheeks.

  "Sloan," he says, his voice gravelly. "I can't remember what happened after I fucked everything up. Did you end up saving me?"

  I laugh and lift up on my elbow. "Not really," I say quietly. "You shot Asa's gun out of his hand and then I ran over to you and put pressure on your wound until the paramedics got there. I'd say it was a mutual save."

  He tries to force a smile. "I told you I wasn't very good at my job," he says.

  I smile in whole-hearted agreement. "It's not too late to quit, you know. You could go back to school and become a Spanish teacher."

  He winces with his laugh. "That's not a bad idea, Sloan."

  He struggles to lean forward in order to kiss me, but it takes everything in him. He's only six centimeters away.

  A mere six centimeters between breath and life.

  When I close that six-centimeter gap and kiss him, I know I'm closing a chapter. A really dark chapter that I've been waiting more than two years to end.

  And this kiss is just the beginning of a whole new book. A book where maybe miracles aren't that far-fetched.

  I sit up straight and open my eyes.Not that I was sleeping. No one could sleep in this goddamn place. I breathe in through my nose and out my mouth, wondering why it's just now hitting me.She didn't say harder. She fucking said Carter! "Fucking whore!"

  The End

  I tap lightly on the door to his hospital room, but no one responds. When I push it open and peek inside, Luke is asleep. The volume to the TV is low, but audible. I glance over to the couch and Ryan is lying on his side, a ball cap covering his eyes. He's asleep, too.

  I hold the door while it closes, not wanting to wake either of them, but Ryan hears me and sits up on the couch. He stretches his arms over his head and yawns, then stands up.

  "Hey," he says. "You gonna be here a while?"

  I nod. "I'll probably stay here tonight," I whisper. "You go get some rest."

  He glances over at Luke again and says, "The doctor came by earlier. Says he'll get to go home tomorrow, but he'll need someone to stay with him for a while. He's on strict bed rest. I would offer, but I'm sure he'd rather you do it."

  I set my purse down on the couch. "It's fine. I can stay with him if he's okay with it."

  "I'm perfectly okay with that," Luke says from his bed. I glance in his direction and he's smiling at me lazily.

  Ryan laughs and says, "I'll stop by in the morning after my meeting with Young."

  Luke nods and then motions for me. "Come here."

  I walk toward him as Ryan leaves the room. Just like every other time I visit him, he scoots over and makes room for me to lie with him.

  I wrap my leg over his and my arm over his chest, resting my head on his shoulder.

  "How's your brother?" he asks.

  "Good," I say. "Really good. You'll have to go with me soon if you're up for it. He kept looking up at the door like you were going to show up, so I know he was disappointed that you weren't with me."

  I feel the light laughter in Luke's chest. "I tried to sneak out and go with you today, but someone is being overprotective."

  I shake my head. "You got shot in the chest, Luke. You almost died. I'm not taking any chances." I lift my head from his shoulder and rest my head on my hand. "Speaking of taking chances, what exactly did the doctor say about your release tomorrow? Bed rest? No strenuous activity?"

  He runs a hand through my hair and smiles at me. "What if I told you he said plenty of bed rest and strenuous activity?"

  "I'd call you a liar."

  He makes a face. "Four to six weeks," he says. "Doctor says my heart needs to take it easy. Do you know how difficult that's gonna be with you taking care of me?"

  I run my fingers over his chest, feeling the bandages beneath his hospital gown. "Four to six weeks is nothing when we have forever."

  He laughs a little. "Easy for you to say. Guys think about sex every seven se
conds."

  "That's a myth," I tell him. "I learned in biological science that it's actually only thirty-four times a day."

  Luke stares at me for a few quiet seconds and then says, "That's still almost a thousand times in the next four weeks I'll have to refrain."

  I shake my head with a smile. "I'll try to make it easy on you, then. I won't shower or brush my hair or put on makeup for the next month."

  "That won't help," he says. "Might even make it worse."

  I lower my head and press my lips to his neck. "If it's too hard on you, we can hire a male nurse to take care of you instead of me," I tease.

  Luke tightens his arm around me and yawns. "No one is taking care of me but you," he whispers.

  I can hear the pain meds kicking in by the sound of his voice, so I don't respond to him. We lie there for a while, until I'm almost certain he's asleep. But then he says, "Sloan? Where are you staying?"

  I was waiting for this question. He's been here in the hospital for two weeks now and every time he starts to bring up my living situation, I tell him we'll talk about it later.

  I have a feeling he's not going to let me redirect the conversation this time.

  "In a hotel."

  He instantly stiffens, reaching to my chin to lift my face to his. "Are you kidding me?"

  I shrug. "It's fine, Luke. I'll find an apartment soon."

  "Which hotel?"

  "The one on Stratton."

  His jaw hardens. "You're checking out today. You shouldn't be there alone, it's not a safe neighborhood." He tries to adjust himself to where he's sitting up, lifting the head of the bed several inches. "Why have you not told me this?"

  I flick my hand at him. "You almost died, Luke. The last thing you need right now is to stress over my situation more than you already have."

  He drops his head back to his pillow, raking his hands over his face. He locks eyes with me. "You'll stay with me. I need the help, anyway. There's no point in you paying for a hotel."

  "I'm not moving in with you. I'll come take care of you for however long you need me to, but we barely know each other. That's too much, too soon."

  He lowers his chin and stares at me, hard. "You're staying with me, Sloan. I'm not asking you to make it permanent. But until I'm recovered and you have your own apartment, you aren't going back to that hotel."