Too Late

She looks up at me and shrugs. “I did what I had to, Carter. No one else was around to do it.”

I don’t know that I’ve ever met anyone like her. I kiss her, partly because I want to get as many kisses in as we can today, and partly because she deserves a little more affection in her life. Selfless affection. I don’t mean for the kiss to be anything more than a second or two, but we haven’t been able to kiss like this since our first kiss. I’m instantly pulled into it and everything else fades away.

Until someone clears their throat behind us. We pull apart to see a nurse attempting to exit the doorway we’re blocking. Sloan apologizes and then starts laughing as we rush down the hallway to Stephen’s room.

She knocks on the door and then pushes it open. I follow her inside, immediately impressed with the facility. I expected more of a nursing home or hospital room setup, but these are more like miniature apartments. There’s a small living area attached to a sleeping area and a kitchenette. I notice there’s no stove or microwave though, which probably means he has to have all his meals prepared for him.

Sloan walks into the living area to greet her brother, but I wait in the entryway, not wanting to interrupt them.

Stephen is sitting on the couch, watching the television. He glances up at Sloan and I can immediately see the resemblance. They have the same hair color, same hair texture, same eyes.

But his face is expressionless. He turns back to the TV and my heart instantly aches for Sloan. The one person in this world she loves doesn’t have the capacity to express his love in return. No wonder she seems so lonely. She’s probably the loneliest person I’ve ever met.

“Stephen, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” she says, pointing in my direction. “That’s my friend Carter. We go to school together.”

Stephen looks at me, but then looks back at the TV just as quick.

Sloan pats the couch next to her, requesting me to come sit by her. I walk over and sit down, watching her interact with him. She begins pulling things out of her purse. Nail clippers, paper, a pen, a soda. She talks to him the whole time, telling him about the drive over and giving him her thoughts on the new resident she noticed next door.

“You want ice?” she asks.

I glance at Stephen, but he gives no indication that he wants ice. Sloan points in the kitchen area. “Carter, will you make a glass of ice for him? And get the blue straw out of the top left-hand drawer?”

I nod and go to the kitchen to make his cup of ice. I notice she grabs a pen and starts writing something down. She slides the paper over to Stephen and he instantly looks at it, grabs the pen, and leans forward to write something in return.

He can read and write? She didn’t mention that.

When I’m finished with the cup of ice, I walk back to the living room and hand it to her. She finishes writing something else and hands the paper back to Stephen, then pours his soda into the glass. As soon as she sticks the straw in it, Stephen grabs it out of her hand and begins drinking it. He hands her back the paper and she hands it to me. I read what she wrote first.



Books made out of jellybeans get really sticky when you wear furry gloves.



I read what Stephen wrote next. His writing isn’t as legible as hers, but I can make out what it says.



Baskets of lizards on my head break the cotton in half for you.



I glance at Sloan and she shoots me a small smile. I recall our first day in class together when I saw her doing this for the first time. She said it was just a game she plays sometimes. I guess this is what she meant. She plays it on Sundays with Stephen.

“Can he read almost anything?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “He doesn’t really comprehend. I taught him how to read and write when we were younger, but stringing full thoughts together has never been something I’ve seen him do on paper. It’s his favorite game to play.”

I look over at Stephen. “Can I write something, Stephen?” I reach out for the pen and he hands it to me, but he still doesn’t look at me. I press it to the paper.



Your sister is amazing and you’re very lucky to have her.



I hand Sloan the paper and she reads it before handing it to Stephen. She blushes and nudges me in the shoulder, then passes the pen and paper off to him.

And that’s what we do for the next ten pages. Stephen and Sloan write random words back and forth, and I just write down a bunch of compliments about Sloan.



Your sister has great hair. I especially love it when she curls it.

Did you know your sister cleans up after several men who don’t know how to lift a damn finger? And no one has probably ever told her thank you. Thank you, Sloan.

Your sister’s ring finger looks beautiful and bare today.

I like your sister. A lot.



After about an hour, a nurse comes in and interrupts the game to take Stephen to physical therapy.

“Is the social worker in today?” Sloan asks.

The nurse shakes her head. “Not on Sundays. But I’ll leave a note in her box when he’s finished with therapy so she’ll know to contact you tomorrow.”

Sloan tells her that would be great and then she walks over to give Stephen a hug. When she’s finished with her goodbye, I’m honestly not sure what to do. I don’t want to pretend I’m an expert at interacting with individuals like Stephen, but I also don’t want to do something I shouldn’t do.

“Does he shake hands?” I ask Sloan.

She shakes her head. “He doesn’t really let anyone but me touch him.” She slips her hand through mine.

“It was nice meeting you, Stephen,” I say to him. Sloan grabs her purse and we begin to walk out of the room so the nurse can do what she needs to do to prepare him for therapy. When we’re almost to the door, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to find Stephen standing in front of me, eyes on the floor, rocking back and forth on his heels. He hands me the pen and a blank sheet of paper. I take it from him, not really knowing how to tell him we’re leaving and we can’t keep playing.

I glance at Sloan to see what she wants me to do, and I’m confused by her expression. Stephen walks back into the living room, away from us. I look down at the blank sheet of paper and pen.

“He wants you to come back,” she whispers. When I glance up at her again, she’s smiling, shaking her head back and forth. “I’ve never seen that happen before, Carter.” She covers her mouth with her hand and lets out a mixture of what could be both a laugh and a cry. “He likes you.”

I look back at Stephen and his back is to us now. When I look back at Sloan, she stands on her tiptoes and kisses me, then leads me out of the room. I fold up the paper and slip it and the pen in my back pocket.

I don’t know what I was expecting today, but it certainly wasn’t that.

I’m glad I came, but now it’s not only because of Sloan.





I remember this being a hell of a lot more fun last month.

I double down on the bet and run my hand through my hair, squeezing the back of my neck. I’m hungry. I look over at Kevin and Dalton who are engrossed in conversation with some bartender who looks more like a girl Jon would take behind the building than either of them would entertain.

The only reason why Jon probably isn’t fucking her behind the building right now is because he left with two lot lizards from the truck stop next door. Probably took them to the men’s room. Which surprises me that he was even able to do that with the way his face is puffed up like a fucking blueberry.

He should be back by now, though, because I’m pretty sure he can’t last more than two minutes with a chick. There were two of them. That’s only four minutes, but I haven’t seen him in over an hour.

Where the hell is he?

I look around, and when I don’t see him in the vicinity, I cash out my chips. I yell across the table—over the obnoxious fucking slot machine bells—and tell Dalton and Kevin I’m going to look for Jon. Dalton nods.

I make it to the other side of the casino without finding him. I turn back and walk past a blackjack table when my eyes fall on a guy slurring something to the dealer. “Every time I come to this goddamn casino, I see the same miserable motherfuckers hunched over these tables, handing over their hard-earned wages to you goddamn motherfuckers and you just keep taking. Taking, taking, taking.”

The dealer scoops the chips out from in front of the guy. A man across the table says, “And nine times out of ten that miserable motherfucker is you.”

I laugh and make eye contact with the man who just spoke.

I stop laughing.

He glances away from me without even a flash of recognition.

The guy doing the complaining pushes his stool away from the table and stands. He points at the guy I’m staring at and says, “You got lucky, Paul. That’s all. Won’t last.”

I’m clenching my fists so hard, I’m drawing blood. I can feel it seeping out of my palm.

I didn’t even have to hear his name confirmed to know it was him. A son doesn’t forget his father.