Too Late

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.