Too Late

Smart girl. Never trust a single lock.

Sloan opens the door to let him in. Luke disappears inside the door as Sloan walks—no, she practically fucking skips—to the car. She’s smiling. She reaches into the trunk to grab some groceries when Luke walks back outside, holding up his hands. It looks like he’s telling her to stop, that he’ll get the groceries. He points at her, toward her stomach, and says something to make her laugh. She presses her hands against her stomach and that’s when I see it.

That’s when I fucking see it.

I pause the screen.

I stare at her hands, pressed against her stomach. I look at the smile on her face as she stares down at her hands, holding her belly. It’s barely noticeable under her shirt. Barely.

“Motherfucker.”

I’m frozen. Counting days, months, trying to make sense of this.

“Motherfucker.”

I don’t know a lot about the circle of life. The only time I ever knocked up a girl, I forced her to get an abortion because she wasn’t Sloan. But one thing I know for a fact...it takes at least a few months for someone of Sloan’s size to start showing.

A few months ago...it was me who was inside her. It was me who was making love to her at night.

Luke had her once during that time.

I had her daily.

“Motherfucker,” I say again, smiling. I can’t help it. My whole face breaks out into a huge fucking grin. I stand up, needing to take a moment to breathe. To regain my bearings. For the first time in my life, I feel like I might pass out.

“Holy shit,” I say, staring down at the laptop, paused on my Sloan. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

I sit down again and rake my hands through my hair. I stare at the screen for so long, it starts to get blurry.

Am I fucking crying?

I wipe my eyes and sure enough, there are tears on my hands.

I can’t stop fucking smiling. I zoom in on her stomach and then lift my hand to the screen. I place my hand right over both of hers, on top of her stomach. “Daddy loves you,” I whisper to our baby. “Daddy’s coming for you.”





I unlock the door to our apartment and wait for Sloan to unlatch the deadbolts.

All five of them.

I hate that we have to be paranoid. I hate that I call her every hour just to check on her, even though I know she has 24/7 surveillance parked right across the street. I hate that we’re the ones who are forced to hide, even though Asa is monitored and on house arrest until his trial, which will, without doubt, put him behind bars for a while.

I don’t know how the last couple of months have affected Sloan. I tried to talk her into seeing a therapist, but she insists she’s fine. Or she says she will be, once Asa is behind bars.

There’s no possible way for anyone to remove an ankle monitor without it notifying the police, so that’s one small reassurance we have. If Asa does something stupid and decides to leave his house, we’ll know within ninety seconds. But it isn’t Asa I’m worried about—it’s all the people he has on his side who will do his work for him.

The judicial system in this country is fucked, to put it lightly. It feels like Sloan is the one being punished, simply because people like Asa are considered innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. I keep telling myself that we’re lucky he got house arrest. The judge could have allowed him to post bail and walk around free until he faces trial.

We have that much on our side, at least.

It hasn’t been so bad until a few days ago, because he was recovering from his gunshot wounds in the hospital. But now that we know he’s healed and at home, with visitors free to come and go as they please, we don’t feel as safe as we’ve been feeling. I attached the extra four deadbolts to the door yesterday for added protection.

We’re two hours away from him now and no one outside the department knows where we’re staying. It takes me over an hour just to drive home every day because I take so many side roads, just to ensure I’m not being followed. It’s exhausting. But I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe, short of walking through Asa’s front door and putting a bullet in his forehead.

I hear the deadbolts unlatch and as soon as she begins to pull the door open, I slip inside and shut it. Sloan smiles and stands on her tiptoes to kiss me. I wrap an arm around her waist and kiss her back as I spin her to where I can reach the deadbolts and lock them. I try not to make it noticeable, because the more I worry, the more she worries.

She pulls back as I’m latching the last deadbolt. I can see the concern flash in her eyes, so I redirect her.

“Smells good,” I say, glancing into the kitchen. “What are you cooking?” Sloan is an incredible cook. Better than my own mother, but I’m not telling my mother that.

She grins and grabs my hand, pulling me toward the kitchen. “I’m not sure, to be honest,” she says. “Soup, but I just threw in what sounded good.” She opens the pot and dips a spoon in, bringing it up to my mouth. “Taste it.”

I sip from the spoon. “Holy shit. That’s delicious.”

She grins and puts the lid back on the soup. “I want it to simmer for a while, so you can’t have any yet.”

I pull my keys and cell phone out of my pocket and toss them on the counter. Then I reach down to Sloan and grab her, lifting her up into my arms. “I can wait to eat,” I say as I carry her to the bedroom. I toss her gently onto the bed and crawl up her body. “Did you have a good day?” I ask, planting a kiss to her neck.

She nods. “I got an idea today. It might be dumb, though. I don’t know.”

I roll onto my side and stare down at her. “What is it?” I place my hand on her stomach and inch her shirt up so I can touch skin. I can’t get enough of her. I don’t remember a time in my life that I’ve been with a girl I couldn’t stop touching. Even when we’re just lying here having a simple conversation, I’m either tracing patterns over her stomach or up and down her arms, or touching her lips with my fingers. She seems to like it because she’s the same way and I definitely don’t mind.

“You know how I can cook pretty much anything?”

I nod. She really can.

“I thought about compiling some of my best recipes and making a cookbook.”

“Sloan, that’s a great idea.”

She shakes her head. “I wasn’t finished.” She lifts onto her elbow. “There are too many cookbooks flooding the market, so I want something to stand out. I want it to be different than the rest of them. So I thought about playing up the fact that I learned to cook so well when I was practically forced to cook every night by Asa. So I thought the title could be something funny, like, ’Recipes I learned to cook while living with my asshole, controlling ex-boyfriend.’ And then I could donate half the proceeds to victims of domestic violence.”

I give her a moment, to make sure she’s done sharing her idea.

I’m honestly not sure what to think. Part of me wants to laugh, because she’s right, a title like that would be catchy in a strange way. But part of me cringes that Asa is the reason she cooks so well. Because he was controlling and she had no choice. It reminds me of the first time I took her out to lunch and she acted like she’d never been to a restaurant before.

“You think it’s stupid,” she says, falling back onto her pillow.

I shake my head. “Sloan, no. I don’t.” I cup her cheek with my hand so she’ll look at me. “It’s a catchy title. It would make people look twice, that’s for sure. I just hate that it’s so...accurate. It would be funny to me if it was a joke, but it isn’t. That’s really why you cook so well, and I fucking hate that son of a bitch.”

She forces a smile. “Thanks to you, that’s not my life anymore.”

I constantly have to remind her that I didn’t save her. “Thanks to you, that isn’t your life anymore.”

She smiles again, but since the moment I walked through the front door, her smile has seemed forced. Something bigger is bothering her and I don’t know what it is. It could just be the stress of being locked in an apartment all day. “Are you okay, Sloan?”

She waits a second too long to nod, which lets me know she’s not okay.

“What is it?”

She sits up on the bed and begins scooting off of it. “I’m fine, Luke. I need to stir the soup.”

I grab her arm to stop her. She stays at the foot of the bed, but doesn’t turn back to look at me. “Sloan.”

She sighs with her whole body. I release her arm and then join her at the foot of the bed. “Sloan, he can’t leave his house, if that’s what’s bothering you. We’ll know if he does. Not to mention the surveillance outside. You’re safe.”

She shakes her head, letting me know that’s not why she’s upset. She isn’t crying, but I can tell by the small quiver in her lip that she’s about to.