Page 107 of Too Late

I don’t know what I’d do without Luke. Part of me thinks he’s too good to be true. That men like him don’t really exist and that this is all some sort of wishful thinking on my part. I live in constant fear that he was only brought into my life so I would have to endure the pain of him being taken out of it. I hate those thoughts and I try not to think them, but I do. Constantly. I fear losing him more than I fear death.

But every afternoon when Luke comes home and wraps me in his arms and asks how “we’re” doing, it completely reinforces his claim that this baby is his. No matter who is biologically responsible for the conception, Luke loves it, simply because it’s inside me. That’s enough for him. And somehow, he makes me think it’s enough for me. When I’m actually in Luke’s presence, I feel a sense of self-worth. I feel all the things that Asa stripped from me.

I don’t know if I’m as good at forgiveness as Luke seems to be. He didn’t even make me feel ashamed, not even for a second. And he continues to remind me of how lucky he is, even though I know it’s the other way around. He always redirects my thoughts when I start to worry about Asa finding out about the pregnancy, or when I worry about the upcoming trial. But when he’s not here, like right now, the only thing that can redirect my thoughts is this cookbook.

I’m making lasagna tonight. I’m not sticking to a certain type of food. I’m including all of my favorite foods. I’m even including some of Asa’s favorites, like his damn coconut cake. I like that his favorite recipes are going in a cookbook that goes against everything he is as a person. It feels a little like revenge. For every two dollars this cookbook makes, it’s a dollar that helps women who have suffered at the hands of men like Asa.

So yes, I’m including his stupid fucking coconut cake and his stupid spaghetti and meatballs and even his stupid protein shake that he used to wake me at all hours of the night to make for him. As much as I hate all the times he demanded I cook for him, at least some good will come of it. This whole cookbook is like a huge middle finger to Asa Jackson.

That’s a good idea, actually. I think I’ll incorporate a tiny little hand flipping the bird on all the pages, somehow. A cute little middle-finger emoji.

When I finish layering the noodles and sauce, I set the pan up to take another picture. I snap a few and then place the pan in the oven.

“What smells so good?”

I grip the counter at the sound of his voice.

Right behind me.

No.No, no, no.

It isn’t possible. The door is still dead bolted. All the windows are locked from the inside.I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming.

I can feel myself slowly sinking to the kitchen floor as my body starts to fail me. I’m going into shock. I can feel it, I can feel it,no, no, no.

I’m on the floor. I slide my hands through my hair and against my ears, my palms shaking. I try to cover up the sound of his voice. If I don’t hear it, it’s not there. He’s not there.He’s not.

“Jesus, Sloan.” He’s closer now. “I thought you’d be a little more excited to see me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but I can hear him as he hoists himself up onto the counter next to me. I open my eyes and see his feet swinging close to the floor as his legs dangle at my side. There’s no ankle monitor. He wants me to see that. I know how his fucked-up mind works.

How is this happening?

Where is my phone?

I feel sick. I force myself to breathe so I don’t pass out from fear.

“Lasagna, huh?” He tosses something onto the counter. “Never liked your lasagna much. You always used too much tomato sauce.”

I’m crying now. I scoot away from him, unable to find the strength to stand up. I keep scooting, knowing I won’t get anywhere, but hoping I somehow do.

“Where you going, baby?” he asks.

I try to pick myself up off the floor, but as soon as I come to a half-stand, he jumps off the counter and has his arms around me from behind. “Let’s go have a little chat,” he says, lifting me effortlessly off the floor. I cry out in fear and a hand immediately clamps over my mouth. “I’m going to need you to be quiet while we chat,” he says, carrying me through the living room and into my bedroom. I still haven’t laid eyes on him yet.

I won’t.

I refuse to look at him.

Luke. Please, Luke.Come home, come home, come home.

Asa tosses me onto the bed and I immediately begin to crawl to the other side, but he grips my ankle and yanks me back. I’m on my stomach. I try to kick his hand off. I grab at a blanket, a pillow, anything my hands can touch, but my strength does little to defend me against him. In what feels like slow motion, he flips me onto my back and pins my hands down with his knees as he straddles me. He’s sitting on top of me, putting pressure against my stomach, and it’s then that I know he knows. It’s not something I can hide at this point.

That’s why he’s here.

I feel his fingers press against my eyelids and he forces them open. When I see his face, he’s smiling. “Hey, beautiful,” he says. “It’s rude not to make eye contact with someone when they’re trying to have a serious conversation with you.”

He’s fucking insane. And there’s nothing I can do to protect myself. Nothing I can do to protect my baby.

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