24-REAGAN
Music from my home speaker in the kitchen leaked into the living room. I left it on and was too lazy to turn it off. It didn’t bother me, and I had resorted to watching my current shows on my tablet through their provided apps.
I contemplated making cookies and thought about texting Vincent to see if I should double the batch.
My phone lit up as I pressed my thumb into the screen and hit the message icon.
Masked Midnight Daddy sat near the top. I had been enjoying talking to him here and there throughout the week.
Although he had been quiet the last day or two, I didn't want to bother him if he was busy.
His message sat open, and I tried to think of how to word it without saying “do you want me to make you cookies so I can see you?”
My phone rattled in my hand, and my camera icon popped up in the notification bar. Pulling it down, I expected to see my neighbor’s cat but spotted Tate’s truck headlights in the preview creeping into my driveway.
Ugh. What does he want now?
I clutch my phone and slide on my house slippers before heading to the door. The cool air makes me regret not grabbing a robe or blanket.
He dropped from his truck with a grin on his face. “Hey there darlin’.”
“Hi,” I spoke dryly. Crossing my arms, he continued his way to my porch. “What do you want?”
“Came to see if my wife wanted to go on a date.”
“Tate—” I protested.
“No, no. I insist.” He stopped in front of me and tossed his hand towards the house. “Go on. Get dressed.” He didn't have to stand any closer for me to smell the alcohol on him.
I stayed cemented to the porch. I knew if he came inside, he wouldn’t leave. Pleased with his idea, the corner of his mouth drew upward, and his teeth peeked through.
His eyes fixed themselves on my chest as my nipples tightened from the cold. Tate's hands overcame my arms, attempting to warm me by rubbing them up and down.
“Tate, I don’t want to go out.” I nudged away, trying to get his hands off of me.
He closed the space between us. “We can stay in, if you’d like. God knows I would.”
My face twisted. “No. I don’t.” I unfolded my arms and opened them to create a space between us and get his hands off of me. Trying to force him to get the hint.
My phone caught on some part of Tate in the process. Flipping out of my hand and skidding across the cement before stopping face up. I scoffed with a straight expression.
Surprising me, he stepped away and picked up my phone. His eyes focused on my screen as his body straightened out. What drunk playfulness he carried before was rapidly replaced by anger.
And then I realized what he was looking at.
“Who is this?” He snarled.
I held out my hand, playing stupid, to try and get my phone back. “Who is who? Let me see.” My fingers wiggled in amusement.
My phone dangled closer to my face, showing me what I already knew. “Who the fuck is Masked Midnight Daddy?”
I plucked my phone from his drunken grip. “Seriously, Tate, don’t worry about it.” I dropped my phone into my sweats pocket. “Go home,” I instructed.
He swayed into me. “I am home.”
“You don’t live here anymore.”
“My name’s on the lease. You’re lucky I let you change the locks.”
“Tate, stop. You’re drunk. Go home and sleep this off, and then we will talk.”
“I thought giving you space would let you get over this divorce shit. But from what it looked like the other night, you were getting friendly with your emo cowboy date.”
“Our marriage is over.”
“Is it? I think you should let me remind you how fun it was.” He reached for my face, and my hand reacted before I could, swatting him away.
I stepped back, my hand on the knob behind me. “Leave, now. Before I call the cops.”
Tate tried to follow me inside, but only stumbled.
My heart raced, afraid I wouldn’t be able to get the deadbolt before he could turn the knob.
The clink of him trying the knob back and forth was magnified.
The rattle of the hinges and the door beating against the frame echoed through the house as he shook it.
“Open the door.” Tate’s voice was loud through the solid wood. “I can wait all night.”
I moved close to the crease where the two woods met. “Go ahead.”
My heart was ripping through my ribcage. I had somehow managed to break a sweat in the thirty-degree weather.
My throat was tight as I pulled my phone from my pocket. I contemplated calling Vincent. I didn’t know how long Tate would be here or if he would successfully break in. It would take Vincent an hour or so to get here anyway.
I did a quick Google search for our county sheriff’s department and hit send on the non-emergency line.
“County Communications, this is Melissa on a recorded line. How can I help you?”
My voice was hushed, hiding my call from Tate. “Um… hi. I—I don’t know if this is the right line. My soon-to-be ex-husband showed up at my house. He’s drunk, and he won’t leave.”
“Okay, I can help you with that. Are you in a safe place right now?”
“Yes. I’m inside. He’s on the porch.”
“Alright. Can you tell me the address?”
I rattle off my address, thinking about how I never would have thought on my wedding day that I would be calling the police on my husband because he wouldn’t leave. A year ago, I would have thought I was crazy for turning away the attention I had been begging for.
“Thank you. And your name?”
“Reagan Scott.” Tate tried the door again. More gentle this time.
“Okay, Reagan. I’m sending officers your way to check things out. Is he trying to force his way inside?”
I sat on the arm of the couch, staring out towards the street through the sheer curtains. “No. Not yet. He’s just… knocking and calling my name. He keeps saying he wants to stay the night.”
“Has he made any threats toward you or himself?”
“No. He’s just drunk and… stubborn.”
“You’re doing the right thing by calling. Stay inside, keep your doors locked. Don’t confront him. The officers will take it from here.”
“Okay.”
Tate walked past the window and sat on the bench facing the yard.
“Is he armed? Any weapons on him or in the car he came in?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“Alright. I’ve got your call in. The officers are in the neighborhood and on their way. If he tries to enter or if anything changes, call 911 immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Reagan. If you need, you can stay on the line with me until they arrive.”
My voice cracked, “No, I—I’ll be okay. Thank you.”
“Alright. They’ll be there shortly.”
Out of the mood, I turned my tablet off and flipped the case back over the screen.
My fingers found the switch along the wall to the overhead light and dimmed the room.
I stepped into the kitchen and turned off my music.
I was partially anxiety-ridden and partly overstimulated.
To get away from Tate and kill time, I made a bathroom trip.
I took a deep breath as I relieved myself. Should I call Vincent? My gut churned, telling me I should. But I was optimistic that the cops would take care of it. My camera app alerts me to the movement on the porch. Before I could check it, I heard a firm knock.
Please be the police and not Tate again. I glanced at my camera preview and was washed with relief to see a dark uniform.
Weaving through the house, I grabbed my white robe for warmth without thinking about the monogram "The Forewarning" on the left side.
I slowly open the door to face the first officer. There’s a second officer with Tate in the driveway near his truck.
“Ma’am, we got a call about a disturbance. Can you step out here with me so we can talk?”
I nod, swinging the door shut behind me.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Reagan.” He jots something down, and I cross my arms, not to shield myself but for warmth
“What’s your relation to him?”
“We are legally married, but separated.” I can overhear Tate talking to the second police officer. Giving his side of the story, how he was trying to take me out on a date.
“Is he intoxicated?”
I give him a soft nod.
“Has he threatened you or tried to force his way in?”
“No,” I question myself if his shaking the door counts and dismiss it. “He just showed up drunk. I don’t want him inside tonight.”
“Okay. You’re not in trouble here. We just want to keep things calm. He is a legal tenant, so we can’t evict him, but we can remove him if he’s causing a disturbance or refusing to cooperate. Let us see where he’s at.”
Tate talks louder than needed, and I can’t help but eavesdrop. “I’m not arguing! I’m just… man, I just need to get my stuff. I’m not hurting anybody.”
The second officer responded. “We hear you. But you’re impaired. So here’s the deal: you can’t go inside tonight. We need you to leave the property for a bit, cool down somewhere else.”
Relief comes over me. “He’s fine as long as someone comes and gets him.”
“Alright. If that’s the case, we can have him wait on the curb and off the property.”
“Okay, that’s fine.”
He gives a quick nod, tucks the notebook back in his breast pocket, and turns to assist the second police officer. I continue watching from my porch.
The cop talking to Tate instructs him. “As long as you stay outside, stay calm, and don’t try to reenter the residence, we’re good.” He leans into the nice-guy act — a classic Tate tactic when authority is involved.
My ears still pick up Tate’s voice. “I appreciate you guys. Really. I know it’s late. I’m just having a rough night. My buddy’s on his way. I’ll be gone in a few minutes.”
“Okay. We’ll give you that chance, but if your behavior changes or you try going back in, you’re going with us. Understand?”
Tate nods quickly. “Yeah, officer. I got you. I’m good.
I hear the dispatch crackle on their shoulder. “Unit twelve, we have a priority one domestic in progress on South Miller Road. Possible weapon involved.”
Both officers look at each other, and one says, “This one takes precedence.”
The officer who assisted me looked at Tate sternly at the curb. “We have to go assist another call. We expect you to hold your end of the deal and leave when your ride arrives. I'll be by again to check. ”
Tate slapped his hand over his heart. “I will. I swear, I’ll be out of here. I’m just waiting.”
The second officer reminded him of his instructions. “Do not go back inside. Do not start another disturbance. If we have to come back here tonight, it won’t end with another warning. Got it?”
“Got it. Won’t be a problem.”
I slink back inside and watch out the window of my dark living room. The doors close one by one, and the cruiser pulls away. Tate watches them go.
I watched him for another minute. Had he really called someone? If he did, would I feel safe and believe he wouldn’t come back? No. I decided to listen to my gut and call Vincent.
I find my phone on the end table and hit send without overthinking it.
“Hello?” His voice settled into my mind, almost calming me. I had hoped I wasn’t taking him away from something or that he would be too busy to break away and sit with me for a while.
“Vincent?”
“Yeah. What's going on?” His pitch changed, becoming alert over the line.
“Tate’s here. He won’t leave.” I paused. “He’s drunk, and the cops can’t do anything because his name is on the lease and he’s being orderly. Could you—” How do I say this? How do I ask someone that I’ve strictly been intimate with to protect me? I wasn’t his responsibility.
“Reagan? Do you need me to come to you?”
Tears filled my waterline but were not heavy enough to drop. “Yes.”
He exhaled through the phone. “Alright. Sit tight and make sure the doors are locked. I’m leaving now.”
“Thank you, Vincent.”