Chapter 8
EIGHT
Jesse
The hum of the highway fills the car, low and steady beneath the faint crackle of the radio.
Late-day light slants through the windshield, painting the dash in streaks of gold and gray.
I crack the window a couple of inches, letting in the salt air and scent of cedar.
It’s a permanent part of life here, it seems to seep right into your skin.
The further I get from the city, the quieter it gets. Fewer cars. More trees. On this stretch of road, you can finally hear yourself think—which is exactly the problem.
I shouldn’t be making this drive. Not tonight.
Not ever, if my brothers had any say in it.
Ford would call it a waste of time. Noah would tell me to stop trying to fix things that can’t be fixed.
Wes wouldn’t say much at all, but I’d know with one look that he’s disappointed.
So yeah, I never tell any of them where I’m going. And I don’t plan to.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, as if that’ll hold my thoughts in place. But instead of staying focused on the road, my mind drifts to where it shouldn’t—to the office, to her.
Madeline.
It’s been two weeks since she started at Cove, and somehow, she’s managed to wedge herself into every inch of my routine. Every meeting, every brainstorm, every coffee break. And the worst part? She’s damn good at what she does.
She’s organized to the point of obsession. She carries a notebook everywhere she goes and actually uses it, writing things down in looping, perfect handwriting.
And then there are the sticky notes. Jesus.
The woman has an entire color-coded system. Pink for deadlines. Blue for edits. Yellow for questions. Green for “don’t forget, Jesse, you idiot,” if I had to guess.
Her desk looks like a stationery store exploded all over it, but somehow it works for her. It drives me out of my damn mind. I can handle beautiful, and I can handle smart. But beautiful, smart, and infuriating? That’s a combination I wasn’t prepared for.
I shift in my seat, thumb drumming against the wheel as the tires hum over the asphalt. The sky’s softening into dusk now, a wash of violet behind the mountains. I pass the sign for Red Rock Bay and keep going, turning off toward a narrower road lined with moss-slicked guardrails.
She’s gotten under my skin, and I hate that she knows it. The way she looks at me—calm and unimpressed—like I’m just another man trying too hard. Everyone else at Cove jumps when I speak; she just raises a brow and keeps writing her damn notes.
And that mouth of hers. As sharp and precise as the tailored suits she wears, she’s always one second away from calling me on my bullshit.
I shouldn’t like that as much as I do.
The road winds tighter, houses giving way to dense evergreens. My phone buzzes on the console and Ford’s name lights up the screen. I ignore it. Another buzz, another message. Probably about tomorrow’s review meeting. It can wait.
I slow as I turn down a narrow lane, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
The air feels heavier here, the silence has an eery quality to it, like something is lurking just out of sight.
A modest bungalow appears through the trees, its siding weathered, the porch light flickering like it can’t decide whether to try to stay on or just give up.
My stomach knots the way it always does when I see the place. I remind myself I’m here out of obligation, not emotion. I shift into park and cut the engine. For a moment I just sit here, hands tightening on the wheel, headlights washing over the cracked steps.
Coming here doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t undo the years of absence, or the nights Mom cried herself to sleep. It doesn’t mean I think he’s a better man.
But still, I’m here.
Like always.
I blow out a slow breath, push the door open, and step into the chill.
“This isn’t forgiveness,” I mutter under my breath. “Just something I have to do.”
The porch creaks under my boots as I climb the steps. Cigarette smoke and the faint metallic bite of beer cuts through the scent of damp cedar in the air. I knock once out of habit, but I don’t wait for an answer before shoving the door open. It’s not locked. It hasn’t been for years.
“Dad?”
The living room looks the same as it always has—dark curtains drawn, a sagging couch covered in a blanket that’s seen better decades, and the flicker of a hockey game on a TV that’s older than me.
Empty cans line the coffee table. A half-smoked cigarette balances on an ashtray beside a stack of unpaid bills.
He’s sitting in his usual spot, slouched back, a can in one hand and the remote in the other. His gray hair is longer than it used to be, scruff grown in unevenly along his jaw. He glances over his shoulder, squinting through the dim light.
“Well, look who decided to show up.” His voice is rough, years of whiskey and cigarettes ground into gravel.
I step inside, kicking the door shut behind me. “How are you holding up?”
He snorts. “Same as always.” He gestures toward the TV, where a replay flashes across the screen. “These idiots still can’t score to save their damn lives, but otherwise? Living the dream.”
There’s no dream here. Just the reek of stale beer and failure that clings to the walls.
I move to the kitchen counter, where a couple of grocery bags still sit half-unpacked.
I brought them last week—food, some cleaning supplies, a new bottle of aspirin.
I set the grocery bag I brought with me beside it.
“Brought you a few things. I’ll put the fruit and vegetables in the fridge. You need anything else?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away, just takes a long drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Stop bringing this crap,” he mutters, nodding toward the groceries. “I don’t want it. I didn’t ask for charity.”
“It’s not charity,” I say quietly. “It’s groceries.”
He shoots me a look. “You’re just like your brother. Always have to play the hero.”
My jaw tightens. “Ford doesn’t even know I come here.”
That gets him. His eyes flicker up, sharp and searching, then soften with something I can’t quite name. Guilt, maybe. Or pride. It’s hard to tell with him.
“Smart,” he mutters after a beat. “He’d just tell you to stay away.”
“He already has.”
He laughs under his breath, a humorless grunt. “Figures. Ford’s always been tough. You, though…” He takes another drink and looks me over. “Still trying to fix people who don’t want to be fixed. You always had that soft streak. I thought I raised four men, but something went wrong with you.”
I glance around the room at the empty bottles, the yellowed walls, the reminders of a man who used to be someone else. “Maybe I just didn’t want to be like you.”
That earns me a glare, but he lets it go. He just turns back to the TV, jaw flexing. The silence stretches between us until it feels heavy enough to choke on.
After a while, I sink into the chair across from him. “You working much these days?”
He shrugs. “A few shifts here and there. The site’s dead right now.”
That’s bullshit, and we both know it. He hasn’t worked full-time in years. After he lost his corporate job, he picked up shifts at a warehouse. Now he’s with a construction crew because the last warehouse he worked for let him go for showing up drunk too many times.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out an envelope. “Here.”
He eyes it warily. “What’s that?”
“Cash.”
“I don’t need your money.”
“Yeah, you do,” I say flatly, setting it on the table beside him. I pick up the stack of bills and shove them in my pocket. I’ll pay those later.
He stares at the envelope for a long moment, then picks it up, flipping it between his fingers. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I know.”
“But you keep showing up anyway.”
I look down at my hands. Calloused. Strong. The hands of a man who’s built a life out of sheer determination—but here I am, sitting in a house that is full of regret, giving money to the one person who doesn’t deserve it.
“Yeah,” I murmur.
For a moment, the corners of his mouth twitch—something almost like a smile before it fades again.
He nods. “Your mom would’ve been proud. She had a soft streak too.”
The words hit hard. I swallow, throat tight. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “She would’ve.”
The game resumes, commentators droning on in the background. I stay a few minutes longer, until the silence turns from uneasy to unbearable.
When I finally stand, he doesn’t look up. “Don’t come back next week,” he says, his voice a little softer this time. “I don’t need you.”
I hesitate in the doorway. “We’ll see.”
He lifts his can in a half-hearted salute. “Drive safe, kid.”
Outside, the night air is cold and sharp, and it stings my lungs when I take a deep breath. I get in the truck, start the engine, and rest my head back against the seat.
I drive the deserted, tree-lined stretch back to the highway, trying to shake the unsettled feeling that always seems to linger after these short visits.
I turn on the radio, the road disappearing into pitch black beyond the reach of the headlights.
Eventually, I leave the dilapidated little house behind me, and my thoughts return to Madeline—the only person who’s managed to make me feel even more off-balance than the man I can’t stop coming back to.
By the time I pull into the Cove lot the next morning, I’ve had two coffees and not nearly enough sleep to make up for the long drive last night. The glass facade catches the early light, clean and sharp, reflecting the mountains behind me.
Inside, it’s quiet. Desks sit empty, screens dark.
The only sounds are my footsteps and the low buzz of the building waking up.
Chloe’s already here at reception, the lone sign of life this early.
Stillness doesn’t happen often around here, so I take a second to appreciate a rare peaceful moment without my phone buzzing or someone banging on my office door.
And then I see her.