Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
Madeline
Jesse paces the narrow hospital waiting area, hands dragging through his hair, then folding across his chest like he’s trying to hold himself together. I sit, stand, then sit again, but nothing feels right.
Time blurs. We still haven’t heard anything concrete—only that his dad is in surgery with a ruptured spleen as well as a long list of broken bones. The doctors said they were hopeful. They didn’t say how hopeful.
Jesse stops abruptly and pulls his phone from his pocket.
He stares at the dark screen without unlocking it.
I don’t say anything, but I move closer.
Close enough that my arm brushes his. Close enough that he knows I’m here.
He stuffs the phone back into his jeans, the motion sharp and automatic, like he doesn’t even know why he reached for it in the first place.
Jesse hasn’t told me who called him, and I haven’t asked. I don’t want to push, but it’s hard not knowing what’s happening inside his head. I can’t imagine sitting here after years of silence, knowing the man you walked away from might not make it through the night.
It’s close to an hour later when the emergency room doors open again. A man steps inside and right behind him is Ford. He looks wrecked. His posture is tense, exhaustion written into every line of his face. It’s jarring on him. Ford Winters always looks composed and in control.
Not tonight.
He speaks briefly to the woman at the desk, then scans the room. The second his eyes land on Jesse, he heads straight for us.
Jesse doesn’t see him at first. But when he does, his body locks up like a wire pulled too tight. His head snaps up. His shoulders square. I feel the hitch of breath in his chest before he can hide it.
He stands so fast his chair knocks against the wall.
“What are you doing here?”
Ford holds his stare. “I feel like I should be asking you that.”
Jesse doesn’t answer. He just stands there, braced between the chair and his brother, tension vibrating through him. The silence stretches—long enough to feel intentional.
Ford’s gaze moves over Jesse slowly, like he’s trying to make sense of something that doesn’t fit.
I don’t understand what’s happening between them.
They’re looking at each other like they’re both holding pieces of a story the other doesn’t know.
It’s careful. Guarded. And suddenly, I’m aware of how much of Jesse’s life I’ve only just begun to see.
“I got a call,” Ford says finally, voice clipped. “Aidan Williams—the paramedic who picked Dad up. We went to high school together. He said Dad was hit by a car. Said it was bad. Thought I’d want to know.”
His eyes sharpen, locking onto Jesse. “So, I’ll ask again. How did you know Dad was here?”
Jesse shifts his weight. His jaw works like he’s biting back something he isn’t ready to say. His hands flex at his sides, then curl into fists. The hesitation hums off him.
“I got a call too,” Jesse says.
Ford’s eyes narrow. “That doesn’t answer the question.”
Jesse looks away, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“You’re avoiding it,” Ford says quietly. “Why? What aren’t you telling me?”
I look at Jesse, realizing that the story I thought I understood doesn’t line up. He told me he cut his dad off years ago. But the way he’s standing here, cornered and cautious, doesn’t fit.
Jesse finally meets Ford’s eyes. “This isn’t the place.”
Ford lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Funny. It seems like exactly the place for this. For the truth.”
The space between them tightens, sharp and charged. I feel caught in the middle—unsure of my footing, unsure of my role. I don’t want to leave Jesse right now, but it’s becoming obvious that he needs time alone with his brother.
I step forward, gently placing a hand on his arm. “I’m going to grab us something to eat,” I say softly, before either of them can argue. “I’ll grab us all coffees, food. Anything I can find.”
They both look at me, tension still crackling between them.
“I’ll be right back,” I add, already turning away because whatever this is between them, it deserves space.
It’s almost four hours later and Jesse’s car is idling in front of my apartment.
My eyes still sting from the harsh fluorescent glow of the hospital lights.
His dad is out of surgery. The doctor said he’s lucky to be alive.
He’s stable, in critical condition, but alive.
Those words have echoed in my head the entire drive back to my house.
Ford left first. The tension between the brothers never really eased, it just went quiet.
Jesse barely spoke after Ford showed up.
He answered questions when the doctor came back.
He nodded, thanked doctors, signed papers, then he shut down the way people do when they’re holding too much in and don’t trust themselves not to let any of it spill over.
“Are you okay?” I ask, finally breaking the silence between us in the car.
Jesse doesn’t look at me. He stares through the windshield, hands on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, shoulders set like he’s bracing for another impact. “I’m fine.”
“It’s okay not to be.”
He nods. “I know. Listen, it’s late,” he says quietly. “You need to sleep.”
He hasn’t come out and said it in so many words, but he doesn’t need to.
Jesse is dropping me off at my place, and he’s going home to his.
And that is hurting more than I would ever have expected.
He’s been carving out a careful distance between us since he got that call.
I understand that this is big—a father you haven’t spoken to in years fighting for his life.
I know something like that stirs up a lot of old feelings and it will take Jesse a while to process them.
But I hate that he’s starting to pull away when I wish he would reach for me.
Beside me, his jaw tightens. “Madeline,” he says, voice low. “Before you go, I need to tell you something. I didn’t tell you the truth.”
My chest tightens. I’ve lived here before—my parents are experts at half-truths and omissions, at deciding what I am allowed to know.
They have always curated the version of the truth that best serves them.
A lifetime of that has made it hard for me to believe that anyone could ever be completely safe.
So, when Jesse hesitates and looks out the window instead of meeting my eyes, I feel that old instinct flare to life. I brace myself to hear the part of the story he’s been keeping from me.
“I didn’t cut my dad out of my life,” he continues. “Not completely. I still talk to my dad. I see him.”
The words land slowly, like he’s placing them down one by one, carefully and precisely.
“Not often,” he adds, almost defensively. “But I didn’t walk away the way my brothers did. I couldn’t.” He scrubs a hand over his face, the mask finally cracking. “I didn’t want to lie to you. I just didn’t know how to explain something I’ve never explained to anyone…not even my brothers.”
I sit here, heart thudding, trying to reconcile this truth with the version of the story I thought I knew.
“So tonight,” he says quietly, “when Ford asked me how I knew—why I was at the hospital—I didn’t have an easy answer. And I didn’t want to lie to him either.” He finally turns to look at me. “I’m going to need to talk to him. And I should’ve told you sooner.”
There is a stretch of silence as he waits for me to say something. I know he wants a response, some reassurance, but I pause, trying to find the words I need to say.
“I just wish you’d trusted me,” I say finally.
“I know this isn’t simple for you, and that there is a lot about your childhood and your family that I still don’t understand.
But this whole time, I was letting myself open up to you.
I was telling you things I don’t tell people about my family, about how messed up it all is.
” I pause, forcing myself to keep going.
“I was trusting you, and that’s not easy for me to do.
And I thought you were trusting me too, but you were holding something back.
I just…I wish you’d felt like you could tell me. Like I was a safe place for it.”
The silence stretches heavily between us again for a moment.
“I didn’t need every detail,” I add, my voice steady, even as my chest aches. “It just would have been nice to feel like you trusted me enough to tell me the truth. But when I asked you if you still saw your dad, you told me you didn’t.”
I twist the strap of my bag in my lap, grounding myself. “I’m not angry,” I say, because that part matters. “I just need you to understand why this hurts.”
The engine idles softly, the street outside my apartment dark and still, and for the first time since we started seeing each other, he doesn’t reach for me. No hand on my thigh, no thumb brushing my knuckles.
That’s how I know.
Jesse has always been physical with me. Tonight, he’s pulling away. I open the door and step out into the cool night. I hear him say my name, but I shut the door behind me.
For now, I’ll give him what he needs.
Space.