Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
Jesse
I always knew this was coming. I just didn’t think it would be like this, me coming clean to my brothers while our dad fights for his life in a hospital bed. Now, there are no more excuses. We need to have this conversation whether I’m ready for it or not.
I sent a text to Noah, Wes, and Ford, asking them to meet me at my place at noon. I’ve spent the morning pacing my living room floor, planning what I should say, how I can make them understand why I’ve kept this secret for so long.
By the time my brothers are at my doorstep, my chest feels tight enough to crack.
“Hey, come on in,” I say, stepping aside as they file into the living room. Wes nods a greeting while Noah claps me on the shoulder as he passes. Ford mumbles hello but keeps his distance, standing at the window as our brothers sink into chairs at the dining room table.
There’s an awkward beat of silence as Noah and Wes look at me expectantly, but I’m not sure how to begin.
“So, what’s up?” Noah asks finally. “How come you asked us to come out here?”
I take a breath. Then another. “Dad was hit by a car last night.”
I don’t know what they were expecting me to say, but it definitely wasn’t this. They both stare at me in silence, confusion etched across their faces.
“What?” Noah says finally, looking from Wes to Ford and then back to me.
“He’s alive,” I add quickly. “Barely. Internal bleeding. A lacerated spleen. He had surgery last night and he’s in the ICU now.”
Wes lets out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re joking.”
I shake my head. “I wish I was.”
Noah drags a hand down his face. “How do you even—how do you know this?”
Before I can answer, Ford speaks for the first time since they got here. “A paramedic friend I know from high school called me. Said it was bad.”
Wes’s head snaps toward him. “Wait. You already knew?”
Ford’s mouth tightens. “Yeah, I found out around the same time as Jesse did. Last night.”
Noah looks between us, confusion sharpening into something else. “Okay—hold on. Then how do you know?” he says to me. “When somehow Wes and I are just finding out now?”
Wes leans forward, forearms on the table. “That’s a real good question.”
Fuck. This is it. “I got a call too,” I say.
Wes frowns. “From who?”
I stare at the tabletop, at a scratch in the wood I’ve never noticed until now. “A guy Dad plays cards with.”
Noah’s voice is careful. “Why would a friend of our dad have your number?”
Ford exhales slowly, like he already knows the answer and hates it.
Wes’s eyes don’t leave my face. “Jesse?”
I meet his gaze. “Because I see him sometimes.”
That lands harder than the accident.
Noah blinks. “See who? Dad?” His tone makes it seem like he already knows the answer to his question but can’t quite wrap his head around it.
Ford straightens. “Let him finish.”
“Yeah. I still see Dad from time to time,” I admit. “I talk to him, bring him groceries, I check in. I…help him out when I can.”
Wes pushes up from the couch and takes a step toward me. “You what?”
“I didn’t want him dead,” I snap, then immediately regret how sharply it comes out. I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “I wasn’t asking you to deal with him. I wasn’t asking you to forgive him. I just—couldn’t pretend he didn’t exist.”
Noah’s expression shifts from hurt to anger as the pieces fall into place. “So, you’ve been lying to us.”
“Yes.”
Ford’s jaw flexes. “For how long?”
I swallow. “Five years.”
“Jesus.” Wes stares at me like he’s seeing a stranger. “Have you been giving him money?”
My silence may as well be a confession.
“For fuck’s sake, Jesse,” Wes says flatly. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“He can barely work. He hardly functions. It’s a fucking miracle he’s still alive, honestly. You have no idea how bad it is. I wasn’t trying to fix him or even forgive him, I was just…trying to make sure he didn’t starve to death.”
“Is he conscious?” Noah asks quietly.
“He was, briefly,” I tell him. “This morning when I went to see him, he cracked his eyes open for a second. He’s breathing with a tube. He’s in really rough shape.”
Wes runs a hand over his face. “Jesus.”
Noah exhales slowly. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
I look at my brothers and feel the weight of everything I’ve been holding alone settle heavily in my chest.
“Fuck,” I breathe, pressing my fingertips against the throb behind my eyes. “Because I didn’t want you to see it as a betrayal. I know the kind of father he was. I know you all had your reasons to walk away, and I don’t blame you. But I wasn’t ready to, and I was…too scared to tell you that.”
“You’ve been pretty quiet,” Wes says, turning to where Ford is now standing at the window. “Did you know about this too?”
“I found out last night, at the hospital. I’ve had a little more time to process it, but not much.” He pauses and looks directly at me for the first time. “You should’ve trusted us, Jesse. But I get why you did it. It doesn’t mean I like it, but I understand.”
“So, what now?” Noah asks, looking from Ford to me.
“I guess that’s up to you,” I say. “I’m not asking you to go see him, to talk to him, to even care. I just didn’t want you to find out about the accident any other way.”
Silence settles in after I say it. I drop into an armchair, exhaustion finally catching up to me now that the truth is out. I look out the window, the unfinished deck visible through the glass.
I know it will take them some time to come to terms with the truth I’ve been keeping from them. For now, I’m not sure if they’re angry, uncertain, relieved. Maybe all three.
So, we sit here together, the four of us, ready to figure out what comes next, just like we always have.
The ICU doors slide open, and I follow the hallway until I reach my dad’s room. He looks smaller lying in the bed, hooked up to machines. It guts me. He was always huge in my memories. A storm. A shadow. A force that changed the temperature in a room.
Now he’s a man with tubes and bruises and dried blood near his hairline. A man with a machine breathing for him.
I stand at the foot of the bed for a second, unable to step closer.
I’ve been in motion since I got the phone call from Andrew.
Dealing with hospital paperwork, figuring out how to tell the truth to my brothers.
But here, in the stillness, the only sounds coming from machines that may be keeping my father alive, it all feels too real.
I give myself a minute to catch my breath, then inch to the side of his bed.
My hand hovers over the rail, but I don’t touch him.
I can’t.
There are things I can do for him—pay a bill, fix a problem, buy groceries—but touching him feels like a line I’m not sure I can cross.
“Hey,” I say quietly because the silence feels too loud. “You’re…you’re causing a lot of trouble.”
My throat tightens. I swallow. Then I try again.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I admit this time, the words sounding small and humiliating, but true. Silence descends on the room again because I’m not sure what else to say after that.
As I stare down at him, his eyelids flutter once, so faint I almost think I imagined it. Then his eyes crack open. Not fully. Not clearly. But they open. His gaze is unfocused. His mouth moves around the tube like he’s trying to form a word.
I freeze as my heart slams against my ribs. His eyes shift, and for a second, I think he’s looking right at me. But then his lids slide shut again, like the effort was too much to continue, and I’m standing here feeling like if I breathe too hard, he’ll break.
I only stay for half an hour because if I stay any longer, I’ll do something stupid like forgive him, or hate him, or cry. I back out of the room and retrace my steps down the hallway and it’s only when I exit the ICU that I realize my hands are shaking.
By the time I get home, the sky has turned the kind of gray that makes everything feel quiet.
It’s been a long, strange day—seeing my dad wasn’t easy, but I felt like someone had to go.
I knew my brothers wouldn’t, and I don’t blame them, but the thought of him lying in a hospital bed without a single visitor would have haunted me.
I let myself in my front door and lock it behind me. I’ve gotten so used to having Madeline here that now the silence stretches, bouncing off the walls and ceilings, reminding me that my girl isn’t with me.
It’s only been two days, but God, I miss her. What the fuck is happening to me?
I toe off my boots, and it hits me in pieces. Her mug still sits in the sink because I’ve been too tired to move it. A stray hair tie sits on the table next to the couch. Her perfume lingers in the air, woven into the space like it belongs here. Soft little ghosts.
This house started to feel like a home because of her.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket, like it weighs a hundred pounds.
I can feel it with every step I take. I want to call her.
I want to go to her and pull her into me and hold her until my bones stop rattling.
I want to bury my face in her neck and pretend none of this is happening.
Pretend my dad isn’t dying. Pretend I didn’t lie to my brothers for the past five years.
Pretend I didn’t lie to her. My head is a mess and I’m not in the right frame of mind to be around anyone right now.
The truth is, I don’t know much about being in love.
But something is telling me that if I screw this up, it will be the biggest regret of my life.
I’m scared of saying or doing the wrong thing—of doing even more damage that I can’t undo.
I saw the look on her face in the car, the way her eyes changed.
It was like I joined the long list of people who have betrayed her trust and let her down.
I’ve replayed that look over and over, wondering how I managed to become the person who put it there.
So, I leave the phone where it is. I’ll give myself the night to breathe, to think, to get my head on straight. I’ll call her tomorrow.
I walk out onto the deck and lean against the railing, breathing in the crisp night air.
My dad is in the ICU. My brothers looked at me like I’m a stranger.
Madeline is disappointed in me. And the gala is coming, like a storm on the horizon, with Elliot and the Ashcrofts waiting to rearrange her life like she’s a piece on a chess board.
I don’t know how to fix any of it yet, I only know that I can’t lose her while I figure it out.