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, butalive. 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 insteadof 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.
