Ella stepped into the courtyard and immediately spotted Jesse near the lonesome garden beds in the far corner. Crouched on his haunches, head down, and forearms braced on his thighs, he was the image of dejection.
Moments earlier, when he stormed from the living room, nearly tearing the door to the courtyard from its hinges, everyone stood quietly watching him, clearly unsure what to say or how to react. Ella had quickly grabbed both of their jackets and followed him outside.
Another courtyard moment, this time in the bright sunlight of a cloudless winter sky.
She couldn’t believe she’d spent years being angry at Jesse without so much as a clue as to the enormous amount of pain and hurt he’d kept bottled up and buried deep inside.
She wanted to cry a tear for every ounce of suffering he’d endured, then wrap her arms around her big, growly man and comfort him.
“You know the funny thing?” Jesse surprised her by asking while slowly rising, arching his shoulders back, and facing her. “For years, I really believed Thatcher would’ve made a better father than my old man, even though he was always off saving the world. I had thought . . .” The unfinished sentence floated into the chilly air as he met her eyes. “But by using you, like you were just one of his game pieces, he’s hurt me more than my dad ever did.” He squeezed his eyes closed. “I’d take all the beatings in the world every day for the rest of my life if it meant protecting you from this mess.”
Beatings. That word hung heavy on her soul, her stomach turning from nausea, but she closed the gap between them.
His eyes opened when she nudged his jacket against his chest, and his gaze fell to the black North Face fleece in her hands. Her focus remained on his hard jaw, his lips pressed into a tight line as he worked through his thoughts.
“Rory never told me,” she whispered, unsure what to make of that. But if Rory had known, she never would have allowed their father to walk her down the aisle when she’d married Chris. Right? It didn’t add up.
And Ella didn’t think for one second that Jesse’s dad had ever laid a hand on his mom or Rory. No, Jesse would’ve . . . well, killed him.
He blew out a deep breath, his lips parting just a fraction to allow for the pent-up oxygen to escape, and then he accepted the jacket.
“My parents fought a lot when we were kids. Usually about me. My dad thought I was a shithead failure at everything in life. And my mom defended me.” He shrugged, but Ella had the distinct feeling he’d only scratched the surface. That this was merely the tip of the iceberg of his hell. “I would find Rory huddled in her closet rocking back and forth, her hands over her ears during their fights.”
Ella resisted the urge to close her eyes at the picture he’d painted of her best friend. Someone else she cared about who’d kept pain bottled up and maybe had been too afraid to share.
Picture-perfect lives were usually photoshopped. Hadn’t her mother said something like that in the stables?
“I’d shut us in the closet together and tell her stories to take her mind off the shouting.” A surprising smirk met his lips. “Peter Pan. Adventure stuff. Hell, I often made up my own stories. Maybe that’s why she became a treasure hunter before she became a, you know, bad guy hunter,” he said, putting on the fleece. When Ella reached out and circled her arms around him, he pulled her in tightly and ran his fingers through her hair for a few quiet moments.
“Rory only saw Dad hit me here and there. A slap across the face. Belt to my ass. Shit like that. Not too different than most parents did in those days. I mean, we grew up in the eighties and nineties when that stuff was still a thing,” he explained, his tone more matter-of-fact now, less ragey.
She had no desire to unglue herself from him though. She was where she wanted and needed to be. And he kept stroking her hair as if that was helping him get through it.
“Rory blocked out the memories. It wasn’t until she started seeing Chris’s therapist that she said she, herself, began to remember everything.” He paused for a second. “I assume she didn’t want you to know when we were kids, for the same reason as me. Who wants to tell their friends their dad is an asshole?”
The sorry she wanted to offer felt so small and unworthy of his experience, so she kept the word trapped behind her lips until something more significant came to mind.
“Dad’s abuse got worse when I was a teenager. And he hid those beatings from my mom and Rory. They, um, still don’t know how often he beat the shit out of me. Never hit my face. Nowhere visible. Clever abuser even when he was drunk.”
Her stomach wrenched at his confession, the words prompting tears to begin trickling down her cheeks as her heart broke into a million pieces.
“I was always getting into fights at school, and in hindsight, I think only part of it was because I hated seeing the small guy picked on by someone bigger. You know, my dad issues. The other part was, it just felt good to be able to hit back. Fuck if I don’t want to admit that, but for so long I just had to take it from my dad, so if anyone was willing to fight me, well . . .” She felt his chest rise from a shrug.
He was trying to play it off, and he didn’t need to act as if it weren’t a big deal. His dad hurt him. Physically. Emotionally. And he’d gotten away with it.
Ella was certain her mother was unaware of exactly how rough Jesse’s childhood really had been. Otherwise, she would’ve pointed her shotgun at Jesse’s dad. Dealing with Deb Hawkins, a fate worse than jail . . . Beckett definitely had that right. Ellipsis and all.
“So, yeah, he was why I went into the Army, but he was also why I stayed in longer than expected.” His hoarse tone had her pulling back, and there were tears in his eyes as well.
Even though her hands were cold, she reached up and cupped his face, surprised to find his skin so warm. Emotions can do that, she supposed. “What do you mean?”
“From what I could tell, whenever talking to my mom, they no longer fought. Dad rarely drank. They were happier.” He swiped a hand over his head. “So, I couldn’t help but think I’d been the problem all along. Dad even started going to church with Mom. So I stayed away.”
“Jesse,” she cried, tears flowing down her cheeks like a running faucet. “It was absolutely not you. Please, don’t think that.”
“I know that now.” He shook his head. “The Army wasn’t the escape I thought it’d be. The things I had to do. What I saw. The buddies I lost. It all fucked with my head.”
And that’s why you stayed away from me. Her lips caught her salty tears, and she tasted his pain in each drop.
“And then Thatcher came along with promises that I wouldn’t have to watch any more friends die. That I could work alone. Keep saving the world and make a difference but on my terms.” He closed his eyes again. “I was at my breaking point, Ella. And the CIA loves nothing more than to take a broken man, break him down to absolutely nothing, then put him back together to fit their needs.”
Her stomach roiled for the hundredth time in the last few minutes alone.
“Ella, there’s something I have to tell you.” The dark, somber tone of his voice had her capturing her lip between her teeth as her nerves pitched her forward, her hands going from his cheeks to his chest.