Page 45 of When Summer Returns

“He used to—” She faltered, tried again. “When I disobeyed, or sometimes for no reason at all, he would—” Her arms wrapped protectively around her torso, an unconscious shield across her ribs.

Luke went very still as comprehension dawned, ice-cold realization flooding through him. The pieces had always been there—her unexplained absences from school, the long sleeves in summer, the way she never invited him to her house. “Your father hit you.”

“Hit,” she echoed, a bitter laugh escaping her. “Such a small word for what he did.”

The sky darkened further as clouds gathered overhead, the approaching storm front matching the gathering darkness of her confession. Luke struggled to keep his expression neutral while rage built inside him—not at her, never at her, but at the man who should have protected her and had instead become her tormentor.

“Belt, mostly,” she continued, her voice detached as if reciting someone else’s history. “Sometimes his fists, when he was really drunk. He was careful, though. Always where clothes would cover. Always with a story ready if anyone noticed—clumsy Jessie, always falling off bikes or down stairs.”

Luke’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, forcing himself to listen without interruption. The Coast Guard had taught him that sometimes bearing witness was the most important action. So he bore witness now, carrying the weight of her words, holding space for her truth to finally emerge.

“The night I left—” She swallowed hard. “He caught me with you, down at the docks. We thought we were alone, but he saw us. Saw everything.” Heat colored her cheeks at the memory—their teenage passion, once precious, now tainted by what had followed. “When I got home, he was waiting. The beating was…different that time. Worse. He broke my wrist. Cracked two ribs.”

“God, Jess.” The words escaped him as a breathless prayer. Horror etched itself into his bones as images formed unbidden—Jessie, young and vulnerable, at the mercy of a monster. While he’d been sleeping soundly in his bed, she’d been suffering alone, broken and afraid. The knowledge carved something vital from his chest.

“But that wasn’t the worst part,” she continued, unable to stop now that the dam had broken. “He told me that if I ever said a word to anyone, if I ever tried to get help or tell you what was happening, he would kill you.”

Luke felt the blood drain from his face. “What?”

“He described exactly how he would do it—climb through your bedroom window while you slept, use his hunting knife. He said no one would ever suspect him, that he’d be playing poker with Sheriff Biggs when it happened.” She shuddered at the memory, and Luke ached to reach for her. “I knew he would do it. I’d seen that look before. And I couldn’t—I couldn’t risk your life, Luke.”

“So you ran,” he said softly as pieces fell into place with devastating clarity. “Not because you didn’t love me, or didn’t want to be with me?—”

“I ran because it was the only way to keep you safe,” she finished, the truth she’d carried alone for fifteen years finally spoken aloud. “I left you a note explaining everything, asking you to meet me on the mainland if you still wanted to be together, begging you not to confront him.”

“But I never got it,” Luke said, remembered anger flashing briefly before dissolving into something more complex. The note Reece had mentioned—the one old Jesse had intercepted.

“I know that now. Reece told me he gave it to my father, though not intentionally.”

Luke stared at her, the full weight of their misunderstanding crushing down on him. “So all this time, you thought I’d read your note and just…didn’t care enough to follow you.”

Jessie nodded, old hurt rising in her eyes. “And you thought I’d just abandoned you without a word.”

Luke dragged a hand through his hair, distress evident in every line of his body. Fifteen years wasted on a misunderstanding engineered by a cruel, manipulative man. Fifteen years of anger and hurt when she’d been trying to protect him all along. “I should have known. I should have seen what was happening.”

“How could you? I worked so hard to hide it. I was so ashamed.”

“Ashamed?” He leaned forward, intensity radiating from him. “Jessie, you were a child being tortured by the man who should have protected you. The shame was his, never yours.”

He saw something crack in her expression, as if his absolute certainty had penetrated barriers calcified by years of self-blame. Rain began to fall, fat droplets splattering the sandy ground between them, but Luke made no move to seek shelter. Some moments demanded witness, no matter the discomfort.

“He threatened you,” Luke said, understanding hardening his voice as righteous anger simmered beneath his practiced calm. “He used my life as leverage to keep you silent, to keep you suffering alone.”

“And it worked,” she admitted. “I was too afraid to take the risk. So I ran, and I built a new life, and I told myself it was better this way, that you’d be safer without me.”

Luke shifted position, moving closer though still not touching her. He felt the rain soaking through his shirt, plastering fabric to skin, but barely registered the sensation. The emotional storm between them made the physical one pale in comparison.

“He’s gone now,” he said, voice gentle despite the tension humming beneath it. “He can’t hurt either of us anymore.”

“Isn’t he?” Jessie laughed without humor, gesturing to the house behind them. “Look at us, Luke. Fifteen years later, and his ghost is still controlling us. The fear he put in me still keeps me running. The anger he created in you by making you think I abandoned you—it’s all his legacy. Even from the grave, he’s kept us from finding our way back to each other.”

“Only if we let him.”

The simple truth resonated in Luke’s chest as he spoke it. Choice. They had choice now, something that had been stolen from them both all those years ago. Rain drummed a counterpoint to his racing heart as he slowly extended his hand, palm up in silent invitation. He made the gesture with deliberate care, offering possibility without pressure.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted, staring at his offered hand as if it might simultaneously burn and save her. “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

“Neither do I,” he answered with honesty that surprised even himself. “But I think maybe we figure it out together, one day at a time.”

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