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Thatcher said I could make a difference in the world again without being in war. Hopefully, he doesn’t disappoint me the way my old man always has (not that I’ve yet to tell you about him, either).
The scary thing is . . . I’m kind of good at what I do. It’s fucked up. Because my job is to kill people. They’re all bad. Really, really bad. I promise.
But now more than ever, I don’t see how I can be with you. Especially when I’m lying to you. To A.J. and everyone about my life. You all think I’m designing furniture for a living. No, that’s my cover story. Fuck, I hate lying. But it’s safer for you not to know the truth.
Now I can’t help but wonder if by saying yes to the CIA, did I run away again? Run away from the possibility of us?
Jesse
LETTER
ELLA
JESSE,
Time has been going by so quickly. Oddly, even more so since you left the military. You keep coming and going from town. Feels like we spend almost as much time together as when you served, which is kind of depressing when we live ten miles away from each other. Seems to me you’re avoiding me.
We bumped into each other at the grocery store last week. Our carts collided. You smiled. It felt like one of your real ones, too. And then we just stared at each other like we were the only two people in the world. And then the next day, you were gone. Well, not that you told me you left town. I worked up the nerve to visit you at your shop, only to find it empty and your truck missing.
I wonder where you went. You’re still not back.
You left your shop unlocked, though, so I may have snooped. Looked around. Saw what new masterpieces you’ve been restoring from reclaimed wood.
You’re so talented. You blow me away. Truly. I’m so glad you found your calling after the Army.
But now that you’re living back here . . . what’s keeping us from being together? Why do you still look at me like I’m so unreachable? Untouchable? Where do you keep disappearing to?
I don’t know what to do anymore. Do I give up? Find a way to move on for real? I’m thirty-two next month. How wild is that? I wonder if you’ll be in town for my birthday. Maybe you’ll surprise me. A birthday kiss would be nice.
Until one of us works up the nerve to make a move,
Ella
LETTER
JESSE
DEAR ELLA,
It’s been way too long since I’ve written. But today, I’m feeling like an asshole even more than normal, because I missed your birthday. I had to lie. Make up some pathetic excuse why I wasn’t there. Why I disappeared yet again.
How could I tell you that I got called in for an emergency job at the last minute to go kill a guy and make it look like an accident?
You think all I do with my hands now is create. Build furniture.
I’m still taking lives, Ella. I don’t fight in stupid underground places anymore. (Can’t remember if I ever told you about that?) But no, instead, I take out human traffickers, other hitmen, and overall monsters for a living. What if I’m a monster, too?
I think I fucked up saying yes to the CIA. I think Thatcher tricked me. Made me feel like it was my only choice.
And now, I think I want out. No, I KNOW I want out. But even if I leave, I can’t tell you what I’ve been doing. I’ll have to keep lying. I have so much blood on my hands, Ella. How can you ever be with a man like me, especially without knowing the truth about my past?
Sorry again about your birthday. Sorry that I chose the CIA after the Army because I was too much of a coward to . . . well, be the man you deserve.
Forgive me?
Jesse
CHAPTER NINE
