Page 10 of Truck Hard

I force myself to stand tall, shoulders back, chin up.Don’t show weakness. Never show weakness.“Hi Frank. I was hoping we could talk about that job opening?”

His smile dims slightly, concern flickering across his weathered features. Of course he knows. Everyone knows. In a town this small, my story has probably been told and retold a hundred different ways. Poor Hannah Fisher, who married above her station only to come crawling back with scars and a restraining order.

“Of course, of course!” He gestures toward his office, far from curious ears. “Let me grab us some coffee.”

He lifts the section of the counter that allows employees to pass into the kitchen, the smell bringing another wave ofmemories. How many afternoons did I spend here during high school, sharing fries with Liam and dreaming about our future? The thought of him sends an unwelcome flutter through my stomach. I push it away, focusing instead on arranging my small stack of references and the application I’d filled out last night.

Frank leaves me to take a seat in his office and returns moments later with two steaming mugs and settles across from me. “Now then, you need a job?”

I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. “Yes, I need work. Part-time for now, while I get things sorted out. I know it’s been years since I worked here in high school, but I still remember how everything runs. And I’m a quick learner if anything’s changed.”

He studies me over the rim of his coffee cup, eyes kind but evaluating. “The pay isn’t much. Nothing like what you’re used to, I’d imagine.”

The gentle reminder of my former life—of Charlie’s money and status—stings more than it should. “I’m not looking for much. Just enough to help make ends meet while I figure things out.”

A loud burst of laughter from the lobby makes me jump, coffee sloshing over the rim of my cup. My hands shake as I use the end of my shirt, dabbing at the spill while my heart races.

It’s just kids.Just teenagers being loud. It’s not him.

But my body doesn’t believe it. My body remembers too well.

Frank pretends not to notice my reaction, though his expression softens further. “When can you start?”

Relief floods through me. “Today? Now?” The eagerness in my voice makes me cringe, but I can’t help it. I need this—need something normal and productive to fill my days, need to prove I can stand on my own two feet again.

He nods, reaching behind his desk to pull out a fresh apron. “Let’s see if you remember where everything is.”

The next hour passes in a blur of familiar motions and new procedures. The basic layout hasn’t changed much—ice cream freezers still line one wall, soft serve in the middle with the grill and oil vats right behind, pizza oven still dominates the back kitchen, and no cash register—everything is still handwritten with the money stored in a simple drawer.

But there are subtle differences that remind me how much time has passed. The menu has expanded, prices have risen, and there’s an ATM in the corner for people who need cash. Frank still doesn’t take credit cards. It’s simple, just like life in Beaver.

Frank glances at the clock. “School lets out soon. That’s usually our first rush of the day. You up for it?”

My stomach clenches, but I nod. “I can handle it.”

And surprisingly, I can. There’s something soothing about the repetitive motions of scooping ice cream, about focusing on nothing more complicated than whether a customer wants sprinkles or hot fudge. The afternoon passes in a parade of familiar faces—some who pretend not to recognize me, others who greet me with awkward enthusiasm that borders on pity.

I prefer the ones who pretend not to know.

Around four, there’s finally a lull in customers. I’m wiping down the counter when movement outside catches my eye. My heart skips as I recognize Liam’s broad shoulders and purposeful stride as he hurries past the window. He doesn’t look in, doesn’t see me frozen with the rag in my hand, but the sight of him is enough to send my carefully constructed composure crumbling.

“I can’t give you the life you deserve, Hannah.”

“Charlie can take care of you. Better than I ever could.”

“You deserve more than a small-town mechanic.”

His words from thirteen years ago echo in my head, mixing with fresher memories—the horror in his eyes when Christian carried me out of the house that night, bloody and barelyconscious. The look of longing and pain in his eyes when he offered his help when I was unpacking the car.

“Hannah?” Frank’s voice startles me. “You okay?”

I realize I’ve been staring out the window long after Liam disappeared from view. “Fine,” I say automatically. “Just... remembering.”

He doesn’t push, but his expression says he understands. Of course he does. He was here for all of it—my relationship with Liam, our breakup, my whirlwind courtship with Charlie. He probably watched it all unfold from behind this very counter.

My phone buzzes in my apron pocket, making me jump again. Unknown number. My heart rate spikes until I remember—my lawyer was supposed to call today about the divorce papers.

“I need to take this.” I tell Frank, already backing toward the staff room. “It’s important.”

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