Page 100 of Truck Hard

Looks good. Keep it up.

Mac

You okay? Missed you tonight.

Liam

I’m fine. Just busy with the shop.

Mac

Bullshit. I don’t buy it for a second.

A humorless laugh escapes me. Trust Mac to cut straight to the chase. He may be the youngest, but sometimes I think he sees more than the rest of us combined.

Before I can decide how to respond, another message pops up.

Mac

Want company? I can bring better beer than whatever piss water you’re drinking.

The offer is tempting. Mac’s good at filling silence without demanding conversation, and God knows I could use the distraction. But tonight… Tonight I need to sit with this feeling. Need to understand where I went wrong and how to fix it.

Liam

Rain check. Thanks though.

He responds with a thumbs up emoji, but I can feel the concern radiating through the screen. I’ll probably hear about this from Grams tomorrow. Nothing stays secret in this family for long.

Setting the phone aside again, I grab a socket wrench and get back to work. The engine isn’t going to fix itself, and at least this is a problem I know how to solve. Unlike whatever’s happening with Hannah.

The memory of that day at the lake haunts me. Everything had been perfect—the weather, the food, the way she fit against me like she was made to be there. When I told her I loved her, it wasn’t some grand declaration or carefully planned speech. It’s not like I hadn’t already told her that since her return.

The words just slipped out, as natural as breathing, because how could I not love her? How could I ever stop?

Now she barely answers my texts. She’s building walls again, and I don’t know how to break through without scarring her further.

The wrench slips, scraping my knuckles against a sharp edge of metal. Pain flares, bright and immediate, and I welcome it. At least physical pain makes sense. At least I know how to handle that.

Blood wells up from the cut, dripping onto the engine block. I should probably clean it up, put some antiseptic on it. Instead, I just wipe it on my already-ruined shirt and keep working.

Hours pass like this—working until my hands shake, drinking until the edges blur, trying not to check my phone every five minutes. By the time I notice how late it’s gotten, the garage is pitch black except for my work light, and I’ve made surprisingly good progress on the engine.

The beer’s gone warm, but I finish it anyway before starting to clean up. Tools go back in their proper places, parts get covered to protect them from dust. Some habits are too ingrained to break, even when I’m half-drunk and operating on autopilot.

As I’m wiping down the workbench, my phone lights up one last time. For a split second, I let myself hope again.

But it’s just a notification from the shop’s scheduling app, reminding me about tomorrow’s appointments. Reality crashes back in, cold and unforgiving as ever.

I grab my keys, fully intending to walk to the house and try to sleep. Instead, I find myself heading toward Hannah’s house. It’s late—way too late for a social call—but I need to see that she’s okay. Need to know that she and Cam are safe, even if they don’t want me around.

The road is empty at this hour, her porch light casting long shadows across the yard. As I walk, I remember all the times I made this same journey in high school, sneaking over after her parents went to bed. We’d sneak out to the large oak tree at the back of her property and talk for hours, planning our future together. Everything seemed so simple then.

As I get closer to her house, I slow my pace. There’s a light on upstairs—Cam’s room. He always stays up too late playing video games if Hannah doesn’t catch him.

What the hell am I doing here? This isn’t helping anyone. If anything, I’m probably crossing some line that will make Hannah pull away even more.

But then I see movement through the downstairs window. Hannah paces past, phone pressed to her ear. Even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her free hand keeps running through her hair—sure signs that she’s upset about something.

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