Page 132 of Truck Hard

A future bright with possibility stretches out before us. There will be challenges ahead, I’m sure. But with Liam by my side and Cam’s laughter filling our home, I know we can face anything.

We’ve earned this happiness. This peace. This love.

And I’m never letting it go again.

As we sit on Cam’s bed helping him with fractions, I catch Liam’s eyes across our son’s bent head. The love shining there makes my heart skip a beat. He winks at me, and I have to bite back a grin.

Yes, this is exactly where we’re meant to be. Building our life together, one moment at a time.

Home at last.

Epilogue

This is My Life

Liam

My heart thumps wildly against my ribs. Breathe, Liam. Fucking breathe.

I tighten my grip on Hannah’s hand as Cam adjusts his stance on the pitcher’s mound, rolling the baseball between his long fingers. The kid’s focus is laser-sharp, his dark brows drawn together in concentration beneath the brim of his blue and white uniform cap.

“Come on, Cam,” Hannah whispers beside me, her voice barely audible over the crowd’s murmurs. “You’ve got this.”

The late afternoon sun beats down on the bleachers, making sweat trickle down my spine despite the occasional breeze rustling through the trees surrounding the old elementary school field. The air smells like cut grass, hot dogs, and the particular brand of summer excitement that only small-town baseball can bring. I breathe it all in, willing my nerves to settle.

Cam winds up, his form damn near perfect after weeks of practice, and releases the ball with a snap of his wrist. It zipsacross the plate, a beautiful fastball that makes a satisfying thwack as it hits the catcher’s mitt. The batter from Piketon’s team swings wildly, missing by a mile.

“Strike three! You’re out!” the umpire bellows, punching the air with his right hand.

The crowd erupts around us, parents and siblings from Beaver jumping to their feet, shouting Cam’s name. I’m on my feet too, cupping my hands around my mouth to make sure my voice carries.

“That’s my boy! Hell yeah!”

Hannah tugs at my shirt, laughing. “Language, Liam.”

“Sorry.” I grin, not sorry at all. I’ve never been so damn proud in my entire life. “But did you see that pitch? Perfect form.”

The Piketon kid trudges back to his dugout, shoulders slumped in defeat as Cam’s teammates surround him, slapping his back and cheering him on. It’s the bottom of the ninth inning, the scoreboard showing a nail-biting 4-3 lead for our team. Two outs down, one more to go.

“If they win this game, they’ll be in first place in the league,” Hannah says, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement as she tucks a strand of honey-brown hair behind her ear. “Can you believe it? Cam’s only been playing organized baseball for a few months.”

“Kid’s a natural,” I reply, unable to keep the pride from my voice.

I glance over at my brothers, sprawled across the bleachers a few rows behind us. Warren’s engaged in what looks like intense debate with Garret, probably analyzing Cam’s technique. Those two can turn anything into a science experiment. Mac and Ash are acting like complete fools, waving a homemade sign that reads “CAM THE MAN” in garish red and blue letters. Even Christian’s here with Amelia and their four-month-old daughter, Chrissy, bundled against his chest in one of those baby carrierthings, looking surprisingly comfortable for a guy who once swore he’d never have kids.

My family. All here for my son.

The thought still blindsides me sometimes—how quickly everything changed, how much I gained after thinking I’d lost it all. Six months ago, I was alone in my childhood home, drowning in responsibilities, wondering if I’d ever have more than stolen glimpses of Hannah and the son I never knew I had. Now, we’re building a life together, filling Hannah’s childhood home with new memories, waking up beside each other every morning. It still feels like a dream sometimes.

I turn my attention back to the field as the next Piketon batter steps up to the plate. He’s a big kid for twelve, with shoulders already starting to broaden, a determined set to his jaw. Their cleanup hitter. I recognize his stance from earlier in the game when he nearly knocked one out of the park.

My stomach knots. “Hannah, that’s the kid who—”

“I know.” She cuts me off, squeezing my hand so hard her nails dig into my palm. “Just breathe, honey.”

I try to follow her advice, but my heart’s hammering so hard I’m surprised the people around us can’t hear it. Cam seems to recognize the challenge too. He adjusts his cap, takes a deep breath, and nods at whatever signal the catcher’s giving him.

The pitch comes fast and low—a perfect strike that catches the corner of the plate. The batter watches it sail by, clearly surprised by the movement on the ball.

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