Page 15 of Truck Hard

Christian makes a sound of frustration. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Making decisions for other people. Deciding what’s best for them without actually asking what they want.” He shakes his head. “How’d that work out last time?”

The words land like a punch to the gut. Because he’s right—isn’t that exactly what I did thirteen years ago? Decided what was best for Hannah without giving her a real choice?

That’s not a mistake I can afford to make twice.

The wordson the newspaper page blur together as my mind wanders. Again. I’ve been staring at the same article about rising gas prices for ten minutes now, not absorbing a single word. The rich aroma of baking apples and cinnamon wafts from the kitchen, stirring memories I’ve spent years trying to bury.

Hannah loved Grams’s apple pie.

The thought sneaks in before I can stop it, and suddenly I’m back in high school, watching Hannah perched on a kitchen stool while Grams teaches her the secret to perfect pie crust. The way her face lit up when she finally got it right. The way she’d always save me the biggest slice, even though it was her favorite too.

Shaking my head, I force my attention back to the newspaper, but the words might as well be written in Greek for all the sense they make. The sound of Grams humming in the kitchen isn’t helping. It’s the same tune she always hums when she bakes—some old German lullaby her mother taught her. The same one she hummed back then, when this house felt more like a home than a collection of ghosts.

“Mind if I turn on the game?” Dad’s voice startles me. I didn’t even hear him come in.

He stands by his old recliner, the leather cracked and worn from years of use. The sight of him there, silhouetted against the evening light streaming through the window, hits me with another wave of memories. How many nights did we spend just like this when I was young? The soft murmur of the TV, the crack of bats hitting balls, the comfortable silence between us.

“Sure.” I fold the newspaper, grateful for the distraction. “Reds playing tonight?”

He nods, settling into his chair with a grunt. Age is catching up with him—his hair is more gray than brown now, new lines are etched around his eyes. Sometimes I forget he’s not the towering figure of my childhood anymore. He’s just a man who’s made more than his fair share of mistakes.

The TV flickers to life, filling the room with the familiar sounds of a baseball game. For a while, we watch in silence, falling into the old rhythm. The crack of the bat. The roar of the crowd. The endless statistics that scroll across the bottom of the screen.

“You okay?” He asks during a commercial break, his voice carefully neutral. “With Hannah being back and all?”

My grip tightens on the arm of the couch. “I’m fine.”

He makes a noncommittal sound, eyes still on the TV. “Heard some interesting rumors going around town.”

“When aren’t there rumors in this town?”

“About her son. Cameron.”

My heart stops, then kicks into overdrive. This isn’t something we’ve talked about. I keep my face carefully blank, but my palms are suddenly slick with sweat. “What about him?”

“People are saying—” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “They’re saying he might be yours.”

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. With accusation. With truth I’ve suspected but never confirmed.

“I don’t know.” The words sitting heavy in my gut.

Dad shifts in his chair, the leather creaking. “But you think he is.”

It’s not a question. I look at my father—really look at him—and see understanding in his eyes. Of course he knows. Rumors this big are almost always based on truth.

“Yeah.” The admission feels like letting go of a weight I’ve carried for so long I forgot it was there. “I think he is.”

Dad nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “The timing fits?”

I swallow and it feels like jagged rocks are being forced down my throat. Admitting this—to my father of all people—hurts.

“I was with her two days before her wedding to Charlie.” The memory of that night still burns—Hannah in tears when I showed up at her house, begging me to give us another chance. The way she felt in my arms, like coming home. The way I pushed her away again the next morning, convinced I was doing the right thing. “Nine months later, Cameron was born.”

“Jesus, Liam.” Dad runs a hand over his face. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

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