Page 2 of Truck Hard

Liam

Hey asshole, where the fuck are you?

The moment I hit send, my stomach drops. I never closed Hannah’s contact page. The message—meant for my chronically late brother—just went to the one person I’ve been afraid to contact for months.

“Fuck,” I mutter, staring at the delivered notification in horror. “Fuck!”

Mac pushes off the doorframe, concern deepening. “What’s wrong?”

I sit the phone down like it’s suddenly turned radioactive. “Nothing. Just...Fuck. I sent the message to the wrong person.” The admission feels inadequate compared to the magnitude of my mistake. “Can you handle the floor for a bit? I need to...” I wave vaguely at the paperwork, unable to finish the sentence.

“Sure thing.” Mac’s expression says he knows something’s up, but he mercifully doesn’t press. “Let me know if you hear from Ash.”

The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the damning evidence of my carelessness glowing on my phone screen. I pick it up again, fingers hovering over the keys. Should I send an apology? Explain it was meant for Ash? Or would that just make things worse?

What if she thinks I’m angry with her? What if this makes her retreat further away just when she might have been ready to talk?

The questions pile up like the unfinished paperwork on my desk. Outside, another engine roars to life, and I find myself wondering if Hannah can hear the sounds of the shop from her parents’ old house on the corner. Does she look this way sometimes, remembering the stolen moments we shared in the garage after hours? Or has she locked those memories away along with all the other painful pieces of her past?

My office suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. I stand, pacing the length of the room as scenarios play out in my head. Hannah seeing the message. Hannah’s face falling. Hannah deciding I’m not worth the trouble of dealing with, especially now when she’s trying to rebuild her life.

The worst part is, I couldn’t blame her if she did. I failed her thirteen years ago when I rejected her and let her marry Charlie. I failed her again five months ago when I couldn’t protect her from his rage. And now I’ve failed her in this small, stupid way that might be the final straw.

A knock at my door makes me jump. Warren stands there, holding a stack of invoices. “You okay? Mac said you seemed off.”

“Fine.” I lie, the word tasting bitter. “Just trying to catch up on the books.”

Warren’s eyes flick to my empty chair, then back to me. He knows I’m full of shit. We’ve never been able to lie to each other effectively. But like Mac, he doesn’t push.

“These need your signature when you get a chance.” He sets the invoices on my desk and retreats, closing the door softly behind him.

I sink back into my chair, the leather squeaking in protest. My phone still sits where I left it, screen dark now but no less accusatory. No response from Hannah yet.

Maybe she hasn’t seen it.

The phone buzzes and my heart nearly stops. But it’s just Ash, finally responding to the group text Mac sent earlier.

Ash

Sorry, overslept. On my way.

I should feel relieved that at least one problem is solved. Instead, I find myself staring at Hannah’s contact information again. Her old profile picture from years ago shows her smiling, hair caught mid-laugh by the wind. It was taken before Charlie, before the bruises and the fear and the protective custody. Before I learned about Cameron.

Cameron. My son.

The thought still feels foreign, even after months of suspicion. He has to be mine—the timing fits, and the resemblance is undeniable. But why didn’t Hannah tell me? Was she unsure? Or did she think I’d reject him too, just like I rejected her all those years ago?

The sound of another car pulling into the shop bay draws my attention. Through my window, I can see Warren directing someone to an empty spot. Just another customer, just another day at Mutter Truckers Auto & Racing. Except nothing feels normal anymore, not with Hannah back in town and that unintentional message hanging between us like a loaded gun.

I pull up my phone again, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I could try to explain, to apologize, to reach out...but what right do I have?

She’s been through hell, is still going through it with the divorce proceedings and whatever trauma Charlie left her with. The last thing she needs is me complicating her life further.

But if Cameron is my son, don’t I deserve to know?

Movement catches my eye. Through the window, past the cars and the bustling mechanics, a familiar car passes the shop. Even at this distance, I’d know Hannah anywhere. The sight makes my chest ache.

She’s heading toward her parents’ old house, which I can see from the driveway of the shop. The rumors said she’d be staying there while she gets back on her feet. It’s a good house, though it probably needs a lot of work. It’s sat empty ever since her parents passed six years ago.

---