Page 25 of Truck Hard

The question echoes in my mind, but I already know the answer. I can’t avoid this any longer. It’s time I be the man she needs, and the only way to do that is to be present.

The memory of our last interaction—her retreating form, the fear in her eyes when I showed up unannounced at her house—has me taking an entirely different approach. Rather than showing up unannounced at her house, I thought work would be a better option. At least while at work she expects people to come in.

A group of teenagers exits Frank’s, laughing and clutching ice cream cones. The sound startles me from my thoughts, reminding me that I can’t sit here forever. Either I go in, or I leave. Simple as that.

Except nothing about Hannah has ever been simple.

I release my death grip on the steering wheel and check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Dark circles rim my eyes, a testament to another sleepless night spent thinking about her and Cameron. About the mess I’ve made of everything. My hair needs a trim, and there’s engine grease under my fingernails that won’t quite scrub away.

Christ, I look like shit.

But it doesn’t matter. I didn’t come here to win any beauty contests. I came because... because what? To apologize again? To try to explain myself? To beg for a chance to be part of her life—part of Cameron’s life?

The bell above Frank’s door chimes as another customer enters. Through the window, I watch Hannah smile and reach for an ice cream scoop. Her movements are graceful, practiced, like she’s been doing this job her whole life instead of just a few weeks. But there’s tension in her shoulders, a wariness in the way she holds herself, like she’s expecting a blow that could come from any direction.

That wariness is my fault. Mine and Charlie’s. We broke her trust in different ways, but we broke it all the same.

Fuck it.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m out of the truck and crossing the street. The spring air hits me with the scent of fresh-cut grass and hot pavement, stirring memories of other spring days. Days when Hannah and I were young and stupid and thought love could conquer anything.

The bell announces my entrance with cheerful indifference to the way my heart pounds against my ribs. The interior is cool and dark after the bright sunshine outside, filled with the sweet smell of ice cream and the savory aroma of pizza. For a moment, I’m seventeen again, slouched at a picnic table or in the bed of my truck with my brothers while Hannah works the counter, sneaking glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking.

But we’re not seventeen anymore. And the woman behind the counter isn’t the same girl who used to write me love notes in purple ink and dream about our future together.

She looks up at the sound of the bell, and our eyes meet across the space between us. Something flickers in her expression—recognition, surprise, maybe fear—before her professional mask slides back into place. But she can’t hide theway her hands tremble slightly as she sets down the ice cream scoop.

“Welcome to Frank’s,” she says, her voice steady despite the tension I can see in her jaw. “What can I get you?”

Like I’m just another customer. Like we don’t share a lifetime of history and a son she never told me about. Like my heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of my chest just being this close to her.

“Hannah.” Her name comes out rougher than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. “Can we talk?”

She glances at the elderly couple sharing a sundae, still sitting in the chairs in the corner, then back at me. “I’m working.”

“I know.” I step closer to the counter, close enough to see the faint freckles across her nose that the sun always brings out. “But this is important.”

Her fingers twist in her apron, a nervous habit she’s had since high school. “Liam, I—”

The bell chimes again as more customers enter—a mom with three kids in tow, all talking excitedly about ice cream flavors. Hannah’s relief at the interruption is almost palpable.

“I need to help them,” she says, already reaching for clean cones. “Maybe another time.”

But I can’t walk away. Not again. Not when I finally have the courage to say what needs to be said. So I step to the side, letting the family approach the counter, and wait.

Hannah serves them with efficient grace, suggesting flavors and adding extra sprinkles to the smallest girl’s cone. Her smile never wavers, but I can see the tension building in her shoulders with each passing minute that I remain.

Finally, the family takes their ice cream outside, and we’re alone again—as alone as we can be in a public place. Hannah busies herself wiping down the counter, probably hoping I’ll take the hint and leave.

I don’t.

“Hannah.” I keep my voice low, meant for her ears only. “Please. Five minutes.”

She stills, cloth frozen mid-wipe. For a long moment, she doesn’t look at me, and I think she’s going to refuse again. Then her shoulders slump slightly.

“Five minutes.” She agrees, still not meeting my eyes. “That’s all.”

Relief floods through me, followed quickly by uncertainty. Now that I have her attention, I’m not sure where to start. There’s so much to say, so many years of silence to break through.

---