Page 35 of Truck Hard

But for the first time in years, I don’t feel trapped by it. Don’t feel the weight of being their protector pressing down on my shoulders. Instead, I feel the stirring of something new. Something that tastes like hope.

Fight for who matters.

Tomorrow, I will.

Chapter 8

Rebuilding Together

Hannah

Istand in my parents’ old kitchen, scanning the cracks in the ceiling and peeling floral wallpaper with a critical eye. The well-used appliances Garret brought over are a hodgepodge of mismatched colors and decades, but they work. Which is more than I can say about the old ones. The refrigerator hums with an asthmatic wheeze, and the stove requires a precise combination of jiggling the knobs and muttered prayers to light properly. Still, they’re better than what we had before.

Once I get my first alimony payment, maybe I’ll look into upgrading them.

My fingers trace the edge of a cabinet door, catching on a rough spot where the wood has splintered. Every surface in this house holds a memory—some sweet, some bitter, all of them tangled up with who I used to be. Before Charlie. Before everything fell apart.

You’re being melodramatic.

I scold myself. But the truth is, walking these creaky floors feels like stepping through a museum of lost dreams. Here’s where Mom taught me to bake snickerdoodles. There’s the window seat where I’d curl up with romance novels, imagining my own fairy tale ending.

Look how well that turned out.

Behind me, the floorboards creak as Cam heads upstairs to his room, the soft electronic beeps of his handheld game providing a steady backbeat to the morning. He’s been quieter since the court hearing, processing everything in his own way. I wish I knew how to help him through this, but I’m barely keeping my own head above water most days.

The morning sun streams through the kitchen window, catching dust in its golden light. For some reason, the sight fills me with restless energy. Maybe it’s time to stop wallowing and startdoingsomething.

I dig under the sink for cleaning supplies, grimacing at the musty smell. The cabinets desperately need repainting, but first they need a good scrubbing. Years of neglect have left a film of grime that even elbow grease might not touch.

Rolling up my sleeves, I attack the nearest cabinet with a sponge and determination. The repetitive motion is almost meditative, letting my mind drift as my muscles work. How many times did I stand in this exact spot, watching Mom prepare dinner? She always hummed while she cooked—old country songs that made Dad roll his eyes and smile.

Focus. I can’t let myself get lost in memories. Not when there’s so much work to be done.

A knock at the door sends my heart racing, the sponge slipping from my suddenly numb fingers. Charlie is in jail, dummy. It can’t be him. How many times am I going to tell myself this before I finally believe it??

But old fears die hard, and my hands shake as I approach the door. Through the window, I catch a glimpse of broad shoulders and dark hair. For a moment, my vision doubles—Charlie’s threatening silhouette overlaying a gentler presence.

Then Liam shifts, and relief floods through me. He stands on my porch like he belongs there, a toolbox in one hand. Sunlightcatches in his hair, highlighting the silver strands at his temples that weren’t there thirteen years ago.

I open the door, careful to keep my expression neutral. “Liam.”

“Hannah.” His voice is low, steady. Familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. “I came to help. Garret mentioned the house needed some work.”

I vaguely recall Liam telling me that when he came to see me at work weeks ago. I’d avoided the topic because I was dead-set on avoiding him at that time. But ever since he showed up at the court hearing, I’ve been more ready to talk. “I appreciate it, but I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you can.” He steps forward, and I automatically move back. Not from fear—Liam would never hurt me—but because his presence fills too much space, stirring up feelings I’m not ready to examine. “But I’m here anyway.”

I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. Some things never change. The Mutter brothers never could mind their own business. “Has anyone ever told you you’re stubborn?”

“Once or twice.” His lips quirk up. “Usually you.”

The casual reference to our past hits harder than it should. I turn away, busying myself with adjusting the pillows on the couch. “Well, since you’re here, you might as well make yourself useful. Lord knows there’s plenty that needs fixing.”

He follows me into the kitchen and sets his toolbox on the table with a solid thunk. The sound echoes through the quiet house, and I hear Cam’s game pause upstairs.

“He’s home?” Liam asks softly.

“Yeah.” I pick up the sponge I dropped and wring it out, avoiding his eyes. “Playing games in his room.”

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