Page 38 of Truck Hard

“Yeah?”

“I meant what I said. About being here when you’re ready.” His eyes meet mine, full of promise and regret. “I’ve wasted thirteen years running from how I feel about you. I won’t waste another day.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me standing in my half-cleaned kitchen with the ghost of his kiss on my lips and possibilities spinning through my mind.

Upstairs, Cam’s game resumes, electronic beeps filling the silence. My son.Ourson.

I press my fingers to my tingling lips, remembering the heat of Liam’s mouth, the solid strength of his body against mine. Thirteen years of distance crumbling in an instant.

The sun still streams through the window, but now it feels like a spotlight, illuminating all the choices ahead of me. All the ways this could go wrong. Or right.

I pick up my sponge and return to scrubbing cabinets, but my mind is elsewhere. On strong hands and gentle eyes, on promises made and broken and maybe, just maybe, ready to be remade.

The future stretches before me, uncertain but full of possibility. For the first time in years, I let myself imagine what could be.

What we could rebuild together.

The knitting needlesclank together in my bag as I clutch it closer to my body. My other hand trembles, hovering over the community center’s weathered door handle. I’ve done this a hundred times before—Thursday night knitting circle was one of the few social activities Charlie permitted. “Harmless old ladies,” he’d called them with that condescending smirk of his. As if women gathering to create something beautiful could never pose a threat to his control.

But tonight feels different. The familiar brick building looms before me, windows glowing warm against the deepening twilight. Inside those walls, everyone knows the truth now. No more hiding bruises under long sleeves or explaining away my flinches with clumsy excuses. They’ve all read the papers, heard the whispers—seen me stripped bare of pretense in that courtroom.

What if they look at me differently? What if they pity me?

The thought makes my stomach clench. I’ve had enough pity to last a lifetime.

A gust of spring wind whips my hair across my face, carrying the sweet scent of blooming dogwoods. The same trees lined our driveway when I was a girl, back when my biggest worrywas whether Liam would notice my new dress at school. Before Charlie. Before the fear became as familiar as breathing.

You’re being ridiculous. I tell myself firmly. These women aren’t strangers—they’re friends. Some of them have known me since I was in pigtails, chasing fireflies in Grams’s backyard.

Drawing a deep breath, I push open the door. Warmth and laughter spill out, wrapping around me like a familiar quilt.

“Hannah!” Charlotte’s voice rings out from beside the yarn cabinet. “Get in here before all the good seats are taken!”

The knot in my chest loosens slightly as I step inside. The room looks exactly as I remember—mismatched armchairs arranged in a loose circle, baskets of yarn scattered about like bright autumn leaves. Lina sits at her spinning wheel, dark hair falling forward as she feeds wool into the twisting spindle. The steady whir of the wheel provides a soothing backdrop to the cheerful chatter.

Grams occupies her usual spot by the window, needles clicking steadily as she works on what appears to be another of her infamous cable-knit sweaters. She glances up and pats the empty chair beside her. “Come sit, dear. Let me see what you’re working on.”

My fingers tighten around my project bag as I make my way over. Inside is my first attempt at knitting socks—a disaster of dropped stitches and wonky decreases that I’ve been too embarrassed to show anyone. But Grams has always had a way of making even my worst mistakes seem fixable.

“Socks?” Her eyes twinkle as I pull out the mangled work-in-progress. “Ambitious. But look how even your gauge is getting.”

“Even?” I can’t help but laugh. “Grams, it looks like something the cat dragged in.”

“Nonsense.” She adjusts her reading glasses, examining my stitches. “A few mistakes, yes, but that’s how we learn. Here, let me show you a trick for those heel turns.”

As she demonstrates the technique, I gradually relax into the familiar rhythm of needles and conversation. Clara and Mrs. Engle discuss the upcoming church bake sale while Charlotte regales us with tales of her latest salon disasters. It feels... normal. No one mentions Charlie or the trial or treats me like I might shatter.

“How’s the house coming along?” Charlotte asks during a lull. “Garret mentioned the appliances are working better now?”

“Much better.” I confirm, counting stitches as I turn another row. “The oven actually maintains the temperature now, which is a miracle. I still can’t believe you two did that for me.”

She waves away my gratitude. “That’s what friends are for. Besides, Garret loves any excuse to tinker with machines. Sometimes I think he likes them better than people.”

“Must run in the family.” Lina comments dryly from her wheel. “All those Mutter boys and their engines. Although...” She shoots me a knowing look and winks. “Some of them clean up pretty nice when they try.”

Heat creeps into my cheeks as I remember Liam’s unexpected visit, the intensity in his eyes as he offered to help with repairs. The way his calloused fingers brushed mine across my cheek right before he kissed me. The kiss that still burns on my lips.

“Speaking of family,” I say quickly, turning to Clara before anyone can comment on my blush, “I wanted to ask you about enrolling Cam in school. I know he’s missed so much, and this school is close to over, but I can’t keep homeschooling while working at Frank’s.”

---