Page 8 of Truck Hard

I wait until his footsteps fade upstairs before letting my smile drop. Sliding down to sit on the kitchen floor, I pull my kneesto my chest and try to breathe through the panic clawing at my throat.

How am I going to do this?

I don’t know the first thing about home repairs. Charlie never let me handle any of that—said it wasn’t “suitable” for his wife to worry about such things. Now I’m staring down a list of problems I can barely comprehend, let alone fix.

The stove. The locks. The leaky roof. The ancient wiring that probably hasn’t been updated since my parents bought the place forty years ago. Each issue represents money we don’t have, skills I don’t possess.

And then there’s Liam.

My hand drifts to my phone, remembering his unintentional text.Hey asshole, where the fuck are you?Obviously meant for someone else but seeing his name pop up on my screen after all these years… Well, that made me feel like the teenage girl that used to be so in love with that boy.

I press my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my eyelids. I can’t think about him or that night. About what happened two days before my wedding. About the way Liam looked at me, touched me, made me feel like maybe I was making a huge mistake.

But I didn’t listen to that feeling. I married Charlie anyway, because I thought we could love each other like Liam and I had loved. Because Charlie was stable, successful, from a good family, and he promised me the world.

Because Liam didn’t want me. Because Liam had pushed me away, said he couldn’t give me the life I deserved.

What a joke that turned out to be.

A loud thunk from upstairs makes me jump, heart racing until Cam calls down, “Sorry! Just dropped a box!”

I press a hand to my chest, trying to slow my breathing. This is what Charlie reduced me to—someone who startles at everynoise, who sees threats in shadows. Someone who can’t even help her son set up his game console without having a panic attack.

Get it together, Hannah.

Pushing to my feet, I brush the dust off my jeans and survey the kitchen. The stove might be dead, but the sink works even if the faucet leaks a little. The counters, while dated, are solid. The windows let in good light.

Maybe I could learn how to fix the broken things. YouTube has tutorials for everything these days, right? And Edge promised to send someone to help with the major repairs.

A knock at the front door sends my heart into my throat.

“Mom?” Cam calls down again. “Want me to get it?”

“No!” The word comes out sharper than I intend. Softer, I add, “No, honey, I’ve got it.”

My hands shake as I approach the door. Through the warped glass, I can make out a small figure on the porch, clearly female.

It’s not him. It can’t be him. He’s in jail.

Still, I only open the door a crack at first.

My breath catches.

Mila Mutter stands on my porch, looking every bit of the firecracker I know her to be.

“Hannah.” She gives me a huge smile. “I did some cookin’. Figured you and that boy of yours could use some food while you’re settlin’ in.”

That’s when I notice she’s holding several covered dishes.

“Thank you, Mila.” I manage. “That’s... that’s really thoughtful.”

“Oh, now. Don’t go callin’ me by my name.” She tsks. “I’ve known you since you were in diapers. I’m Grams to you, dear. Always will be.”

I can’t help but smile at that. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll bring you more food later this week. Can’t have you and Cam goin’ hungry.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’ve got—”

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