Page 99 of Truck Hard

“Thought you were headed home,” he says.

“I am.”

“You’ve been standing there for twenty minutes.”

Has it been that long?

“Come on.” He steps toward me and points to the house. “Let’s get a beer and some of Grams’s leftover lasagna. I’ve been thinking about that all day.”

“Warren—”

“Not a request, big brother.” His tone suggests he’s not going to take no for an answer. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

He’s probably right about that too. But being around people means talking, and I’m not sure I have the energy for that rightnow. Still, the alternative is standing here wallowing in my own thoughts, which clearly isn’t helping either.

I follow Warren to the house, determined to pull myself out of this funk. Warren glances over his shoulder as he opens the door, his expression unreadable in the afternoon light.

“She’ll come around,” he says quietly, like he can read my mind. “Just give her time.”

I want to believe him. God, how I want to believe him. But as we step inside, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m watching my last chance at happiness disappear.

And I have no idea how to get it back.

I takeanother long pull from my beer and stare at the Chevelle’s rusted frame in front of me. The garage is quiet except for the occasional metallic ping of cooling engine parts and the soft classic rock playing from the old radio in the corner. Grease covers my hands and forearms, evidence of the hours I’ve spent trying to lose myself in this project.

The car has sat here for years, collecting dust and cobwebs, waiting for me to fulfill the promise I made when I first dragged it home. Back then, I had grand plans of restoring it to its former glory—new engine, fresh paint, the works. But life got in the way. The shop needed my attention. My brothers needed my guidance. And now it’s the perfect distraction for my wounded heart.

My phone buzzes on the workbench, screen lighting up with a new message. My heart leaps when I see Hannah’s name, then immediately sinks as I remember the growing distance between us. Still, I can’t stop myself from reaching for it, wiping my hands on my jeans before picking it up.

It’s a photo of Cam at Frank’s, grinning wide in his new baseball uniform. Pride swells in my chest at the sight of him. The league’s colors—royal blue and white—suit him perfectly. He’s gotten taller in the past few months, starting to lose that gangly pre-teen look. In the picture, he’s mid-laugh, probably at something one of his teammates said. His eyes crinkle at the corners just like Hannah’s do when she really smiles.

Used to do. My mind corrects. I haven’t seen that smile since that day at the lake, when I opened my stupid mouth and ruined everything by telling her I loved her.

Without thinking, I type back.

Liam

Missing you both. Let me know if you need anything.

The message shows as delivered, but no response comes. No typing indicator, no read receipt. Just silence.

“Fuck,” I mutter, setting the phone face-down on the workbench. I grab another beer from the mini-fridge, popping the cap off against the edge of the table.

The familiar motion reminds me of countless summer nights spent here with my brothers, working on cars and shooting the shit. Warren would always bring the good beer, imported stuff that made the rest of us roll our eyes even as we reached for another bottle. Garret preferred whiskey. The twins usually shared a six-pack between them, their identical grins—when Christian actually let us see it—getting progressively more crooked as the night wore on.

But tonight I’m alone with my thoughts and the ghost of what could have been. The garage feels too big, too empty. Even the radio seems muted, like the music is coming from underwater.

I turn back to the Chevelle, determined to at least accomplish something tonight. The engine needs a complete overhaul—timing belt’s shot, pistons are probably seized, and God only knows what’s happening with the transmission. But that’s good. Complicated problems require focus, attention to detail. No room for thoughts about cool blue eyes or the soft curve of a smile.

My hands move automatically through the familiar motions of dismantling the engine block. Each part I remove gets carefully laid out on an old towel, arranged in the order they’ll need to go back in. It’s methodical work, almost meditative. For a while, I can almost pretend that’s all there is—just metal and grease and the satisfaction of fixing something broken.

But then my phone buzzes again.

Hope flares before I can squash it down. Maybe she’s finally ready to talk. Maybe she’s realized that my feelings for her aren’t a threat or a burden. Maybe—

But it’s just Mac, sending a video of his latest practice run at the track. He’d asked me to come with them, but I made up some lame excuse. Any other time I’d be proud of how smoothly he takes the turns, how he’s finally learning to trust his instincts instead of just gunning for speed. Tonight, though, I can barely focus on the screen.

Liam

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