2. Starting Over in a Small Town
Chapter 2
Starting Over in a Small Town
Hannah
T he face staring back at me in the bathroom mirror is a stranger’s. Dark circles rim my eyes, evidence of another sleepless night spent jumping at every creak and groan of this old house. My fingers trace the edge of a fading scar along my jaw—barely visible now, but the memory of how it got there still makes my stomach clench.
You’re safe now . He can’t hurt you anymore.
But the words ring hollow in the silence of my childhood bathroom. Everything here feels hollow, actually. Like someone scooped out all the warmth and joy this house once held, leaving behind only echoes and dust.
I run my hand along the bathroom counter, feeling the familiar chip in the marble where I dropped my curling iron when I was sixteen. Mom had been so upset—not about the counter, but because I’d burned my hand trying to catch the iron before it fell. She’d held my hand under cold water, tears in her eyes like I’d suffered some grievous injury instead of a minor burn.
The memory of Mom brings on a fresh wave of tears. Mom died six years ago, but sometimes it feels like yesterday. Like I could walk downstairs and find her in the kitchen, humming as she baked cookies or fussed over dinner. Dad would be in his chair, pretending to read the newspaper while actually watching her with that look of absolute adoration that never faded, even after thirty years of marriage.
They were so in love. So happy. Everything I thought I’d have with—
No. I can’t think about that right now. About him . About the way his eyes caught mine, full of questions I’m not ready to answer.
Liam Mutter. My first love. The one who got away—or rather, the one who pushed me away. He looks exactly the same, yet somehow different. Older, yes, but also... haunted. Like he’s carrying his own set of ghosts.
When he showed up at the house, my heart nearly stopped. For a terrifying moment, when I heard footsteps behind me, I thought it was Charlie.
But it wasn’t Charlie. Charlie’s in jail where he belongs. It was just Liam, trying to help with my boxes, looking at me like... like...
Like he still cares.
“Mom?” Cam’s voice breaks through my spiral of memories. “Mom, you need to see this!”
I give my reflection one last glance. The woman in the mirror straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin. Whatever else I am—broken, scared, uncertain—I’m still Cameron’s mother. And he needs me to be strong.
“Coming, honey!” I call back, forcing brightness into my voice.
The floorboards creak under my feet as I make my way downstairs. Another thing that needs fixing in this old house. The list keeps growing—leaky faucets, loose boards, drafty windows, ancient flooring, fresh pain. But it’s mine . Mom and Dad left it to me and Harper in their will, but Harper doesn’t want it.
Harper, my older sister, was against me moving back to Beaver. She tried to convince me to move to Kentucky to stay with her and her husband—to build a new life closer to her. But that didn’t feel right.
It felt too much like running and hiding.
It felt weak.
It felt like letting Charlie win.
And I refuse to let Charlie win.
So I came home. To a falling down house, no job, and a mountain of fear I’m still figuring out to process.
I sigh at the state of his old house. I was too busy trying and failing at playing the perfect wife in my not-so-perfect house in the next town over, pretending everything was fine while my world crumbled around me. This house crumbled and fell apart with me.
Never again.
I find Cam in the kitchen, staring at the ancient stove like it’s personally offended him. At twelve, he’s already showing signs of the man he’ll become—tall for his age, with a serious set to his jaw that reminds me so much of—
Stop it.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?”
He turns to me, frustration evident in every line of his body. “How are we supposed to cook anything? This thing doesn’t even turn on.”
I step closer, testing the knobs myself even though I already know it’s useless. The gas was turned off years ago, and even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t trust this relic not to blow us all sky-high.
“We’ll figure something out,” I say, aiming for confidence and probably missing by a mile. “Maybe we can get a hot plate for now? Or there’s always the microwave.”
“Mom.” His voice carries a weight no twelve-year-old should have to bear. “How are we going to afford any of that? I know you don’t have a job yet, and—”
“Hey.” I cut him off, pulling him into a hug before he can see the tears threatening to fall. “That’s not something you need to worry about.”
He hugs me back, fiercely protective in a way that breaks my heart. “But I do worry. This house ... it’s falling apart. What if … what if he finds out where we are? The doors don’t even lock properly.”
He. Not ‘Dad’ anymore. Never ‘Dad.’ Just he , like Charlie’s become some sort of bogeyman we can’t even name.
“The locks are getting fixed tomorrow.” I promise. “Edge is sending someone he trusts.”
The mention of Edge makes Cam relax slightly. He knows the motorcycle club president is the reason we got away. The reason I’m still alive. He knows every gory detail and I hate that for him.
I still don’t know all the details, Cameron won’t talk about it. All I know is he met Edge by chance. Edge showed him kindness when he was struggling after a particularly brutal beating. He told Edge what Charlie does to me—or rather did to me—and Edge made him a promise. Said if Cameron ever called him for help, he’d come.
“Okay,” Cam says finally, pulling back to look at me. “But what about food? And heat? And all the other stuff this place needs?”
I force a smile. “One thing at a time, honey. I have some interviews lined up. Frank’s Frosty Kreme is hiring, and there’s a position at a grocery store in Waverly.”
“You used to help with his campaign office,” he says quietly. “Now you’re going to scoop ice cream?”
The words sting, not because they’re meant to hurt—Cam would never intentionally hurt me—but because they’re true. I used to help Charlie manage staff, organize events, and handle PR crisis. I was good at it, too. It was the only work Charlie would allow me to do because it was with him. He could control me there same as he controlled me at home.
But that was in another life. A life where my husband wasn’t in jail for nearly killing me. A life where our name still meant something in this town besides scandal and shame.
“Hey.” I cup his face in my hands, making him meet my eyes. “There’s no shame in honest work. And right now, what we need is a fresh start. Something simple. Something safe .”
He studies me for a long moment, so serious, so grown-up. Then he pulls me into another hug.
“I know you’re trying,” he whispers against my shoulder. “I just... I want you to be okay.”
My heart clenches. This beautiful, precious boy. When did he start trying to take care of me instead of the other way around?
“I am okay.” I tell him, even though we both know it’s not entirely true. “Or I will be. We both will be. We just need time.”
He nods but doesn’t let go. We stand there in the kitchen, holding each other, while the afternoon sun streams through the windows, highlighting how dirty this house really is. This broken-down house with its creaky floors and temperamental plumbing isn’t much, but it’s ours. A chance to start over. To build something new from the ashes of what we lost.
“You should finish unpacking your room,” I say finally, pulling back with a gentle smile. “I think I saw your Xbox in one of those boxes.”
His face brightens slightly. “Yeah? You’ll be okay down here?”
“I’ll be fine. Go on.”
I wait until his footsteps fade upstairs before letting my smile drop. Sliding down to sit on the kitchen floor, I pull my knees to 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 every noise, 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—”
Grams gives me one of her stern looks—raised eyebrows, pinched lips—that says don’t argue. “Dear, movin’ is a lot of work. You’re gonna be busy settlin’ in. Let me help.”
“Okay.” I concede. “I appreciate it. That’s very kind.”
“Mom?” Cam’s voice floats down the stairs. “Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine, honey!” I call back, probably too quickly. Grams’s expression turns to longing and she shifts her eyes to the stairs. She has to know. They all do now that Christian and Liam have seen Cam. “I should—”
“Of course, dear.” She hands me the food with a gentle smile. “I’ll let you get back to unpacking. Just... Hannah?”
“Yes?”
Her eyes meet mine, and all I see is love and support. Support I don’t feel like I deserve. “If you need anythin’— anythin’ at all—you know where I live.”
“I know.” I force a smile. “Thank you, Grams. Really.”
She nods once and turns to go. I watch her walk away, and memories flood my thoughts to a time when Grams was just as much my family as she is Liam’s family. Back when we were so young. So full of dreams and possibilities. Now here we are, years later, standing worlds apart with a door between us that neither knows how to open.
I carry the food to the kitchen, setting it on the table where the sun streams in through the window. From here, I can see the Mutter property sprawling at the edge of the road—the auto shop, the big house where Liam lives with his brothers and Grams, the barn they converted into extra living space, the farmland that sprawls for acres behind them.
So close. Too close.
But as I stand there, watching the afternoon light paint shadows across my broken-down kitchen, I realize something. This house might be falling apart, but it’s still standing. Still has good bones, as my dad used to say. Maybe that’s all any of us need—a solid foundation and the courage to rebuild.
Footsteps on the stairs tell me Cam’s coming down. I quickly wipe my eyes and turn to face whatever new challenge this day brings. Because that’s what mothers do. We keep going. We stay strong.
We rebuild.
Even if we have to do it one broken piece at a time.
“Mom?” Cam appears in the doorway, eyes immediately going to the containers. “What’s that?”
I manage a genuine smile. “That, my boy, is dinner. How does a home cooked meal sound?”
His answering grin is like sunshine breaking through the clouds. For a moment, he looks like the little boy he used to be, before Charlie’s rages taught him to be afraid. Before he had to grow up too fast.
“It smells delicious.”
“That it does.” I laugh. “Come on, help me look through these boxes for the dishes.”
As we search through our belongings, I try not to think about who lives just down the road. Try not to remember all the times we made shared meals in this very kitchen, stealing kisses between bites.
Try not to wonder if, when he looks at Cam, he’ll see what I see every day—echoes of himself in our son’s smile.
But those are thoughts for another time. Right now, I have a boy to feed and a house to fix and a life to rebuild.
One piece at a time.
I can do this.
I have to. For my son.
The bell above Frank’s door jingles as I step inside, a sound so achingly familiar it transports me back to simpler times. Back when life was measured in ice cream scoops and stolen kisses behind the shop, not in court dates and protective orders.
“Hannah Baumann! As I live and breathe!” Frank’s booming voice fills the small seating area, drawing curious glances from the handful of late lunch customers waiting for their orders. Despite my nerves, I smile at the use of my maiden name.
Frank’s doesn’t have an inside dining area. It’s a simple set-up—order at the window, take your food to-go or sit outside at one of the picnic tables if the weather’s nice.
He emerges from behind the counter, arms spread wide, that same warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Time has silvered his hair completely now, but otherwise he looks exactly as I remember—down to the “Frank’s Frosty Kreme” embroidered on his white apron.
I force myself to stand tall, shoulders back, chin up. Don’t show weakness. Never show weakness. “Hi Frank. I was hoping we could talk about that job opening?”
His smile dims slightly, concern flickering across his weathered features. Of course he knows. Everyone knows. In a town this small, my story has probably been told and retold a hundred different ways. Poor Hannah Fisher, who married above her station only to come crawling back with scars and a restraining order.
“Of course, of course!” He gestures toward his office, far from curious ears. “Let me grab us some coffee.”
He lifts the section of the counter that allows employees to pass into the kitchen, the smell bringing another wave of memories. How many afternoons did I spend here during high school, sharing fries with Liam and dreaming about our future? The thought of him sends an unwelcome flutter through my stomach. I push it away, focusing instead on arranging my small stack of references and the application I’d filled out last night.
Frank leaves me to take a seat in his office and returns moments later with two steaming mugs and settles across from me. “Now then, you need a job?”
I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders. “Yes, I need work. Part-time for now, while I get things sorted out. I know it’s been years since I worked here in high school, but I still remember how everything runs. And I’m a quick learner if anything’s changed.”
He studies me over the rim of his coffee cup, eyes kind but evaluating. “The pay isn’t much. Nothing like what you’re used to, I’d imagine.”
The gentle reminder of my former life—of Charlie’s money and status—stings more than it should. “I’m not looking for much. Just enough to help make ends meet while I figure things out.”
A loud burst of laughter from the lobby makes me jump, coffee sloshing over the rim of my cup. My hands shake as I use the end of my shirt, dabbing at the spill while my heart races.
It’s just kids . Just teenagers being loud. It’s not him.
But my body doesn’t believe it. My body remembers too well.
Frank pretends not to notice my reaction, though his expression softens further. “When can you start?”
Relief floods through me. “Today? Now?” The eagerness in my voice makes me cringe, but I can’t help it. I need this—need something normal and productive to fill my days, need to prove I can stand on my own two feet again.
He nods, reaching behind his desk to pull out a fresh apron. “Let’s see if you remember where everything is.”
The next hour passes in a blur of familiar motions and new procedures. The basic layout hasn’t changed much—ice cream freezers still line one wall, soft serve in the middle with the grill and oil vats right behind, pizza oven still dominates the back kitchen, and no cash register—everything is still handwritten with the money stored in a simple drawer.
But there are subtle differences that remind me how much time has passed. The menu has expanded, prices have risen, and there’s an ATM in the corner for people who need cash. Frank still doesn’t take credit cards. It’s simple, just like life in Beaver.
Frank glances at the clock. “School lets out soon. That’s usually our first rush of the day. You up for it?”
My stomach clenches, but I nod. “I can handle it.”
And surprisingly, I can. There’s something soothing about the repetitive motions of scooping ice cream, about focusing on nothing more complicated than whether a customer wants sprinkles or hot fudge. The afternoon passes in a parade of familiar faces—some who pretend not to recognize me, others who greet me with awkward enthusiasm that borders on pity.
I prefer the ones who pretend not to know.
Around four, there’s finally a lull in customers. I’m wiping down the counter when movement outside catches my eye. My heart skips as I recognize Liam’s broad shoulders and purposeful stride as he hurries past the window. He doesn’t look in, doesn’t see me frozen with the rag in my hand, but the sight of him is enough to send my carefully constructed composure crumbling.
“I can’t give you the life you deserve, Hannah.”
“Charlie can take care of you. Better than I ever could.”
“You deserve more than a small-town mechanic.”
His words from thirteen years ago echo in my head, mixing with fresher memories—the horror in his eyes when Christian carried me out of the house that night, bloody and barely conscious. The look of longing and pain in his eyes when he offered his help when I was unpacking the car.
“Hannah?” Frank’s voice startles me. “You okay?”
I realize I’ve been staring out the window long after Liam disappeared from view. “Fine,” I say automatically. “Just... remembering.”
He doesn’t push, but his expression says he understands. Of course he does. He was here for all of it—my relationship with Liam, our breakup, my whirlwind courtship with Charlie. He probably watched it all unfold from behind this very counter.
My phone buzzes in my apron pocket, making me jump again. Unknown number. My heart rate spikes until I remember—my lawyer was supposed to call today about the divorce papers.
“I need to take this.” I tell Frank, already backing toward the staff room. “It’s important.”
He waves me off with an understanding nod. The staff room is barely more than a closet with a mini fridge and a few hooks for coats, but it offers blessed privacy as I answer the call.
“Mrs. Fisher?” My lawyer’s crisp voice comes through clearly. “I wanted to let you know the divorce papers have been filed. Given the circumstances and the restraining order, we should be able to push this through relatively quickly.”
Relief makes my knees weak. I sink onto an overturned milk crate. “He won’t... there’s no way he can contest it?”
“He can try, but given the evidence and his current incarceration, it would be extremely difficult. The bigger concern is making sure he doesn’t find out about the proceedings until they’re well underway. We don’t want him retaliating.”
Ice forms in my stomach. Charlie’s reach extends far beyond his jail cell—his family’s money and connections guarantee that. “What if he does find out?”
“Then we deal with it.” His voice softens slightly. “You’re doing the right thing, Hannah. Stay strong. I’ll be in touch soon with more details.”
The call ends, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the quiet hum of the mini fridge. You’re doing the right thing. But if that’s true, why does it feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff?
A knock at the door makes me nearly drop my phone. “Hannah?” Frank calls. “Got a bit of a rush starting up out here.”
“Coming!” I stuff the phone back in my pocket and straighten my apron. Time to put on my game face again. Time to be normal, capable Hannah who definitely isn’t terrified that her abusive husband might find a way to stop her from divorcing him.
The rest of my shift passes in a blur of ice cream scoops and forced smiles. I mainly stay in the front making ice cream sundaes and milkshakes. Frank works the grill, while a high school senior named Ashley who came in after school makes pizzas. By the end of the dinner rush, my feet ache and my shoulder throbs from repetitive scooping motions, but it’s a good kind of pain. An honest pain, earned through actual work instead of an undeserving fist.
“Good first day,” Frank says as I hang up my apron. “Same time tomorrow?”
I nod, throat tight with gratitude. “Thank you, Frank. For everything.”
He waves off my thanks. “I’m happy you’re back. You always were one of my favorite employees. And the customers love you. You’ll have to bring that son of yours by so I can meet him.”
Cameron . My heart both lifts and twists at the thought of my son. He’s been so strong through all of this, but I know he’s struggling. The move, the weight of everything that happened... It’s too much for any twelve-year-old to handle.
My phone buzzes again. Speaking of Cameron.
Cam
Mom when will you be home??
The stove still doesn’t work and I’m STARVING
Despite everything, a small smile tugs at my lips.
Hannah
On my way home soon. Pizza okay?
Cam
YES
My smile widens. Some things never change. This kid could eat pizza for every meal.
Hannah
I got you covered.
I turn back toward the counter, where Frank is already cutting a fresh pepperoni and boxing it up.
“Extra cheese,” he says with a wink. He must have started it before I even said goodbye. “On the house.”
Tears prick at my eyes. “Frank.”
“Go on now.” He hands me the box and waves me away. “Before it gets cold.”
The drive home is short, but every shadow makes me jump, every passing car sends my heart racing. He’s in jail . I remind myself for the hundredth time. He can’t hurt you anymore.
But as my lawyer’s words echo in my head— we don’t want him retaliating —I can’t quite make myself believe it.
The front porch light is on when I reach the house, and through the window I can see Cam sprawled on the couch with his handheld gaming device. The sight of him, safe and whole, helps steady my nerves. Whatever happens with the divorce, whatever Charlie might do when he finds out, I’ll handle it.
I have to.
I have my son to protect.
Just as I reach for the door handle, movement down the road catches my eye. A familiar figure steps out of the shadows of the auto shop, and even at this distance, I know he’s watching me. Watching us.
Liam .
For a moment, I’m frozen on my own front porch, pizza growing cold in my hands as our eyes meet across the darkness. There’s so much between us—so many words unsaid, so many chances missed, so many secrets kept.
Then Cameron opens the door, breaking the spell.
“Finally! I’m starving!” He grabs the pizza box from my hands, then pauses. “Mom? You okay?”
I tear my gaze away from the auto shop, forcing a smile. “Fine, honey. Just thinking.”
He gives me a look far too knowing for his twelve years. “About Dad?”
My heart clenches. Which one? The man who raised him, who hurt us both? Or the man down the road, who’s still waiting for an explanation as to why I never told him Cam is his son.
“Let’s eat,” I say instead of answering. “Before it gets cold.”
As I follow Cam inside, I can’t resist one last glance over my shoulder. But Liam is gone, swallowed by the growing darkness. Just as well. I have enough to deal with right now without stirring up old feelings and older regrets.
The divorce papers are filed.
Charlie will find out soon.
And when he does...
I close and lock the door even though it doesn’t work properly and then slide the chain in place. One good hard push and it would likely come out of the wall, but it’s the best we’ve got until Edge comes to fix it.
As I settle onto our ancient couch with my son and our cooling pizza, I can’t shake the feeling that everything is about to change. Again.
My phone buzzes, this time with a call.
Unknown number. I don’t answer it, instead letting it go to voicemail. It only takes a few moments for it to ding with a new message.
My hands shake as I check it, pizza forgotten in my lap.
I heard you’re back in town, Hannah. We need to talk.
I cringe at the sound of Charlie’s voice. Even through the phone line, his voice terrifies me. Of course he can call me from jail. Probably his parents’ doing.
The pizza turns to ash in my mouth as fear wraps its cold fingers around my throat.
He knows.