8. Rebuilding Together
Chapter 8
Rebuilding Together
Hannah
I stand 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 start doing something.
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. Sunlight catches 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.”
“You sure...” He clears his throat. “I mean, I don’t want to pressure you or him, but I meant it when I said I wanted to spend time with him. Get to know him a little.”
The hesitation in his voice makes me look up. Liam stands with his hands braced on the counter, shoulders tense. For the first time, I really see the weight he’s carrying—the years of not knowing, the guilt of choices made too young.
“As long as Cam is okay with it,” I say finally. “If he wants to get to know you, I won’t stop him.”
Relief softens his features. “Thank you.”
He moves to the sink, assessing the leak with practiced eyes. I return to scrubbing cabinets, hyper aware of his presence behind me. The silence between us feels charged, full of unspoken words.
“You shouldn’t have had to do this alone,” he says eventually. “I wish I had—” His voice catches.
“Wish you had what? Saved me?” The bitterness in my voice surprises us both. “There wasn’t anything you could do, Liam. Besides, you made it clear you didn’t want me when you insisted I marry Charlie!”
The words hang between us, sharp as broken glass. Liam’s wrench clatters against the pipes.
“Is that what you think?” He straightens, turning to face me. “Hannah, I—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand, suddenly unable to bear his explanations. He told me he never stopped loving me, but I’m struggling to rectify that confession with his past actions. “Just... don’t.”
But he steps closer, determination hardening his features. “No, we need to talk about this. All these years, I thought I was doing the right thing. Charlie could give you everything I couldn’t—security, stability, a good life. I was barely making ends meet, trying to keep the shop afloat after Dad checked out. The weight of my family’s survival was all on my shoulders. I thought—”
“You thought what? That I cared about money?” Anger rises in my throat, hot and choking. “I loved you , Liam. I would have lived in a cardboard box if it meant being with you. But you pushed me away. Told me to marry Charlie because he could ‘take care of me.’ Well, guess what? He took care of me alright.”
I yank up my sleeve, revealing the faint scar that curves around my forearm. “See this? That’s from the time he threw me into a glass coffee table. And this?” I push up my shirt, showing the scars on my ribs. “Baseball bat. Splintered when he cracked it against the floor before hitting me with it. Because dinner was cold when he got home late.”
Liam makes a sound like he’s been punched. His face goes pale, then flushes with rage. “Hannah—”
“No, you wanted to talk about this. So let’s talk.” The words pour out, years of pain and anger finally finding a voice. “Do you know what it was like? Living with him? Watching him get more controlling, more violent, never knowing what would set him off? Having to hide the bruises, make excuses, pretend everything was fine?”
I’m crying now, hot tears streaming down my face. “And the whole time, I kept thinking about you. Wondering why I wasn’t good enough for you. If you ever thought about me at all.”
“Every day.” His voice cracks. “I thought about you. Every. Single. Day.”
He reaches for me, and I should step back. Should maintain the distance I’ve carefully built. But his hands cup my face, thumbs brushing away tears, and I’m lost.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his own eyes wet with unshed tears. “God, Hannah, I’m so sorry. I was young and stupid and scared. I thought I was protecting you, but I just made everything worse.”
I shake my head. “Charlie made everything worse. Charlie would have killed me that night if—” I choke on a sob as the memory of what my son had to do resurfaces. “If Cam hadn’t stopped him. I … I wouldn’t be here today.”
Pain flashes across his features. “I didn’t know. Hannah, I swear I didn’t. But I’m here now. I’ll never let him hurt you again.”
He wipes away more tears with his thumbs as they stream down my face. It’s such a soothing feeling amidst the turmoil. I meet his pain stricken gaze and instantly get lost in the depth of his deep brown irises.
“He has your eyes.” The words come out soft, broken. “Your smile. The way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking hard about something.”
“Hannah.” My name on his lips is a plea. Then he’s kissing me, and the world falls away.
His lips brush mine, soft and tentative, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter. The gentleness breaks something inside me. My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer as tears continue to track down my cheeks. He tastes like coffee and mint, familiar yet new, and my heart thunders against my ribs.
One of his hands slides into my hair while the other cradles my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. The touch is reverent, careful, nothing like the bruising grip I’d grown accustomed to. He deepens the kiss gradually, letting me set the pace, giving me space to pull away if I want to.
I don’t want to.
His tongue traces my bottom lip, seeking permission. I grant it with a soft sigh, melting against him as warmth floods through me. The kiss builds slowly, thoroughly, each brush of his lips and sweep of his tongue deliberately measured. Like he’s memorizing me. Like he’s trying to apologize for thirteen years of absence with each careful touch.
The hand in my hair tightens slightly, changing the angle, and pleasure shivers down my spine. I press closer, wanting more, needing to feel the solid warmth of him against me. His chest rumbles with a low groan that I feel more than hear, and the sound shoots straight through me like lightning.
We break apart just enough to breathe. His thumb traces my lower lip, and I can feel him trembling. Or maybe I’m the one shaking. Maybe we both are.
His mouth is exactly as I remember—soft yet demanding. For one perfect moment, we’re those hopeful teenagers again. Young and in love, with the whole world ahead of us. Then reality crashes back, and I break away gasping.
“Liam.” My voice shakes. “We can’t.”
“Why not?” His forehead rests against mine, his breath mingling with my own. “Give me one good reason why we can’t try again.”
“Because I’m scared.” The admission costs me, but he deserves the truth. “Everything in my life is uncertain right now. I’m trying to rebuild, to make a safe home for Cam. I can’t... I can’t risk getting hurt again.”
“I would never hurt you.” The conviction in his voice makes me ache.
“Not intentionally.” I step back, needing distance to think clearly. “But you did before. Even with the best intentions.”
He doesn’t try to deny it. Just watches me with those dark eyes that see too much. “What do you need, Hannah? Tell me what you need from me, and I’ll do it.”
The answer comes surprisingly easy. “Time. To figure out who I am without Charlie. To get over this fear I constantly live with.”
“Okay.” He nods slowly. “I can give you that. But I’m not going anywhere, Hannah. I’ll be here, whenever you’re ready.”
“I know.” And I do know, with a certainty that terrifies me. Liam Mutter has always been my north star, even when I tried to navigate away from him.
He picks up his wrench and turns back to the sink. “Let me at least fix this leak. Then I’ll go.”
I watch him work, memorizing the strong lines of his back, the careful precision of his movements. Some things never change. He’s still the boy—or rather man, he’s all man now—who could fix anything broken. Except us.
But maybe... maybe some things that break can be rebuilt stronger.
The thought follows me as I return to scrubbing cabinets, stealing glances at him while he works—that kiss still burning on my lips. We move around each other in the small kitchen, an awkward dance of avoiding touch while being hyper aware of each other’s presence.
Finally, he straightens, wiping his hands on a rag. “That should do it. No more leak.”
“Thank you.” I mean it for more than just the sink.
He packs up his tools slowly, like he’s waiting for me to change my mind. To ask him to stay. Part of me wants to. “I’ll come back another day to tackle other projects. If you make a list, I’ll get it done. Would you allow me to do that?”
“You don’t have to,” I say, though the offer is tempting.
“I want to.” Liam replies, his eyes sincere. “This place... it means something to both of us. Let me help make it a home again. For you and—” He pauses and looks upward, toward Cam’s bedroom. “And for him.”
I hesitate, looking around at the worn cabinets and peeling paint. The house needs more work than I can manage alone. And deep down, a part of me wants him here, helping. It feels like old times when he used to fix things for me without asking.
“Alright,” I finally agree, my voice soft. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” He smiles, a small but genuine curve of his lips that makes my heart skip a beat.
“What else needs fixing?” he asks, glancing around the room.
I sigh, thinking of the long list I’ve been too overwhelmed to start on. “The roof has a leak, the windows are drafty, and the plumbing in the bathroom is... questionable, the stairs creak, the porch steps are rotting.”
“Got it,” he says with a nod. “I’ll start with the roof and work my way down.”
“Liam,” I say, catching his arm before he can leave. “Thank you.”
He looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to thank me, Hannah. This is what family does.”
Family. The word lingers in the air between us, heavy with meaning. Maybe we can rebuild more than just this house.
As he heads out of the kitchen, I feel a flicker of hope amidst the uncertainty. Maybe this is the beginning of something new—something better—for both of us.
At the door, he pauses. “Hannah?”
“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. Our son.
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 needles clank 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 worry was 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.”
Clara sets down her knitting, teacher mode engaged. “Of course! Honestly, homeschooled students often transition really well. They’re usually ahead in some areas since they’ve had more individual attention. When did you want to start the process?”
“As soon as possible? I just...” I swallow hard, remembering Charlie’s insistence on controlling every aspect of Cam’s education. “I want him to have a normal life. Friends his own age. A chance to just be a kid.”
“We’ll make it happen.” Clara’s warm smile holds no judgment. “Come by the school tomorrow and we’ll get the paperwork started. School administration is very understanding about special circumstances.”
The rest of the evening passes in a comfortable blur of knitting and conversation. By the time we pack up our projects, my sock actually resembles something wearable thanks to Grams’s patient guidance. More importantly, the knot of anxiety in my chest has completely dissolved.
As I help stack chairs, Charlotte catches my arm. “We’re glad you came back,” she says softly. “It wasn’t the same without you.”
Tears prick at my eyes. “I missed this. Missed all of you.”
“Well, you’re stuck with us now.” She gives my arm a squeeze. “No more disappearing acts, okay?”
I manage a watery smile. “Promise.”
Stepping out into the cool night air, I feel lighter somehow. Stronger. The path ahead still seems daunting—rebuilding a life from scratch, helping Cam heal, figuring out whatever this thing is with Liam. But for the first time, I truly believe I won’t have to do it alone.
The stars wink overhead as I drive home. As I pass the Mutter homestead, a light burns in the window of Mutter’s Auto, and I know without looking that it’s Liam, working late as usual. My heart gives a familiar flutter.
I don’t know why I thought I could move back into my childhood home and not have to see him—be reminded of him daily—when he lives so close. Such a foolish thought.
But I’m glad he’s close. There’s safety in knowing he’s right there, ready to come if I need him.
One step at a time . I remind myself. You’re learning how to make socks. You can learn how to be whole again too .