3. Shadows of the Past
Chapter 3
Shadows of the Past
Liam
T he wrench slips again, my knuckles slamming against the engine block. Pain shoots through my hand, but I barely notice it. My mind is elsewhere, stuck on the image of Hannah standing in her driveway, looking small and vulnerable as she unpacked her car. The way she jumped when I approached, like a frightened animal expecting to be struck.
What have I done?
Grease and oil stain my hands as I reach for another tool, trying to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of mechanics. I mistakenly thought physical labor would distract my mind unlike the endless pile of paperwork I’m neglecting in the office.
But even the comforting sounds of the shop—the whir of power tools, the metallic clink of wrenches, the low murmur of my brothers working nearby—can’t drown out the thoughts that have plagued me since Hannah’s return.
“Earth to Liam.” Mac’s voice breaks through my brooding. “You planning to fix that timing belt or just stare at it all day?”
I grunt in response, not bothering to look up. Mac hovers for a moment longer before wandering off, probably to work on one of his race cars. Usually I’d be riding his ass about neglecting paying customers in favor of his racing obsession, but today I can’t summon the energy to care.
Sophia catches my eye from across the shop where she’s working on an oil change. She gives me a questioning look but I wave her off. The last thing I need is everyone’s concern. It’s bad enough having to field their sideways glances every time Hannah’s name comes up in conversation.
Through the shop’s windows, I can see a line of cars piling up waiting for service. Mrs. Bapst is here for leaking tire. Mr. Balzer is here for a tune up for his old Monte Carlo. That car is almost as old as me and still shines like it did the day he drove it off the lot.
But my mind can hardly focus on any of that because Hannah’s back.
And she brought our son with her.
Our son. A fact I still need to verify. The words still feel foreign even in my own mind. Cameron. Twelve years old. My son—a kid I’ve only met once. That’s something I need to change.
The wrench slips again and this time I welcome the sharp sting of pain as it reminds me of how much I’ve buried all these years—how much I’ve avoided confronting. This pain is better than the dull ache in my chest that always comes when I think about all those moments denied due to choices made when I was too damn immature to comprehend their consequences.
“You’re bleeding.”
I look up to find Christian watching me from his bike stall next to me, arms crossed and eyebrows raised in concern. He only comes in a couple days a week now that his wife—that still sounds weird to me—had their baby. Once they settle into a new routine, he’ll be moving the custom motorcycle portion of the business to the new garage he built on his property. I didn’t like the idea, not because I don’t trust Christian to keep the business flowing, but because I’ll miss having him here everyday.
“It’s nothing.” I wipe my hand on my coveralls, dark smudges mark my palm and fingers.
Christian snorts. “Yeah? Nothing is exactly what’s got you out here working on cars instead of doing paperwork like usual.”
“Someone’s got to keep this place running.”
“Uh-huh.” He leans against the workbench, tilting his head slightly as if he’s assessing me through some invisible lens that allows him to see right through my bravado.
My grip tightens around the wrench until my knuckles turn white—a physical manifestation of my internal struggle against everything brewing inside me—guilt over Hannah’s situation, anxiety over Charlie hurting Hannah again—and an overwhelming sense that I’ve failed both Hannah and Cameron long before they ever needed me.
“I don’t need this,” I mutter under my breath while attempting to shift focus back onto work rather than dwell on painful memories.
The whirring sounds around me blend into an indistinct hum as frustration mounts within me. It feels like I’m trapped inside a bubble where reality doesn’t touch me anymore—where nothing feels real except for what happened with Hannah and how much time we lost because of fear and pride.
Moments tick by as tension fills every inch of space around us until finally Christian speaks up again. “You know it’s okay to talk about this stuff. I mean, it really does help.”
His words linger heavy between us like a thick fog. I’m not sure if he’s trying to pry open wounds or genuinely extend a hand toward brotherly understanding. It’s not like he’s ever been open to talking about his feelings. Out of all of us, he’s the most quiet, brooding and angry.
Though I have to give him credit, that’s changed now that he has Amelia and a baby.
But talking isn’t an option for me—not yet anyway—and especially not about Hannah or what happened all those years ago when I pushed her away while telling myself it was for her own good.
Anger boils beneath the surface as memories flood back. Her pleading eyes when I let go of her hand not long after graduation—the pain radiating off her face—how she tried so hard to make things work while dealing with my fear-laden excuses cloaked in bravado—of how we were too young and foolishly na?ve thinking we could take on life together without truly knowing what lay ahead.
In one swift motion fueled by resentment toward myself and regrets unspoken—I slam down the wrench against the tool bench. Metal clashes loudly against metal sending echoes reverberating throughout our workspace.
Everyone pauses mid-task including Sophia who slides out from under the car to glance over at me with wide eyes filled with concern mingled with confusion. It doesn’t matter though because this isn’t just about them anymore. It’s about facing down everything that’s been haunting me since that fateful day years ago.
“Liam!” Christian exclaims startled by my sudden outburst before quickly adding cautiously. “Dude... calm down.”
“Calm down?” My voice raises louder than intended echoing throughout our otherwise bustling shop which only intensifies everyone’s scrutiny focused solely upon me. Heat rises within me beneath layers worn thin by self-loathing and shame. “Do you have any idea what it’s like knowing you’ve ruined someone’s life? Knowing you could’ve prevented it but chose not to because you were scared?”
Silence falls heavy upon us. Even Mac stops working completely now with widened eyes reflecting shock intermingled with curiosity. I can feel their collective gaze weighing heavily upon my shoulders that are already burdened enough without their judgmental stares complicating matters further.
Until finally Christian speaks up again softer this time almost tentatively. “No one’s saying you did anything wrong.”
“But I did ! It’s my fault. All of it. I could have been the reason she didn’t marry him. But I refused.”
Christian’s words ring hollow in my ears as rage and guilt churn inside me. He doesn’t understand. None of them do. They weren’t there that night, two days before Hannah’s wedding, when she came to me one last time.
“Tell me not to marry him,” she’d whispered against my lips. “Tell me you want me to stay.”
But I didn’t. I pushed her away, convinced I was doing the right thing. Charlie could give her everything I couldn’t—security, status, a life beyond this small town. What could I offer except a mechanic’s salary and a family legacy of broken promises?
I slam my hand against the workbench again, harder this time. Tools rattle and a few slip off the edge, clattering to the floor.
“Whoa, easy there.” Mac’s voice cuts through the fog of my thoughts. He’s abandoned his race car, moving closer with hands raised like he’s approaching a wild animal.
“I’m fine.” I growl, but the word tastes like ash in my mouth. Nothing is fine. Hannah’s back. Cameron—my son—is here. Charlie’s in jail for what he did to them. And all of it, every bit of pain they endured, traces back to my choices.
“Bullshit.” Christian hasn’t moved from his spot by his bike, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. “You’re not fine. Hannah’s return is eating you up inside.”
The name hits me like a hard punch in the jaw. “Drop it.”
“No.” Christian’s voice hardens. He gestures to the others. “Give us a minute.”
Mac hesitates, clearly wanting to argue, but something in Christian’s expression makes him back off. He retreats to his corner of the shop, taking Sophia with him. Even Ash, who’s been quietly watching from his workbench, finds somewhere else to be.
Christian waits until they’re out of earshot before speaking again. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever fucked up? Who’s made choices that hurt people?”
“That’s different.” I lean heavily against the workbench, suddenly exhausted. “Your addiction... that wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it?” He moves closer, voice dropping. “I chose to take that first hit. Chose to keep using even when I knew what it was doing to this family.” His jaw tightens. “You want to talk about guilt? About watching someone you love suffer because of your choices?”
The words hit too close to home. “Christian—”
“No, you need to hear this.” He plants himself directly in front of me, forcing me to meet his eyes. “You think you’re protecting everyone by carrying all this shit alone? By beating yourself up over choices you made when you were barely more than a kid?”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” His voice softens slightly. “Look, I get it. Your mom died, Dad checked out, made a string of questionable decisions with several women, and suddenly you had to be the responsible one. Had to take care of everyone else. All Dad’s fuck-ups. But you were twenty-two, Liam. We were all just kids trying to figure shit out.”
“Kids don’t get people killed.” The words slip out before I can stop them, bitter and raw.
Christian’s expression shifts. “Hannah’s not dead.”
“No thanks to me.” I run a hand over my face, feeling the day’s worth of stubble scratch against my palm. “You saw her that night. When you and Edge saved her... fuck, there was so much blood. And Cameron—” My voice breaks on my son’s name. “He had to watch it happen. Had to see his mother beaten half to death because I was too much of a coward to—”
“To what?” Christian demands. “To stop her from marrying Charlie? You think you could have predicted what he’d become?”
“I should have known something was off about him. The way he looked at her, like she was property. Like she belonged to him.” The memory makes my stomach turn. “But I was so caught up in my own bullshit, so convinced I wasn’t good enough for her.”
“And now?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Now.” Christian crosses his arms. “Are you still convinced you’re not good enough?”
The answer sticks in my throat. Am I? Hannah’s back, but she’s different now. Stronger in some ways, more fragile in others. And Cameron... God, how do I even begin to make up for twelve years of absence?
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I say finally. “She needs time to heal. To figure out who she is without Charlie’s shadow hanging over her. The last thing she needs is me complicating things.”
Christian makes a sound of frustration. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Making decisions for other people. Deciding what’s best for them without actually asking what they want.” He shakes his head. “How’d that work out last time?”
The words land like a punch to the gut. Because he’s right—isn’t that exactly what I did thirteen years ago? Decided what was best for Hannah without giving her a real choice?
That’s not a mistake I can afford to make twice.
The words on the newspaper page blur together as my mind wanders. Again. I’ve been staring at the same article about rising gas prices for ten minutes now, not absorbing a single word. The rich aroma of baking apples and cinnamon wafts from the kitchen, stirring memories I’ve spent years trying to bury.
Hannah loved Grams’s apple pie.
The thought sneaks in before I can stop it, and suddenly I’m back in high school, watching Hannah perched on a kitchen stool while Grams teaches her the secret to perfect pie crust. The way her face lit up when she finally got it right. The way she’d always save me the biggest slice, even though it was her favorite too.
Shaking my head, I force my attention back to the newspaper, but the words might as well be written in Greek for all the sense they make. The sound of Grams humming in the kitchen isn’t helping. It’s the same tune she always hums when she bakes—some old German lullaby her mother taught her. The same one she hummed back then, when this house felt more like a home than a collection of ghosts.
“Mind if I turn on the game?” Dad’s voice startles me. I didn’t even hear him come in.
He stands by his old recliner, the leather cracked and worn from years of use. The sight of him there, silhouetted against the evening light streaming through the window, hits me with another wave of memories. How many nights did we spend just like this when I was young? The soft murmur of the TV, the crack of bats hitting balls, the comfortable silence between us.
“Sure.” I fold the newspaper, grateful for the distraction. “Reds playing tonight?”
He nods, settling into his chair with a grunt. Age is catching up with him—his hair is more gray than brown now, new lines are etched around his eyes. Sometimes I forget he’s not the towering figure of my childhood anymore. He’s just a man who’s made more than his fair share of mistakes.
The TV flickers to life, filling the room with the familiar sounds of a baseball game. For a while, we watch in silence, falling into the old rhythm. The crack of the bat. The roar of the crowd. The endless statistics that scroll across the bottom of the screen.
“You okay?” He asks during a commercial break, his voice carefully neutral. “With Hannah being back and all?”
My grip tightens on the arm of the couch. “I’m fine.”
He makes a noncommittal sound, eyes still on the TV. “Heard some interesting rumors going around town.”
“When aren’t there rumors in this town?”
“About her son. Cameron.”
My heart stops, then kicks into overdrive. This isn’t something we’ve talked about. I keep my face carefully blank, but my palms are suddenly slick with sweat. “What about him?”
“People are saying—” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “They’re saying he might be yours.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. With accusation. With truth I’ve suspected but never confirmed.
“I don’t know.” The words sitting heavy in my gut.
Dad shifts in his chair, the leather creaking. “But you think he is.”
It’s not a question. I look at my father—really look at him—and see understanding in his eyes. Of course he knows. Rumors this big are almost always based on truth.
“Yeah.” The admission feels like letting go of a weight I’ve carried for so long I forgot it was there. “I think he is.”
Dad nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “The timing fits?”
I swallow and it feels like jagged rocks are being forced down my throat. Admitting this—to my father of all people—hurts.
“I was with her two days before her wedding to Charlie.” The memory of that night still burns—Hannah in tears when I showed up at her house, begging me to give us another chance. The way she felt in my arms, like coming home. The way I pushed her away again the next morning, convinced I was doing the right thing. “Nine months later, Cameron was born.”
“Jesus, Liam.” Dad runs a hand over his face. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“I didn’t know it at the time. Until five months ago, I thought he was Charlie’s son.” Bitterness creeps into my voice. “What was I supposed to say anyway? That I slept with another man’s fiancée? That I could have gotten her pregnant right before her wedding? That I let her marry him anyway because I was too much of a coward to fight for her?”
“You were young—”
“I was old enough to know better.” The words come out sharper than intended. “Old enough to know what Charlie’s family was like, what they were capable of. But I convinced myself she’d be better off with him. That he could give her everything I couldn’t.”
The game plays on, forgotten in the background. In the kitchen, Grams’s humming has stopped. I wonder if she’s listening, if she’s known all along too.
“Don’t be like me, son.” Dad’s voice is quiet but intense. “Don’t hide from your responsibilities. Don’t push away the people who matter because you’re afraid of failing them.”
I turn to look at him, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice. He meets my gaze steadily.
“I know I wasn’t the father you boys needed after your mother died.” He continues. “I was lost without Susanne. I was so scared of messing up, of not being enough, that I pulled away. My cowardness made Garret think I blamed him for her death. And then I tried to fill the void with other women, thinking maybe if I found the right one, I could make our family whole again. All I ended up doing was making more sons that I didn’t raise. I will always regret that.”
The smell of apple pie grows stronger, and I know Grams is definitely listening now. She’s never approved of Dad’s string of relationships after Mom died, of the way he brought woman after woman into our lives only to push them away when things got too real.
“All I did was hurt you boys more.” Dad’s voice cracks slightly. “Made you think love wasn’t worth fighting for. Made you think running away was better than risking failure.”
“Dad—”
He holds up a hand, stopping me. “I see you doing the same thing I did. Pushing Hannah away because you’re afraid of not being enough. Trust me when I say, you don’t want to watch your son grow up from a distance. You’ll regret that until the day you die.”
My throat tightens. “It’s not that simple.”
“No.” He agrees. “It’s not. But nothing worth having ever is.” He leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. “That boy deserves to know his father. And Hannah... she deserves the love you’ve got for her.”
The truth hits me hard. He’s right. Of course he’s right. I’ve spent years watching from the shadows, telling myself I was protecting her. But maybe I was just protecting myself.
A timer dings in the kitchen, followed by the sound of the oven door opening. The smell of fresh apple pie fills the house, so strong I can almost taste it.
“Your grandmother’s timing was always impeccable.” Dad’s lips twitch into a small smile. “Go help her get that pie out. And Liam?”
I pause halfway to standing. “Yeah?”
“Do better than I did. I fathered seven amazing sons with four different women and didn’t do right by any of them.” His eyes, so like my own, hold a mixture of regret and hope. “Be the man I should have been. The one I know you can be.”
Before I can respond, Grams calls from the kitchen. “Liam! Come get your pie while it’s hot!”
Dad waves me away, turning back to the game. But as I head toward the kitchen, his words echo in my head.
Do better than I did.
Grams stands at the counter, carefully transferring the pie to a cooling rack. She doesn’t look at me as I enter, but I can see the knowing smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Sit.” She gestures toward the table. “Let it cool for a few minutes first.”
I obey, watching as she moves around the kitchen with practiced ease. She pulls out plates, forks, and the good vanilla ice cream from the freezer. Everything is deliberate. Everything is perfect.
“You heard.” It’s not a question.
“Walls are thin in this old house.” She sets a plate in front of me. “And I’m not deaf yet.”
“Grams—”
“Saw him today. When I dropped off more food.” She cuts me off, her tone matter-of-fact. “That boy has your eyes. Your smile too, when he lets himself show it. Which probably isn’t enough, poor thing.”
My heart clenches. I’ve noticed the same things, watching Cameron from afar. When he looks at me, it’s like looking at my younger self.
“I should have known.” Grams continues, cutting into the pie with precise movements. “She kept that boy away for all these years. Never lettin’ anyone meet him. I just don’t know what to think about that.” She turns her stern no-nonsense stare on me. “Tell me you didn’t know. Tell me you didn’t let that boy grow up without knowin’ his real father.”
The accusation in her voice stings. “I didn’t. But I did let her go. Thought I was doing the right thing.”
“The right thing?” She sets a perfect slice of pie in front of me, steam still rising from the golden crust. “Like pushin’ Hannah away was the right thing? Like watchin’ that monster hurt her was the right thing?”
“I didn’t know—”
“No.” Her voice softens slightly. “You didn’t. But plenty of us suspected. Me included.” She adds a scoop of vanilla ice cream to my plate, watching it melt into the warm pie. “But now you know. Now you have a chance to make it right.”
“How?” The word comes out more desperate than I intended. “How do I even begin to fix this?”
She settles into the chair next to me, her own slice of pie untouched. “You start by being honest. With Hannah. With Cameron. With yourself.”
“And if they hate me?”
“Then you live with that.” She takes my hand, her grip still strong despite her age. “But at least you’ll know you tried. That you didn’t hide like a coward when they needed you most.”
From the living room, the sound of the baseball game drifts in, punctuated by the commentator’s excited voice. Dad cheers at something—a home run maybe, or a great catch. Such a normal moment, yet everything feels different now. Heavier. More real.
“I’m scared, Grams.” The admission feels like ripping off a Band-Aid. “What if I mess this up worse than it already is?”
She squeezes my hand once before letting go. “Then you pick yourself up and try again. That’s what family does.”
Family. The word echoes in my head as I take my first bite of pie. It tastes like childhood, like comfort, like everything good and pure I’ve ever known. Like memories of Hannah in this very kitchen, flour on her cheek and laughter in her eyes.
Like possibilities I thought I’d lost forever.
“Eat your pie.” Grams picks up her fork at last. “It’s best when it’s still warm.”
I nod, letting the familiar taste of apple and cinnamon ground me. Outside, night is falling, casting long shadows across the kitchen floor. In a broken-down house just down the road, my son is probably getting ready for bed. Maybe reading a book, or playing video games, or doing whatever twelve-year-old boys do these days.
My son.
The words still feel strange, but right. Like a truth I’ve always known but been afraid to acknowledge.
“You’re thinkin’ too hard.” Grams nudges my arm. “Eat. The answers will come when they’re ready.”
So I eat, letting the warmth of home and family wash over me.
Letting myself believe, just for a moment, that maybe it’s not too late to fix what I broke all those years ago.