Page 3 of Living for Truth (Broken Shelves #2)

Hannah

I ’ve been warned about strangers and the dangers they present since I was a child.

Don’t talk to strangers.

Especially strangers on the internet!

They’ll kidnap you!

They’ll steal your identity!

They’ll sell you into a sex trafficking ring!

No wonder I have anxiety.

Now, I’m an unwed—technically divorced—twenty-six-year-old, and people are encouraging me to get on dating apps or setting me up with their cousin’s best friend’s dog sitter.

Someone who’s well-adjusted might think, “Twenty-six? That’s so young to be divorced already!”

When you live in Utah and grow up Mormon, the norm is to get married straight out of high school—which I did—and pop out your first kid nine months from your wedding day—which I didn’t, though not for a lack of trying.

Divorce isn’t as common as one would think. People usually just stay in unhappy marriages and pretend everything is peachy keen, especially in Mormon culture.

My ex-husband was adamant we weren’t meant to be, even though we were married for almost eight years, and I wanted to make the marriage work. In the end, he initiated the separation and sent the papers, and I didn’t have any fight left in me.

That’s how I ended up on yet another date with a “sweet boy who would be just perfect for you!” according to my mom’s best friend.

Twenty-seven-year-old Brody Smith. Dora’s grandson’s old mission companion, oldest child of six, served his mission in Peru, just graduated from Brigham Young University with his MBA.

His “dating resume” plays on a constant loop in my head, as if it’s different from any other BYU boy. They even tend to look the same.

Blue eyes, blonde hair perfectly gelled up in the front and tapered on the sides, and a clean-shaven face.

He’s wearing a short sleeve, blue button-up with khaki chinos and brown dress shoes, all of which are probably from Target or Zara.

He’s not… unattractive per se , but he’s just…

unoriginal. I don’t feel anything towards him.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I don’t feel anything positive towards him.

He’s been rambling for fifteen minutes about crypto currency. It started with me asking who he admires most, and his answer?

“Every smart person I admire in the world, and those I semi-fear, is focused on the concept of crypto.”

I tuned him out after he started talking about beaver markets or bear markets or something. It’s times like these I wish I could openly drink alcohol because I think it would make this conversation significantly less painful.

Why can’t I drink alcohol openly at twenty-six?

Well, it’s against Mormon rules. My first experience with alcohol was six months ago when Liam handed me divorce papers as he walked out of our shared apartment, bags in hand.

I went straight to the liquor store, bought a box of cheap wine, and drank half of it in one night.

The hangover after wasn’t fun, but it numbed the pain of ending what I thought would be an eternal love, at least for the night.

My phone buzzes, and I glance down to see a text from an unknown number. My brow furrows as I read the message.

Unknown: I had a great time tonight, but I just don’t think we’re going to work out.

“Hannah, are you listening to me?”

I look up at Brody with a faux apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Brody. It was so riveting to listen to you talk about the bear market—”

“It’s BULL market.”

“Right, bull market. My brother just texted me to remind me it’s my turn to let out our parents’ dog,” I lie with an exaggerated pout, grabbing my purse and standing from the table. Do my parents have a dog? No. But he doesn’t know that.

“Oh. Okay. Well, call me sometime, and I can help set you up with your own crypto account. Maybe we can finish this date,” he purrs as he stands and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into an awkward embrace.

I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Sure.”

Apparently—and unfortunately—he takes it as his cue to kiss me goodbye. Somehow his lips are dry and greasy from the burger he practically inhaled. I suppress a gag as his tongue tries to weasel its way into my mouth in the middle of this restaurant.

My phone pings with another text, and I push him away gently.

Saved by the bell. “Bye, Brody.”

“Bye, beautiful.”

Gross. I roll my eyes as soon as I turn away from him and walk as fast as I can out of the restaurant and to my car.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to be complimented, but I got the impression he’d try to dry hump me to orgasm—for him, not me—then ghost me because I don’t fit the “vibe” of his future wife or some bullshit like that.

Unknown : I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings. You’re a super cool guy and smokin' hot, totally out of my league, but we just aren’t compatible. We’re at different places in our lives.

I smirk as I read the message. Way to try to save this guy’s ego, unknown texter.

Hannah : I think you have the wrong number.

Unknown: This is Morgan. Is this not Blake?

Hannah: Nope. Sorry.

Unknown: Prove it.

Hannah : Excuse me?

Unknown: Send me a pic so I know you’re not Blake playing games.

Hannah : Absolutely not. I’m not sending my picture to a random stranger.

Unknown : Then how do I know you’re not Blake?

As a woman on the dating scene, this Morgan lady should understand why I’m not going to just send my picture to random strangers.

I get into my car, turn on my “bad date” playlist, and let Taylor Swift and Carrie Underwood soothe my soul with music about men who have done them wrong.

Hannah : My name is Hannah, I WAS just on a date but with a dude named Brody who talked for fifteen minutes about the importance of crypto currency then tried to stick his greasy tongue in my mouth. You don’t have to believe me, but trust me, I’d rather be Blake.

Unknown: Alright, I believe you. I don’t think anyone would make that up lol.

I huff out a laugh and place my phone in the cup holder as I make my escape.

When I pull up in front of the place I call home, I take a deep breath and plaster on a smile before I walk inside.

Unfortunately for me, I had to move back into my childhood home. I didn’t want to have to live with four other girls in order to make rent. Living at home lets me save money and build up a nest egg for when I eventually do move out.

My mom, Shelly, is sitting in her usual spot on the couch watching a Hallmark movie and scrolling through her phone when I walk in.

I don’t really look like her. Or my dad, for that matter.

Mom has long, brown hair she streaks with blonde highlights, blue eyes, and a pointed nose she always seems to be looking down.

My dad’s bald, save for a thin ring of graying hair shaped like a “U” around his head, and has brown eyes.

Sometimes I wonder if I was adopted because I don’t have much in common with them, and I don’t feel like we have a familial bond.

It’s like we’re all business partners who meet for nightly business meetings they call “family dinner.”

“Hannah.” She looks at the time. “Oh, you’re home early. Did the date not go well?”

“It went okay. I don’t think we’ll go out again.” Better to keep it short and simple. I don’t need her telling her friends another one of my dates didn’t go anywhere.

Who am I kidding? She’ll tell them anyway, even if I don’t say a damn thing.

“Oh.” She frowns. “That’s a shame. Brody seems like such a nice boy. You know, your biological clock is ticking, Hannah.”

My jaw tenses, like it always does when this conversation happens.

“I know, Mom. It’s not like I’m not trying.

I can’t magically make the perfect man appear in front of me on one knee.

” It’s not my fault my body didn’t want to cooperate and keep a child, either.

Or did she forget the multiple miscarriages I had?

“Well, maybe you need to be less picky. I mean, what was wrong with Brody? He comes from a good, faithful family. He served a mission, is temple worthy, has a degree and a good job.”

I want to say: “He didn’t ask me a single question about myself. He looked disgusted when I ordered a burger instead of a salad like he suggested and could only talk about crypto currency.”

Instead, I say, “There was just no chemistry between us.”

Mom sighs disappointedly. “Well, maybe if you focused a little more on taking better care of yourself there would be some chemistry.”

Alright, I’m not going there tonight.

“Right. Okay, well, I’m going to go… somewhere else. Goodnight.”

As I make it to the bottom of the stairs, she calls out, “You need to stop being so sensitive! I love you, and I’m worried about you!”

I pretend I don’t hear her.

As soon as I’m in my room, I flop on the bed and scream into my pillow. Of course she thinks it’s because of my body. It can’t be any other reason other than I’m picky, I’m not trying, or I’m fat.

My mom acts like I wasn’t married for eight years. Like I’m just refusing to get married even though my divorce was only finalized three months ago. Everyone expects me to just… move on from an eight-year relationship like it meant nothing to me.

I stand and look at myself in the full length mirror on my closet door.

I felt pretty when I put on my favorite blush pink bodysuit underneath a black and white daisy print mid calf-length skirt.

I thought the black wedges I paired the outfit with made my calves look good, but now the ugly thoughts are creeping in and showing me what everyone else sees.

A double chin.

Flabby arms.

Big boobs weighed down by gravity.

A pudgy stomach with an apron belly covered in stretch marks.

Thighs littered with cellulite that rub together and chafe when I walk.

Dirty blonde hair chopped to just below my chin—a post-divorce impulsive cut.

Hazel eyes.

I’m not the thin, perky, blue-eyed, blonde girl of everyone’s dreams.

But if someone doesn’t want me for me, then I don’t want them.