Chapter Three
Camille
Iprepared myself for the call, considering the advice Dani had given me as I ran around, scrambling to make myself presentable. “When in doubt, smile, you’ll distract him from whatever craziness comes out of your mouth.” It was relatively unhelpful advice, but that is what I planned to do.
The screen flickered, and there he was. Blue eyes, brighter than any photo could have captured.
Ginger beard, fuller than the clean-shaven shots he’d posted.
My first thought wasn’t fair. No one should look better on FaceTime than in their carefully chosen profile pictures.
My second thought was worse: I can’t keep my eyes off him.
I tried to play it off, angling the phone so the lamplight wouldn’t catch every tired line on my face.
My reflection stared back, curls twisted into a loose bun, dark circles louder than anything I could say.
I almost wished I hadn’t answered. I decided to put my degree in psychology to work and redirected my anxiety.
Deflection would suffice here. I found my voice, tilting my head.
“You know, I think this technically counts as catfishing. You lured me in with Mr. Clean-Shaven Military Man, and now here you are, rugged mountain man with a ginger beard.”
His laugh was low and easy, warmth settling somewhere deep within me. He leaned back, the light catching the copper in his beard. “Catfish, huh? Should I be offended?” His voice teased, soft and sure, washing over me.
I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting the smile that wanted to give me away. “Not really. Turns out I don’t mind at all.” My gaze lingered on the scruff, how it softened him, made him look less polished, more real. Too real. Too good. Too close to dangerous. “You wear scruffy well.”
The grin he gave me should’ve been illegal. “Glad you approve, Beautiful.” His voice dipped just enough on that last word to make my pulse skip. “And for the record, I wasn’t lying. I don’t take pictures often. Those were… older.”
Beautiful. The word echoed in my mind, unexpectedly heavy.
He didn’t toss it out the way people do with pet names; he meant it, called me that like a fact.
I felt exposed, uncertain how to receive it.
Why does this word feel like a risk? I touched my hair, trying to steady the nervous flutter in my stomach, unsure of what to make of things.
“Older, like six months?” I teased.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Try a couple years. From before I got out. I don’t like pictures, never really did.”
I remembered his texts from a few nights ago, the way he’d said it so simply.
I’m not active duty anymore. Did ten years before getting out a year and a half ago.
I’m a government contractor on the same base now.
He hadn’t offered more, and I hadn’t asked.
Still, the mention of his military past left me tangled in curiosity and caution.
There was something dependable in that kind of service, a dedication that hinted at who he was beneath the surface.
But I couldn’t help wondering what a decade in the military did to a person, what it left behind.
I wanted to ask what made him leave, if he missed it, or if the shift to civilian life still felt strange.
The questions hovered, quiet and insistent, threads I wanted to pull until his story unraveled between us.
Instead, I gasped, letting the drama fill my voice. “So you admit it! You’ve been hiding behind retired military pictures. Definitely a scam.” I pressed my lips together, fighting off a wave of childish giggles.
His grin widened, all boyish mischief. He leaned in, the camera catching the way his smile tugged sideways. “First off, a catfish is when someone pretends to be someone else completely. Fake name, fake pictures, different age, the whole scam. That’s not me at all,” He lifted a brow.
“Fine! You’re right. I guess I’ll give you a pass.” I said, shaking my head, trying not to smile.
He laughed under his breath, low and rough. “A pass? Careful, Cami. You hand those out too easily, and I might start thinking you actually like talking to me.”
I rolled my eyes, though the corners of my lips betrayed me. “Maybe I just feel sorry for you.”
“Yeah?” he said, leaning in a little closer, voice warm and teasing. “Funny. Although it doesn’t sound like pity when you say it.”
“I’m at a loss for words,” I said, half laughing, half breathless.
His grin turned lazy, eyes dark with amusement. “Didn’t think that was possible. Should I be proud or worried?” The confidence in his voice wrapped around me. And the truth? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled this much with anyone.
I tucked my legs beneath me on the couch, chewing my lip, wishing I didn’t feel so exposed through a glowing screen.
We talked until my cheeks ached from smiling.
Our conversation drifted: the motorcycle he’d been working on before our call, his family, the Marine Corps, my dream of becoming a therapist, my craving for vanilla ice cream.
Each piece slotted into place with a kind of ease I wasn’t used to.
The conversation made me forget everything else I had going on.
Connection with him was a breath of fresh air: equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.
“So,” he started, drawing the word out. “Since I’ve already survived your catfish accusations, when do I get to redeem myself in person?”
I blinked. “Redeem yourself?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding as if it were obvious. “I think mini golf should do it.”
I raised a brow. “Mini golf?”
I should be careful. Careful protects me and the kids; being careless brings pain.
Letting someone new in means risking more than my feelings.
It was risking three little hearts, too.
Last time, trusting someone cost pieces of myself I didn’t get back whole, and I can’t do that again.
Am I ready for this? Still, as he looked at me, doubt tangled with hope.
Why does his gaze make me feel seen and dangerous at once?
My hand moved to my hair again, signaling nerves I swore I’d hide.
He smirked knowingly. “Am I making you nervous?”
I groaned, covering my face with my hand before dropping it just enough to peek at him through my fingers, and he winked. Heat crept up my neck, and I hated how fast my stomach flipped. Ugh, I’m ridiculous. He’s just a guy on a screen. Stop acting like a teenager.
I muttered. “I’m not nervous.”
He leaned in closer, his eyes crinkling at the corners, the screen filled with that maddeningly confident face. “You are. And it’s cute.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I was sure he saw it. “Stop calling me cute. I’m a grown woman.”
His brows lifted, tone dipping into something low and teasing. “Who says grown women can’t be cute? ”
I shook my head, biting down on a grin I couldn’t stop. “You really don’t quit, do you?”
“Not when it comes to you,” he said, leaning in again, voice warm and smooth, “And you don’t seem to mind. You’re still on this call.”
My stomach fluttered. My fingers tightened around the phone.
Should I say no? Should I remind him how impossibly messy my life is?
Everything feels tangled and relentless: last night, up past midnight finishing a report as the twins clambered out of bed, convinced monsters lurked in their closet.
This morning, syrup from Zeke’s breakfast cooled on my bare feet while I tripped over a forgotten toy, a plastic wheel pressed into my shin.
Chaos reigns, every moment demanding, barely space to breathe.
Yet underneath, I ache for a sliver of peace.
Could someone fit into this whirlwind, bring laughter and warmth?
All I managed was, “I’ll… let you know… About mini golf. My schedule’s crazy.”
“Fair enough,” he said easily, no pressure in his tone, just reassurance. “But I’ll hold you to it. Mini golf. You and me.”
And that’s when my pulse skipped, because he didn’t sound annoyed or disappointed. He sounded sure. Like he had all the time in the world.
“Okay, fine,” I said, fumbling for composure. “Mini golf sounds fun.”
“Good. Talk soon, Beautiful,” he said, his voice low and warm.
When the screen went black, I just sat there for a moment, staring at my own flushed face in the dark reflection of my phone.
Mini golf. A date. The thought alone sent my stomach into knots.
Because it wasn’t just mini golf. It was everything that came with saying yes.
Letting someone see me outside the world I worked so hard to hold together.
Letting myself be more than a mom or student.
I was stepping onto an overgrown path. Each step revealed something new.
Thrilling and a little daunting. Maybe, just maybe, that path could lead to laughter and warmth even chaos couldn’t touch.
Maybe, beneath all my hesitations, there was a spark of wanting.
A breath of something new. A leap into the unknown.
Hoping for something I hadn’t dared to imagine.
My eyes drifted toward the hallway, where the soft glow of the nightlight spilled across the kid’s door.
The twins’ little snores carried faintly through the apartment.
They were my world. My first, last, and every choice in between.
The thought of bringing someone into that world felt reckless. Dangerous.
And yet…
I couldn’t deny how easy it had been to laugh with him. How natural it felt, even through a screen, to talk about everything and nothing all at once. I pulled the blanket tighter around me, sinking into the couch as if I could hide from the flutter in my chest.
I could tell him I was busy, push it off a little longer.
Keep things safe. But the truth was, his teasing smile lingered in my thoughts.
When he joked with me, it was as if he could sense the yes hidden beneath my excuses; it made my defenses weaken, even when I told myself I wasn’t ready.
Was being ready even important? What if, instead, it mattered more that I admitted I wanted this?
With that thought, I let hope take root, daring to imagine something bright and new could grow from this cautious step.