Chapter Four
Hunter
When her text came in, I was mid-workout, sweating through push-ups on the living room floor.
My phone buzzed against the hardwood, vibrating against a stack of unopened mail.
I’d been staring at the same pile for a week: bills, VA paperwork, junk ads, as if I ignored it long enough, it would go away.
My one-bedroom apartment smelled faintly of laundry detergent and last night’s takeout. Simple and functional, just how I liked it. A couch, a coffee table scarred from moving too many times, blinds half-closed against the morning sun. Not much else. No photos on the walls. No clutter.
I dropped onto my knees, breath catching, wiping sweat across my forehead with the back of my hand. Then I saw her name light up the screen.
Camille: So… I know that you know I am a mom.
But before we go out, I should probably tell
you that I have 3 kids. A 5 year old son
and twin 1 and a half year old girls.
I froze. Three. Kids.
I sat back on my heels, wiping sweat off my forehead, staring at the message, thinking the words might rearrange themselves if I blinked enough.
Part of me respected her for being upfront. Most people hide their baggage until the third date or never mention it at all. Another part of me was cautious. Three kids isn’t something you ease into. That’s a whole life and a true responsibility.
And then there was the part of me. The stupid, reckless, hopeful part, whispering: You’ve always wanted this.
I pictured barefoot mornings, the sunlight creeping into the kitchen where laughter bounced off the walls.
I imagined helping with homework spread out on the kitchen table, teaching my kids how to ride dirt bikes, the joy-filled chaos of pancake breakfasts, and showing them the peace of a day in the woods.
The kind of family rhythm that wasn’t perfect but felt like home.
My apartment often boasted a quiet atmosphere.
I’d filled it with workouts, work, mindless TV, anything but family.
Ten years in the Marine Corps had taught me how to survive in desert heat and sandstorms, how to clear rooms in seconds, how to keep my face blank when my chest was screaming.
But it hadn’t taught me how to come home to nothing.
My marriage hadn’t survived it. Maybe it never had a chance; we were young when we married.
She’d told me she couldn’t handle the deployments, the distance, the version of me who came back quieter each time.
She was right. I hadn’t handled it well either.
And when we split up, I’d told myself I wasn’t meant for family. Not anymore.
That was before she came storming in funny, smart, gorgeous, and honest as hell. She had kids. A whole world orbiting her. Yet, instead of fear, I felt that dangerous pull. I wanted it.
I typed slowly, careful not to overplay my hand:
Me: I would like one of my own one day. If you
didn’t want to have any more kids, I would
understand… but it may be a deal
breaker for me.
My thumb hovered before hitting send. It felt too honest, too forward. But I’d promised myself I wasn’t going to play games anymore. If I wanted real, I had to be real.
So I hit Send. Then I waited. And waited.
The typing dots came up. Disappeared. Came back again. I imagined her reading my words, frowning, maybe deciding this was the moment to ghost me.
Then, finally:
Camille: What’s another car
seat, right?
I stared at it for a long second, not sure if she was joking or testing the waters. Relief loosened the tight knot that had been sitting in my chest all night.
Me: You say that like you’re
okay with it.
Camille: I don’t know. I think…
part of me could be. Maybe
not now. But someday.
Me: Someday sounds pretty
good to me.
Underneath the jokes, my thoughts kept circling. Three kids. That wasn’t just dating. This wasn’t “grab a drink and maybe text tomorrow.” But I wasn’t afraid of it. I was afraid of screwing it up.
I set the phone down, leaned back against the couch, and let the truth sink in.
She thought this would scare me off. Maybe it should have. But her honesty made me want her more. If she could lay it all out, maybe I could be man enough to try again.
???
The next afternoon, I picked up my phone that sat at the coffee table beside a half-drunk energy drink. I thumbed a new message before I could overthink it.
Me: So, about this mini golf date…
what’s the prize for the winner?
Camille: Pride. Bragging rights.
Ice Cream.
Me: Sounds like you’ve thought
this through.
Camille: Only because I plan
on winning.
Me: I admire the confidence.
Even if it’s misplaced.
Camille: We’ll see about that. And for
the record, if you don’t let me win,
you’re a monster.
I chuckled, shaking my head. I wasn’t going to let her win. And I had a feeling she’d respect me more for it. I told myself it was just mini golf, nothing more. But as the day went on, I kept checking the time like a damn teenager.
Eventually, I found myself at the mini golf lot, ten minutes early. Old habits die hard. In the Marine Corps, you’re taught that you’re either early or late, nothing in between.
I leaned against the fence, watching families chase kids with ice cream cones, a couple arguing quietly near the ticket stand. It was all background noise until I saw her walking toward me.
She was shorter than I expected, her curves soft, her hair a wild swirl of brown curls framing her face.
Her jeans fit like they were made just for her, hugging each curve of her body.
She paired her jeans with a loose-fitting top that moved as she did.
Her presence was genuine and warm, and it knocked the air out of me for a second.
“Camille?” I asked, even though I already knew it was her.
She gave me a small, almost shy smile, eyes flicking up and down, telling me she wasn’t sure if I was real yet.
“Hunter.” Her voice was soft. Reserved.
When I leaned in for a quick hug, her scent hit me first. Vanilla, with a trace of rose and jasmine that lingered just long enough to mess with my head. She fit perfectly in my arms, like that’s where she’d always been meant to be.
It was her. Completely, undeniably her.
When I pulled back, she was hesitant, as if she was still sizing me up. I offered a grin, trying to lighten the weight in the air. “Still disappointed that I catfished you?”
That earned me a surprised laugh, and I filed the sound away immediately. I needed to hear that again.
We grabbed our putters, hers neon pink, mine neon green, and headed to the first hole.
I could tell she was nervous. She chewed on her lip when she thought I wasn’t looking, kept her eyes down a little longer than most people do.
But underneath all that, there was something steady in her.
She might not have realized it, but I could tell she wasn’t the type to break easily.
“Alright,” I said, lining up my ball. “Before we start, ground rules: I don’t let people win. You’ve got to earn it.” I should have probably done the chivalrous thing and let her win. I’ve been told I can be too competitive sometimes, but something told me she could handle it.
She arched her brow. “Wow. Straight to intimidation. Bold.”
“Not intimidation. Just being straight with you. You want fake? Wrong guy.”
Her lips twitched. “Noted. But if I lose, I’m blaming the putter.”
“Of course,” I said, deadpan. “Always blame the gear.” She laughed again, softer, and it left me with a feeling I couldn’t name.
When she took her first shot, the ball ricocheted off the windmill and bounced straight into the little fake stream running along the side. She froze, then groaned. “Oh my Gosh. That did not just happen.”
I bit my cheek, trying not to laugh. And failed. “Don’t worry, rookie mistake. Happens to the best.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she muttered as I fished the ball out for her.
“I’m a simple guy,” I shrugged. “Good food, cold beer, and watching my date try to kill golf balls.”
She shot me a look, equal parts glare and amusement. “Careful. I might take you down with this putter.”
“Noted. Mental checklist: don’t anger the five-two woman with a weaponized mini golf stick.”
Her smile widened, spark in her eyes. That right there was worth every bad date and lonely night. As we played, she relaxed. Banter clicked into place. I teased, and she fired back. Quietly competitive; she pretended not to care, but the little fist pump when she sank a shot said otherwise.
The game went like that: her groaning at wild shots, me teasing, her firing back.
Grass and flowers in the air, background noise from other players.
Somewhere between the bad shots and the laughter, she loosened up.
And me? I couldn’t stop watching her. Not just her curves or her curls, but the way she carried herself.
Like she’d built her walls high, but underneath, she wanted someone to try climbing them.
“So I guess we gotta lie and tell your kids you won?” I asked playfully.
She snorted. “Please. Like my kids would ever believe that.”
“Smart kids,” I said with a grin. Her laughter rang out again, and damn if something didn’t shift in me.
I found myself laughing alongside her. It’s been a long time since I let myself think about forever.
But watching her brush curls from her eyes and roll them at my bad jokes, I realized something I hadn’t expected.
Forever didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a shot I might actually want to take.