Chapter Five
Camille
Hunter smiled at me as we walked back to the lot, and wow…
pictures hadn’t done him justice. He was taller than I expected, broad shoulders filling out a plain gray t-shirt that clung to him and hinted at muscle without trying too hard.
His joggers looked lived-in but clean, displaying a casual confidence that didn’t need effort to make an impression.
And those Vans, crisp and spotless, said more about him than I expected.
He noticed the little things and took pride in them.
Then there were his eyes. Blue. Not just light-blue-like-the-ocean cliche, but sharp, clear, and so direct it made my stomach flip. It was a warm day in California, but I don’t think it was the outside heat that left me feeling flushed.
What really drew me in was the tattoo on his left arm, inked from shoulder to wrist in intricate lines, weaving together two koi fish circling each other.
The detail was beautiful, scales shaded with care, water curling around them so the tattoo almost seemed to move.
My eyes lingered longer than I meant, and when I glanced up, his grin had deepened, just a little.
He carried his past on his skin; the places he’d been, the things he’d survived, all there in the ink and the way he stood. Confident and grounded, a man who’d seen too much and still smiled. And I couldn’t look away.
I wasn’t supposed to like him this much. That was the first thought running through my head as I pulled into my apartment complex, parked my car, and gripped the steering wheel as if it might tell me what to do next.
The second thought? Dang, he’s cute.
Not just in the obvious ways: blue eyes, ginger beard, tall enough that I had to tilt my chin to meet his gaze. Cute in the way he laughed easily, in the way he didn’t coddle me during mini golf, like he trusted I could handle the teasing.
And me? I was spiraling.
It should have been a warning sign; men who seemed too good to be true usually were.
Still, I kept replaying the small things.
The way he leaned on his putter, patient, like he had all the time in the world.
The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
The way he fished my golf ball out without making me feel small, and didn’t show frustration when I accidentally slammed my putter into his shin.
I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel and groaned. “Oh no. I like him.” That was dangerous. Liking him meant risk, and hope was an idea that had burned me before.
Inside my apartment, the kids slept tangled in blankets, their cheeks soft and warm beneath my fingertips as I tucked them in.
My mom was dozing on the couch, glasses still perched on her nose, some crime show humming low in the background.
Gratitude pinched my chest. Without her, I wouldn’t even have the chance to date again.
I tried to busy myself with packing lunches, rinsing sippy cups, picking up Legos, but my mind was still on him. On the way, he looked at me like I wasn’t too much.
Then my phone buzzed.
Hunter: Did you make it home, beautiful?
Thanks for not throwing the game.
I’m still proud of my win.
A laugh slipped out. He was right. I’d never forgive him if he let me win.
Me: I’m home. And I guess I’ll just
have to train for the rematch.
Hunter: Oh, so we’re already planning
a second date?
I pressed the phone to my chest, hating myself for how much I loved the way it felt.
Later, in bed, sleep didn’t come. I replayed the way he leaned close, the way he didn’t flinch at my chaos, the way he teased but never crossed the line. And still, the fear lingered. What if he’s like the rest? What if he gets bored? What if three kids is three too many?
Hunter: So, honest question… if there was
a trophy for worst mini golfer, do you
think you’d win, or should I still enter
the competition?
Me: Bold words for someone who
almost tripped over his
own putter.
Hunter: That was strategy. Distract
the competition.
Me: Right. Sure. Keep telling
yourself that.
Hunter: Admit it. You had fun.
I hesitated, thumb hovering. Admitting I’d had fun felt risky since it meant wanting more, and wanting more always carried the chance of disappointment. But the truth was there. My cheeks still ached from laughing.
Me: Fine. Maybe I did. Don’t let it
go to your head.
Hunter: Too late. It’s already there.
I tossed the phone onto the couch, as if I could put some distance between myself and the giddiness bubbling up inside me. Twenty-five, single mom, bills, classes, laundry piling up. Yet here I was, feeling like a teenager with a crush.
Still, when the phone buzzed again, I reached for it like it was air.
Hunter: So… second date? Or are
you too scared to lose again?
My heart stuttered. He wasn’t running. He wanted more.
Me: We’ll see. Don’t you know you’re
supposed to wait three business
days before asking?
Hunter: Pretty sure that rule
was invented by people who
didn’t have my charm
Me: Wow. Modest too.
Hunter: You’ll learn to appreciate it.
I curled up on the couch, warmth spreading through me even as the old voice whispered in my ear.
The one that said I was too much, that no one stayed, that I came with too much baggage.
The voice left behind by the man who walked away, who chose freedom and late nights while I pieced together a life for three babies under five.
Then one last buzz.
Hunter: Goodnight, Beautiful.
Sweet dreams. Don’t practice
too hard without me.
Me: Goodnight. Thanks for making
me laugh tonight.
I turned off the lamp, curled onto my side, and let the thoughts slip into the dark.
???
The next morning, the apartment was in chaos. Cheerios spilled on the light laminate counter, my oldest insisting his favorite shirt was “lost” (it was in the hamper), my youngest crying because her sister stole her pacifier. Mom slipping out quietly with a hug and a “call me later.”
By the time Dani showed up mid-afternoon, I was exhausted, barefoot, and already halfway convinced I had made the whole date up. She walked in like she owned the place, tossing her purse on the couch.
Dani had this presence you felt before you even saw her.
She moved through the world with bold, unstoppable energy, the type of friend who barged through doors instead of knocking.
Her straight blonde hair was usually left down, sleek and shiny, catching the light when she tilted her head in laughter.
A pair of oversized sunglasses often rested on her head, even indoors or after sunset, because subtlety had never been her strong suit.
She was sharp-tongued, soft-hearted, the type of friend who could roast you one minute and show up with fries, a milkshake, and a hug the next.
Dani filled every room, not just with her voice or her wit, but with a loyalty so fierce there was never any doubt.
If she was in your corner, she was all in.
“Okay, spill. Was he a creep, or is that post-date glow I see?” Dani said.
I groaned, flopping onto the couch. “Do I really look like I’m glowing?”
“Like a light bulb, babe. Come on, don’t hold out on me.”
So I told her. About mini golf, about how he didn’t let me win, about his laugh, and the way he called me Beautiful. About how he’d texted me goodnight.
Dani grinned like she had just won the lottery. “Oh my God, you like him. Like-like.”
“I don’t like-like anyone,” I said too quickly. She raised an eyebrow. “Camille. You’re smiling while you talk about him. When’s the last time you did that?” I bit my lip. She wasn’t wrong. “OMG, did you guys kiss?” Dani whisper yelled. But of course it was loud enough for listening ears.
“Kiss who, mommy?” Zeke said innocently, showing he was listening in even as he played with his sisters a few feet away.
“No one baby, Auntie Dani is just being silly.” I said, glaring at her while mouthing “Seriously?”
But then the doubts spilled out too. My kids, my past, my ex, my fear of letting someone in.
Dani listened, her hand squeezing mine. “Look,” she said finally.
“You’ve been carrying the weight of the world for years.
Maybe it’s okay if someone comes along who actually wants to help carry it with you. Just… give him a chance.”
I wanted to. I really did. But giving chances was how I’d been hurt before. That night, as I tucked my kids into bed, her words echoed in my mind. Give him a chance. And lying awake, staring at the ceiling, I realized the scariest part: I already wanted to.
???
Unfortunately, Monday mornings at the doctor’s office didn’t care if you’d had a magical first date over the weekend.
By eight a.m., I was in scrubs, hair pulled into a puff of curls that were already trying to escape, and answering phones that wouldn’t stop ringing.
Insurance questions, prescription refills, patients arriving late for appointments, it was the usual chaos.
“Camille, do you mind rooming Mr. Collins?” the lead medical assistant asked, handing me a chart.
“On it,” I said, flashing a polite smile that was more muscle memory than sincerity.
The routine was familiar: check vitals, ask questions, type notes into the computer. All while pretending I wasn’t running on three hours of sleep because my mind had refused to shut down the night before.
Every patient reminded me why I was in school.
I wasn’t just clocking hours for a paycheck.
I was watching, listening, collecting stories of pain and resilience.
The way I placed a gentle hand on a distraught patient’s shoulder, offering a reassuring smile or a few comforting words, was a tiny step toward the role I aspired to play.
One day, I wouldn’t just be the one taking vitals or handing out clipboards.
One day, I’d help people untangle their thoughts, help them feel seen.
But for now, I was juggling: full-time mom, part-time student, full-time employee, and maybe, just maybe, someone with a dating life.