Chapter Seven #2
Her smile faded a little as she looked down at her hands, twisting her cup. “Yeah. Still here.”
I caught myself then. I knew that tone. That weight.
It was the same one I carried when people asked about deployments or the divorce, too much truth sitting just beneath the surface.
My hand itched to close the space between us, to trace the line of her wrist, but I held back.
Instead, I leaned back, kept my voice steady.
“You don’t have to impress me. The fact that you’re holding all that together and still who you are? That’s already impressive enough.”
Her eyes lifted, locking onto mine. For a moment, the noise of the café around us faded out.
“Most guys don’t think so,” she said quietly. “Most guys hear ‘single mom’ and suddenly remember they left the oven on.”
“Well, I’m not most guys.” It came out sharper than I intended, but I meant it.
Silence stretched between us for a beat, heavy but not uncomfortable. She studied me, trying to decide whether to believe me.
So I softened it with a grin. “Besides, if I’m being honest, you juggling all that just makes me feel lazy. I only have one job, and I still complain about Mondays.”
She laughed, the heaviness breaking. “You? Complain? Shocking.” Rolling her eyes theatrically.
“Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my reputation.”
That laugh hit me. Made me want to keep stacking jokes just to hear them again. But under the banter, the truth was clear: she was strong. Stronger than she knew. And I was already in deeper than I’d planned. Closer than I meant to be.
A year out of marriage. A year as a civilian.
And here I was, already picturing what it’d be like to sit at her kitchen table, help with homework, carry some of the weight she carried alone.
Dangerous thoughts, too soon. But as she ate her ice cream and gave me that crooked smile, I wanted to see where this went. I wanted to try.
So I leaned into what I knew best, lightness. Keep things simple. Keep things easy. “So,” I said, nodding at her cone, now free of sprinkles. “Looks like we got a crisis?”
Her eyes flicked up, warm and mischievous, before she rolled them dramatically. “Oh, please.” A grin tugged at her lips, giving her away.
“Figures,” I said, smirking as I leaned back, trying to look casual when my chest felt like it was buzzing. “Losing sprinkles is serious business.”
Her mouth fell open in mock outrage. “Excuse me? That was not just sprinkles. That was the best part.”
“Noted,” I said, biting back a grin. “Next time, I’ll order you a side of sprinkles. No ice cream required.”
She laughed, shaking her head, the sound spilling into the air. “One day you’re going to regret making fun of me.”
“Highly doubt it.” I let the corner of my mouth curve into a cocky grin, but inside? I was just relieved. Relieved, she was laughing with me, not at me, that she hadn’t decided I was too much or too little.
And the way she leaned across the table, eyes sparking, told me she was enjoying it too. We let the moment linger, her laughter mixing with mine, until the weight between us eased again.
She told me a little more about her life while I listened, actually listened, because the way she told stories was magnetic. Animated hands, quick wit, a little self-deprecating humor. I could tell she had insecurities by the way she shared things and often kept her eyes everywhere but on mine.
When she flipped the question back at me, “So what about you? What’s life like now that you’re out?” I kept it vague.
Her eyes searched mine, waiting for more, but I didn’t give it. Not yet. The rest, the late nights, the nightmares, the divorce, stayed locked down. She didn’t push. Just nodded and smiled like she understood more than I’d said. We lingered until the place started closing down.
When I walked her out, the night air was sharp. I wanted to reach for her hand, tuck a curl behind her ear, anything to make the moment last. I didn’t. Not yet.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said, leaning against my truck.
“Thanks for inviting me,” she said, brushing her curls aside. The streetlight caught her smile, almost knocking the air out of me. We stood there a moment, silence heavy but good. She laughed softly. “Guess this means you get a mini golf rematch after all.”
“Looking forward to it,” I said, grinning.
I walked her to her small white Ford hatchback. I wasn’t sure how she fit three car seats inside, but when I opened the door, there they were.
One grey. Two bright pink. All crammed together in the back like puzzle pieces in a space too small for the lives they were holding.
The sight stopped me for a second. They weren’t just car seats.
They were proof of the world she lived in, the world she carried everywhere with her.
Sticky fingers, mismatched socks, little voices calling her name.
Those three seats meant three lives depended on her every single day.
And if I were being honest, they made the air shift.
I’d seen a lot in my life: combat zones, endless desert, explosions that rattled the earth under my boots.
But this? Three small seats in the back of a car hit me harder than I expected.
It wasn’t theoretical; it wasn’t a story she told over ice cream.
It was right there in front of me. Tangible.
A reminder that dating her wasn’t just dating her.
It was stepping into all of this. Into them.
She noticed me looking and gave a little laugh, almost self-conscious. “Yeah. It’s a tight fit. We make it work.”
I forced a smile, but inside I wasn’t laughing.
Inside, I was taking in the gravity of it.
Three kids who didn’t know me yet. Three kids who didn’t need another person walking in only to leave.
The thought made me uneasy. Not because I didn’t want it.
But because I did. She deserved more. One day, I’d get her the car she deserved, which offered space for her and her kids.
I respected that she worked hard and did her best; her kids’ smiles showed that, but I hated that she felt she should be embarrassed.
Responsibility had once been a weight that broke my back.
But standing there, looking at those three seats?
I realized maybe the door wasn’t closed at all.
Maybe I’d just been too afraid to try again.
“You’ve got a superhero car,” I said, keeping it light. “Looks small, but it carries a whole world.”
She smiled, brushed a curl behind her ear, and for a second, I wished I could tell her the truth. That I wasn’t scared of the car seats, the noise, or the chaos. I was scared of wanting to belong there too much. “Thanks, Hunter,” she said, voice low. I started to say “Anytime,” but the words stuck.
For a second, we stood there too close, too aware. Then she leaned in and kissed my cheek. It shot through me like a live wire. “Goodnight,” she whispered, cheeks flushed. I couldn’t help but grin.
“Goodnight, Beautiful.” She climbed into her car, and I shut the door behind her, still feeling the ghost of that kiss on my skin. That night, I drove home with a fierce and unfamiliar burning in my chest.