Chapter Nine
Camille
Morning came like a slap.
“Mommy!”
“Mommy! Snack!”
“Mommy, I spilled the milk…”
I rolled out of bed to the chorus of my kids, half-dressed and half-ready, like a marching band of chaos. My curls stuck up in every direction, my eyes heavy with sleep I didn’t get.
“Shoes are by the door!” I called, tying my youngest’s hair into a ponytail. “Stop touching your sister! We don’t have time for fighting, we’re already late!”
I hustled them into clothes, filled sippy cups, and yelled reminders to brush their teeth like a drill sergeant. My mom popped in right on cue to lend a hand and laugh at the spectacle.
“You look tired,” she said, pouring herself coffee.
I groaned, shoving one kid’s arm into a jacket. “I am tired.”
But it wasn’t the kind of tiredness I usually carried, the bone-deep exhaustion of working, studying, and raising three kids alone. This was a different tiredness. A softer one, because under the chaos, under the spilled cereal and homework papers, I was still smiling.
Every time I thought about Hunter leaning back in the chair, smirking at me, calling me out on my sweet tooth, my stomach flipped. Every time I remembered the way he said, Well, I’m not most guys, when I mentioned single moms being left behind, something warm spread through my chest.
“Why are you smiling?” Mom asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Am I?” I asked too quickly.
She smirked. “Mmhm. I know that look. It’s a boy.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not a boy. It’s…coffee. Always coffee.”
“Sure it is.” She said slyly.
???
After I dropped off Zeke at school, I headed to work at the doctor’s office, running on caffeine and adrenaline.
Patients came and went, phones rang, my supervisor asked me to file paperwork.
I did it all on autopilot, the edges of my mind still stuck in that café, still replaying his crooked smile.
“Earth to Camille,” my coworker teased, waving a chart in front of me.
“Sorry,” I muttered, cheeks burning. “Just tired.”
But the truth? I wasn’t just tired. I was distracted.
Distracted by the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Distracted by the way he gave just enough of himself to be authentic without dumping everything on me. Distracted by the desire to know more.
By the time I picked up the kids from my Mom’s, the day had chewed me up and spit me out. Chloe whined, Avery cried the entire ride home because she dropped her toy, and Zeke lectured me about the importance of buying more juice boxes.
But even in the middle of it, when my phone buzzed with a text, my heart skipped.
Hunter: Hope your day wasn’t too
crazy. Did you survive?
Me: Barely. Lost a soldier to spilled
milk, but we’ll recover.
Hunter: Proud of your bravery, Beautiful.
I grinned, shaking my head, enjoying the welcome distraction.
Dinner was mac and cheese night. Which meant one would declare it the “wrong kind” of cheese, another would attempt to drown theirs in ketchup, and Zeke would eat exactly three bites before insisting he was “full” and demanding cookies instead.
“Mommy, you said broccoli makes you strong,” my son argued, pushing his green pile around. “But I don’t even want to be strong. I want to be fast.”
“Eat two bites,” I bargained, pointing my fork at him. “Ninja Turtles are both strong and fast. You gotta be both buddy.” He huffed but ate them, glaring at me as if I’d ruined his Olympic career.
By the time I got them bathed and into bed, my hair was frizzing, my shirt had three mysterious stains, and I was pretty sure I’d stepped on at least six Legos. Glamorous single-mom life, right?
But here’s the thing: even in the chaos, even in the mess, I was smiling.
Because in the middle of pouring milk, stealing cuddles, and refereeing a fight over toys, my phone buzzed again.
Hunter: Did the troops settle in
for the night? Or are they staging
a rebellion?
I snorted, typing back one-handed while holding a toothbrush for my youngest.
Me: Rebellion was crushed at 2100
hours. Victory is mine.
Hunter: Sounds brutal. Any casualties?
Me: A Lego car lost its wheels.
We will rebuild.
I bit my lip, grinning down at the screen. He made it so easy. Effortless.
When the kids were finally asleep, I collapsed on the couch, blanket pulled up around me, textbooks glaring at me from the table. My brain screamed, study. My heart whispered, text him again.
I gave in.
Me: Thanks for ice cream the other day. It
was nice to just… be a person. Not “Mom”
or “student” or “employee.” Just me.
Hunter: You are pretty great as “just you.”
But for the record, I think you being
a mom and student is perfect too.
I covered my face with the blanket, groaning into it. Who even says stuff like that? Men were supposed to vanish at the word “kids,” not compliment me for juggling them.
Still, my cheeks hurt from smiling and I let myself laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. I was running on fumes, my to-do list was never-ending, and somewhere in all the chaos there was this man.
This man who made me laugh in ice cream shops.
This man who texted me about Lego casualties.
This man who made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t too much.
And that was both the funniest and scariest thing of all, because this little space told the story of who I was: a woman doing the best she could with what she had.
A woman patching together stability from the scraps life had left her.
A woman who’d been left behind more than once before, and who still feared she might be again.
I tucked my blanket tighter, letting myself imagine, just for a heartbeat, what it might feel like to hear his laugh echoing in this apartment. What it might feel like to watch him step over toys, sit at my table, sip coffee from one of my mismatched mugs.
It was a dangerous dream. But it made me smile anyway.
And as I finally turned off the lamp, sinking into the too-small couch with textbooks still scattered across the table, the last thought that carried me into sleep was simple, terrifying, and impossible to shake.