Chapter Eleven
Camille
The week blurred into the usual storm: school drop-offs, late shifts at the office, night classes that stretched my brain past exhaustion.
And yet, it all felt a little lighter because in between the chaos, my phone kept lighting up with his name.
Good luck on your exam today, Beautiful.
Did the milk survive breakfast this morning?
Sometimes, the messages came when I needed them most, like when I was fighting with the printer at work and wanted to cry, or when the twins refused to nap and I thought my sanity was on its last thread. He had this uncanny timing, like he knew when I needed a reason to laugh.
By Friday night, I was sprawled on the couch, hair a mess, kids finally asleep, when my phone buzzed with a FaceTime call.
Hunter.
My heart stopped. I almost didn’t answer. My shirt had a juice stain, the lighting was awful, and I looked exactly like a mom who’d been through a war zone of toddlers and cheese puffs. But then I remembered the way he teased me for dodging his jokes, the way he’d said, Well, I’m not most guys.
So I answered.
“Hey,” I said, shifting so the camera didn’t catch the toy explosion in the background.
His face filled the screen. Bright blue eyes, scruffy ginger beard, that crooked grin that made my pulse trip. He was leaning back somewhere quiet, his voice low. “Hey. You look… comfortable.”
I snorted. “That’s polite code for ‘you look like a hot mess.’”
“Not at all,” he said easily. “I mean, I wouldn’t call that a red-carpet look, but you still pull it off.” A smile tugged at his lips.
I laughed, tucking my curls behind my ear. “You’re lucky I like honesty.”
“Good,” his eyes softened. “Because that’s all I’ve got.”
We talked for an hour. About everything, and nothing at all.
His day at work, my latest class assignment, the kids’ antics. He asked what they were like, and I found myself telling him more than I meant to: how Zeke wanted to be an astronaut, how Avery could throw a tantrum worthy of an Olympic medal, and how Chloe still found her way into my bed at night.
He listened. Truly listened. Nodding, asking little questions, smiling as he took in every messy detail.
His gaze was caught on mine. “What?” I asked, self-conscious.
“Nothing,” he said softly. “I just like talking to you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. So I just smiled, hoping he couldn’t see how my chest ached.
Because if I let myself believe him, if I let myself hope, I knew I was already deeper than I planned.
I tilted the phone a little closer, narrowing my eyes at him.
“You know, for someone who talks a lot, you don’t actually say much. ”
He smirked. “That’s my strategy. Keep you intrigued.”
“Oh, so you’re mysterious now?” I teased, propping my chin in my hand. “I tell you about my mismatched-sock kid and the doll rebellion, and you give me… what? That you work on base and eat toothpaste-flavored ice cream?”
“Hey,” he said, holding up a hand. “Ice cream says a lot about a man.”
“Mmhm. Says you’re stubborn.”
“Says I don’t need fluff,” he corrected, that grin tugging at his lips.
I laughed, shaking my head. “You realize this is the part where most girls would demand details, right? They’d want to know about your past, why you don’t talk about it.”
He went quiet, just for a beat too long. His eyes flicked down, then back up. “Maybe someday.”
The way he said it, steady and not dismissive, made my chest ache. He wasn’t shutting me out. He was just… protecting himself.
I softened my tone. “I wasn’t prying. Just noticing. You keep things close.”
He nodded once. “Habit, I guess.”
I let it go, even though curiosity buzzed in my veins. I didn’t push because I knew how it felt to have scars you weren’t ready to peel back for anyone. It can be hard sometimes. I appreciated questions, exploring how people felt, and why they felt that way. But with him, I could try to be patient.
So instead, I leaned into the humor again. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But just so you know, I’m still winning this conversation. I’ve given you at least three embarrassing stories. You owe me one.”
His grin returned. “Embarrassing story, huh? Alright. When I was in grade school, maybe first or second grade, the teacher had written ‘island’ on the board. No one raised their hand to read it out loud, so I did. ” He was already laughing before he even reached the hook of the story.
“I was so confident that I knew it, made a big ‘ol scene.” He continued. “So when the teacher called my name, I said ‘Is-land’ all proud and she yelled ‘WRONG!’… I was so embarrassed, I felt like a fool. Lost my street cred and everything.”
I burst out laughing, the sound echoing through my quiet living room. “Is that a real story?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” he admitted. “I don’t think I ever recovered from that.” He replied, dramatically shaking his head, his laugh booming through the phone.
I was still laughing when Zeke made his way into the living room. He blinked at the phone screen and whispered, “Who’s that?”
“This is Mommy’s… friend,” I said carefully, heart thudding.
Hunter smiled warmly, not missing a beat. “Hey, buddy. Escaping bedtime?”
“I don’t want to sleep,” Zeke said with sass and sleepy eyes.
“Me either, it’s a lot more fun giving your mom trouble.
” His response was witty, leaving Zeke with a giggle as he buried his face in my shoulder.
And for a moment, the whole world tilted.
It was just a call, just a face on a screen, but I could already picture him here.
In this home, in this mess, in this life.
When he finally shuffled back to bed, I glanced at the screen again. His smile was softer now, quieter.
“You’re pretty good at this,” I said.
“At what?”
“Not running.” He didn’t answer right away. Just held my gaze through the screen, unspoken words sitting between us.
“I think it’s time you get some rest. Goodnight, Beautiful,” he said finally.
“Goodnight,” I whispered, even though I wasn’t ready to end the call.
When the screen went dark, I lay there in the quiet, blanket tucked under my chin, heart racing with equal parts giddiness and fear. This wasn’t just a distraction. It was the start of something that might matter.