Chapter Twenty One
Hunter
Iread her text three times just to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.
Camille: How would you feel about
coming over for dinner this
weekend? Just us and the kids?
My heart kicked as if I’d just been dropped into a cold ocean. Not terror, something sharper, cleaner. The feeling you get right before a plane lifts off and your stomach forgets its job. I’d been wanting this and bracing for it in equal measure for months. Now it was here.
I typed back, “That sounds perfect,” and immediately started second-guessing the wording. Too eager? Not eager enough? Should I have added an emoji? I deleted a salute emoji because that felt… wrong.
Meeting the kids wasn’t a date; it was a test you don’t get to retake. I could feel old training whispering unhelpful procedures: recon the terrain, plan, worst-case scenarios. But this wasn’t that, this was spaghetti night with three tiny humans who might decide I was a good idea… or a bad one.
I grabbed my phone and texted Nate. My buddy from the Corps has 2 kids. I’ve spent enough time with him and his family over the years that his kids now call me Uncle Hunt. His advice wasn’t always dependable; all the guy did was crack jokes. But it was the best I had right now.
Me: You around?
Nate: I’m always around. What’s
the emergency?
Me: I’m meeting her kids Saturday.
Nate: LOL send the address. I need to watch
this go down.
Me: Unhelpful
Nate: I’m kidding. Kind of. Proud of
you, man. You good?
Me: Yeah. Just don’t want to
screw it up.
Nate: Then don’t. Rule 1: don’t try too hard.
Rule 2: if you break Rule 1, bring snacks.
Kids love snacks.
Me: She said cookies.
Nate: Perfect. Also, bring something small
for them. Low-stakes. Nothing that
makes noise. Don’t be that guy.
Me: Noted.
Nate: Also don’t call her “ma’am” in
front of them. You did that to Jen
once and she almost threw a fork at you.
Me: I’m never going to live that
down am I?
Nate: Never
I tossed the phone on the counter and looked around my apartment, as if there might be answers lying under the mail I hadn’t sorted. There weren’t. There was just me, the old couch, and the sense that the gravity of my life had shifted three degrees to the left.
So I grabbed my keys and did something I had never done before: I went to the toy aisle.
The store smelled of plastic and cinnamon pretzels, the kind of scent that makes you overspend and forget your list. I didn’t have a list, just panic and a mental image of three small judges banging gavels.
I hit the toy section and froze. Shelves glittered like a rainbow had exploded.
Action figures posed mid-punch next to dolls whose eyes followed me like tiny security cameras.
There were puzzles, blocks, art kits, plushies the size of armchairs, and an entire wall of things that made noise.
Nothing that makes noise, I repeated, stepping away from a drum set.
A store associate in a vest appeared at my elbow. “You look lost,” she said kindly. “New uncle? Birthday party? First rodeo?”
“Third option,” I said. “Meeting my girlfriend’s kids. I need something that says ‘I am fun but also safe and won’t ruin your house.’”
She nodded like she’d been waiting her whole day for this. “Ages?”
“One’s five, Zeke. The other two are twins, one year old. Avery and Chloe.”
“Adorable,” she said, already walking me toward a shelf. “For the five-year-old, try this.” She handed me a small building set labeled STEM Starter. “Ninety pieces, which is a lot, but they’re chunky blocks. No tiny choking hazards. And look, no batteries. Quiet.”
“Quiet is good.” I exhaled.
“For the twins,” she continued, moving through the aisles, “you want tactile. Soft stackers, board books, or these little crinkly animals. Here, a fox and a bunny. They’re machine-washable.”
I held the fox and bunny up. “They feel like they make noise.”
“They crinkle,” she admitted. “But it’s a polite noise.”
“Polite noise I can live with,” I replied.
She smiled. “You’re going to do fine.”
I added a small pack of sticker sheets at the end of the aisle on impulse: stars, dinosaurs, and something sparkly that said Queen of Everything.
On the way out, I called Nate.
“Report,” he said, like he was going to log it.
“STEM blocks for Zeke. Crinkle animals for the twins. Stickers as backup.”
“Strong load out. Don’t forget cookies.”
“I remembered cookies,” I said, turning into the bakery parking lot. “Question, do I get the cheap sugar cookies with the neon frosting or go full fancy?”
“Fancy says, ‘I’m insecure and think sugar can buy love.’ Neon says ‘I’m fun, but I might not respect nap time,” he said. “Chocolate chip. Universal currency.”
“Got it.”
I hung up and stared at the bakery case for ten minutes like it was a high-stakes draft. I settled on a box of snicker doodles and two dozen chocolate chips. Half soft, half crispy. Back home, I lined everything up on the counter: cookies, toys, stickers. Don’t try too hard, Nate had said.
Right. That was the trick, wasn’t it? Show up. Don’t knock anything over. Don’t make this about me. Just be the guy who makes the kids laugh, and knows when to step back and let a mom be the expert.
I opened our message thread.
Me: Any allergies I should
know about?
Camille: No allergies. Zeke will
try to convince you he’s allergic
to broccoli. He isn’t.
Me: Noted. I’m bringing dessert.
May have gone overboard.
Camille: Overboard dessert sounds
like my love language.
Me: Thinking of bringing
something small for the kids.
Is that okay?
I waited, aware of all the ways this could go. Too much, too soon. Or maybe it landed the way I hoped: not a bribe, just a gesture.
Camille: That’s sweet. Nothing big, please.
We’re drowning in toys as it is.
Me: Small. I promise
Camille: Thank you. And… thank
you for asking.
The warmth in that last line went straight through me. Asking mattered. Not assuming mattered. I wanted to keep getting these things right.
I paced the apartment, the old floorboards creaking under my steps.
Every now and then, my brain spits out a what-if: What if Zeke hates you?
What if one twin cries every time you speak?
What if you stand in the doorway with your hands full of cookies and suddenly forget how to smile like a human being?
I picked up the fox and squeezed it. It crinkled obligingly. “Polite noise,” I remembered. The fox made no promises.
My phone buzzed. Nate again.
Nate: Last tip: learn a kid joke.
Me: Like what?
Nate: Why did the cookie go to
the doctor?
Me: Why?
Nate: Because it felt crumby.
Me: I’m blocking you.
Nate: You’re welcome. Also, don’t
linger in the doorway like a weirdo.
Knock, smile, shoes off if she’s
a shoes-off house.
Me: I hate that you’re useful.
Nate: It’s a burden.
I set the phone down, exhaled, and looked at the clock. Two days to overthink myself into a knot or get comfortable with the idea that this is real. That I want it to be real.
???
Saturday came with the kind of vivid blue sky that makes you suspicious.
I checked the toy bags twice, the cookie boxes three times.
I left early, because I always leave early, and then sat two blocks away for ten awkward minutes so I wouldn’t be too early.
I texted Nate a picture of the steering wheel as I waited.
Nate: Loosen up. You got this.
Me: If the five-year-old challenges me
to a duel, I’m calling you.
Nate: Just lose with dignity.
I laughed under my breath, shook out my hands, and drove the last two blocks.
Her building looked the same as the first night I picked her up. Modest, clean, a row of porches where kids’ scooters leaned against the exterior walls. I balanced the cookie boxes in one hand, the small toy bag in the other, and tucked a simple bouquet under my arm as I walked up the steps.
I’d settled on the flowers on my way to her apartment. Nothing fancy, just a handful of bright daisies and sunflowers from the corner shop. They felt cheerful, something simple. Something that felt like her.
Before I could knock, the door swung open. Camille stood there barefoot in jeans and a soft T-shirt, curls pinned up, eyes bright.
“These are for you,” I said, holding out the flowers before I lost my nerve.
She blinked, then smiled. That small, startled thing that didn’t quite hide the sadness underneath. “Thank you,” she whispered, cradling the words close to her chest.
My chest tightened, a dozen words catching behind my teeth. But then…
“Mommy, who’s that?” A small head peeked around her leg. Zeke. Curly brown hair, solemn brown eyes, studying me like a tiny judge.
Camille smoothed his hair back gently. “Zeke, this is Hunter. He’s Mommy’s friend.” She looked up at me quickly, as if to check that the word didn’t sting. It didn’t. If anything, it steadied me.
I crouched down a little, careful not to crowd him. “Hey, buddy. I brought cookies. Two kinds.”
Zeke’s eyes flicked to the boxes in my hand. “Did you get chocolate chip?”
I grinned. “I did.” He gave a single solemn nod, like I’d passed the first round of questioning. Then from the hallway, twin squeals erupted. Avery and Chloe ran forward, curls in little pigtails bouncing, wide brown eyes locked on me.
Camille bent down, gathering them close. “Girls, this is Hunter. Can you say hi?”
“Hi!” one shouted. The other followed with a shy little wave as she hugged Camille’s leg.
“Shoes off?” I asked, my voice a little rough.
She nodded. “Yeah. Shoes off.”
I took off my boots, stepped over the threshold, and let the smell of sauce and garlic and crayons pull me into their world.
For once, my brain didn’t reach for exit routes or worst-case scenarios.
It cataloged different things: sippy cups on the counter; a coloring page taped slightly crooked to the fridge; tiny socks in a woven basket by the door; a small, mismatched kingdom that felt, somehow, like the center of the map.