Chapter Twenty One #2
I set the cookies down, handed Zeke the STEM box, and crouched to the twins’ level with the fox and bunny.
“Brought some friends who make polite noise,” I said seriously, giving them a little crinkle.
I lifted the fox and bunny from the toy bag, their ears sticking up like silly antennae.
Both girls gasped. One snatched the fox, the other the bunny.
They squeezed, giggled, and I swear the temperature in the room shifted with their smiles.
Avery (or Chloe) squeezed the bunny and gasped at the crinkle. Chloe (or Avery) tested the fox, eyes going huge. They looked up at me as if I’d performed a small, excellent magic trick.
When I looked back up, Camille was watching me, flowers still pressed to her chest. Her eyes were soft, shining in a way that made my throat tighten.
The smile she gave me brought my pulse down two notches.
I hadn’t won anything, not yet. But I’d shown up with quiet toys, chocolate chip cookies, and a willingness to sit on the floor.
“Dinner in ten,” she said, a little breathless.
“Copy,” I said, then caught myself and grinned. “I mean, sounds good.”
She rolled her eyes, amused, and I thought: Remember this. Remember the way it starts, so if it gets hard later, you’ll know what you’re fighting for.
Zeke climbed onto the rug with his new toy and looked at me expectantly. “Can you build a rocket?” I sat cross-legged on the floor, accepted my assignment, and tried not to overthink the answer.
“Yeah, buddy,” I said, fitting the first two pieces together.
“Let’s build something that goes far.” His little voice was full of enthusiasm.
The twins squealed when the fox and bunny crinkled in their hands, and Zeke was already sprawled on the rug, eagerly tearing open the STEM block box. He looked up, grinning, and I could tell I’d passed another unspoken test.
And then, with the kids happily distracted, I turned back to Camille.
“You didn’t have to get us anything.” She said softly as she arranged the flowers in a vase she pulled out from the off-white cabinets, for a flicker of a moment, her smile wavered, touched with something sad.
Like she couldn’t remember the last time anyone had handed her flowers, let alone just because. That ache hit me hard.
“I wanted to. You deserve them,” I said simply.
Her eyes met mine, shining in a way that made my throat tighten. She didn’t answer. She just gave me a small, grateful smile before turning to set the flowers gently in a vase on the counter.
Zeke held up the few blocks he had snapped together. “Look, Mommy! It’s a rocket!”
She laughed, wiping at her eyes before turning back. “That’s wonderful, buddy.” Then her gaze flicked back to me, softer now. “Come on. Dinner’s almost ready.”
I felt the weight and the possibility in my chest again. Not just her smile, not just the kids’ laughter, but the way she held those flowers like no one had thought to remind her she deserved beauty, too.
I thought I was nervous about cookies and toys. But what scared me more was realizing how much I wanted to be the man who kept handing her flowers and showing up.
Dinner smelled of garlic and tomatoes, the sauce simmering low on the stove.
Camille moved easily in the kitchen, stirring with one hand while balancing Chloe on her hip, the little girl still squeaking the crinkly bunny like it was the best thing she’d ever owned.
Avery sat next to me on the floor. I knew it was her because Camille gave me the secret to telling them apart, a single freckle on her cheek.
She looked like she wanted to crawl into my lap, but was also uncertain of the stranger sitting in the middle of the living room.
“Let’s go to the table,” Zeke said, taking his new role as guide very seriously. He marched me over to the small wooden table, where a stack of coloring pages and a lone sippy cup had been pushed aside to make room. “You sit here.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, sliding into the chair he’d chosen. He gave me a look like he wasn’t sure if I was making fun of him or not, then nodded, apparently satisfied with my compliance.
By the time plates were on the table, the twins were in their highchairs, Zeke bouncing in his seat, and Camille finally sitting down across from me. She looked tired, curls frizzing a little, but when she smiled, it lit the whole table. “Okay,” she said, clapping her hands lightly. “Who’s hungry?”
Three little hands shot up instantly. Mine followed half a beat later, earning me a surprised laugh from her. The twins dug into their pasta with both fists, sauce painting their cheeks like war paint. Zeke twirled his noodles carefully, clearly proud to show me he knew the “grown-up way.”
He looked at me with narrowed eyes between bites before his next line of questioning. “Do you like Ninja Turtles?”
I swallowed my pasta, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Absolutely.”
His eyes narrowed further. “Who’s your favorite?”
“The red one… Raphael?”
That earned me a smile of approval. I’d passed round two.
The twins babbled at me next, proudly holding up spaghetti strands. I clapped each time politely, and they giggled like I was the funniest man alive. Camille watched all of it, quietly studying every move, every reaction.
Halfway through dinner, Zeke tilted his head. “Do you live far away?”
“Not too far,” I said. “About twenty minutes.”
He frowned, like he was working through an equation. “So… you can still come back if you forget something.”
“Exactly,” I said, biting back a smile. “I’ll never be too far away.”
Camille’s fork stilled, her gaze lifting to mine. For a second, something unspoken hung between us. Heavy. Important.
Then Chloe threw her fork on the floor with a triumphant squeal, and the moment broke.
“Oh no,” Camille muttered, scooping it up and setting it on the counter.
“I’ll get it next time,” I said quickly.
She shot me a look. One that was half amused, half grateful. “Careful. You’ll get stuck on fork duty.”
I grinned. “I’ve survived worse assignments.”
By the end of dinner, Zeke was chattering to me about rockets and ketchup again, the twins were covered in sauce but happy, and Camille was leaning back in her chair, watching all of us with a look that made my chest ache.
When I helped clear the table, she brushed past me at the sink, her shoulder grazing mine. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“For what?”
“For showing up,” she said simply. “For not making it weird.”
The corner of my mouth lifted, but the ache in my throat stayed. I wanted to tell her it wasn’t weird at all. That it felt… right. But the words caught in my throat, too big for the moment. So instead, I just nodded, dried a plate, and thought to myself: You can’t afford to screw this up.