Chapter Thirty Two
Camille
Two days later, the glow had started to fade, and in its place came nerves.
Not because Hunter had done anything wrong. He hadn’t. He’d texted me, checked in, and made me laugh the way he always did. He’d been reassuring, consistent. Everything I said I wanted.
But that was the problem.
I was waiting for the crack.
History has taught me there was always one.
The slow fade of texts. The excuses. The way interest turned into silence.
I told myself not to compare, not to drag the ghosts of old relationships into this one, but it was hard to shake the memory of my ex walking out the door and never coming back.
Or the others who’d sworn they could handle my life, only to realize it was heavier than they’d bargained for.
So even as I folded laundry, wrangled the twins, and helped Zeke build yet another rocket, the doubts spun in my head like a broken record.
I tried to push the thoughts away. Focus on schoolwork.
On the kids. On anything but the way my phone buzz made my stomach twist with both excitement and dread.
And when his name did pop up on the screen, I hesitated. Because part of me wanted to answer right away, to lean into the comfort of his voice. But another part wanted to wait just a minute, just long enough to prove to myself that I wasn’t too eager. That I could play it cool.
It was ridiculous. I knew it was ridiculous. But trauma has a way of turning simple things, like texting a man who makes you laugh, into a minefield.
By bedtime that night, I was stretched thin, nerves buzzing under my skin.
I kissed Zeke’s curls, tucked the twins in, and lingered at their door as they drifted off.
My heart ached with love for them—and fear.
Because if Hunter became a fixture in their lives and then walked away, it wouldn’t just be me who was shattered this time.
It would be them too.
Back in my room, I curled under the blanket, phone in hand. His last message blinked on the screen, simple and sweet:
Hunter: How’s your night, beautiful?
My thumb hovered over the keyboard, nerves warring with giddiness and the desire to be honest with him: that my night was messy and loud, that I was scared, that I didn’t know how to trust good things when they showed up.
But instead, I typed back: Long day. Kids are finally down. How’s yours?
Simple. Safe.
His reply came a minute later.
Hunter: Quiet night. Boring without
spaghetti wars.
Me: Trust me, you’d be begging for
boring after two full days of
craziness.
Hunter: Nope. I’d trade boring for
that any day.
My chest squeezed. It was banter, light and teasing, but I could feel the truth under it.
The voices in my head were loud, but then another buzz pulled me back.
Hunter: What if I take you and the
kids to the aquarium next weekend?
My treat. They’d love it.
I froze. Aquarium. A real outing. I stared at the screen too long, chewing my nails.
What if one tantrum too many sent him running?
Had he realized this wasn’t just a cute dinner in my kitchen or a low-stakes meeting at the park?
This was the reality: straps and buckles, Goldfish crackers spilling from little fists, endless “are we there yet” before we even hit the highway.
Me: That’s… a lot. I don’t know.
Hunter: Bad idea?
Me: Maybe. It’s not you. I just… I don’t
want to scare you off.
Hunter: Beautiful. If I was going to run,
I would’ve done it already.
Me: You don’t get it. People say
that. And then they leave.
His reply came back almost instantly.
Hunter: I’m not those people.
I covered my mouth, heart thudding so hard it felt like it might wake the kids in the next room.
Me: I know you’re not.
Hunter: Good. And I’ll keep showing
up until you believe me.
I sank deeper into the blanket, as tears pricked the back of my eyes. I stared at his words glowing on the screen, hope pulsed through me stronger than the fear.
Me: I look forward to it.
Me: And the Aquarium. The kids
would love that.
When I hit send, my chest fluttered with equal parts nerves and butterflies.
???
By the time Saturday rolled around, my nerves were stretched thin.
I’d agreed to the aquarium. I’d actually said yes. And for three days, my brain had been running in circles about it.
Not because I didn’t want to go, I did. The thought of the kids pressing their little noses to the glass, wide-eyed at sharks and stingrays, made me giddy. The thought of Hunter being there beside us, seeing them like that, made warmth bloom in my chest.
But that warmth came with shadows.
What if it was too much? What if the noise, the effort required, the inevitable tantrum-in-public moment pushed him away?
What if he looked at me differently afterward, saw me not as the woman who made him laugh over coffee, but as the single mom juggling three small humans who sometimes felt like too much even for me?
I kept telling myself not to spiral. Except spiraling was second nature by now.
“Mommy, do they have jellyfish at the aquarium?” Zeke asked, bouncing onto the couch while I wrangled the twins into matching outfits. His eyes were bright with excitement.
“Yep,” I said, tugging Chloe’s shirt over her head. “Big glowing ones.”
“And sharks?” he pressed, eyes wide.
“Uh-huh. Sharks too.”
“And sea turtles!” he added proudly, like he already had the tour guide script memorized.
I smiled at him, but inside my stomach twisted tighter. He was already excited. Already expecting something magical. Which meant if things went wrong, if Hunter didn’t stay, he’d be the one asking me why.
And I didn’t have another explanation left in me.
The twins toddled over with their toys, clutching the fox and bunny in sticky fists. They squealed “fishy!” in chorus, like they somehow knew what the day had in store. I kissed their curls, breathing them in, letting their joy soften the edge of my nerves.
I wasn’t sure how this day would go. I wasn’t sure if I was making the right choice by letting him in this far.
Hunter: Don’t worry about driving.
I’ll pick you and the kids up.
I stared at the words, pulse thudding in my ears.
He wanted to pick us up. To see it all up close. The whole picture. Three car seats crammed in the back. A diaper bag stuffed with snacks and wipes. The double stroller that always seemed bulkier than it needed to be.
The circus. My circus.
Panic twisted in my stomach, leading to another line of doubts.
Me: Are you sure? We can meet you
there. A trip out requires a lot.
Hunter: I know. And I want to.
Car seats, snack bags, the whole
shebang. I’m good, Camille.
I bit my lip, fighting the sting in my eyes.
Because part of me still wanted to push him away, because it would hurt less if he bailed now than if he bailed later. While another part kept growing every time he showed up, steady and unshaken, wanted to believe him.
I tucked my phone into my pocket, exhaled, and whispered to myself: Okay. Let him show you he means it.
Zeke ran up, tugging at my sleeve, curls bouncing. “Can we go yet?”
“Not yet, baby,” I said softly, glancing toward the window. My heart pounded, equal parts dread and butterflies.
By the time I wrangled shoes onto all three kids, packed the diaper bag with bottles, snacks, wipes, and emergency snacks (because there’s always an emergency), I was already sweating.
The stroller leaned against the wall, daring me to figure out how to get it down the steps with two toddlers on my hip.
That’s when I heard the low rumble of a truck engine outside.
I peeked through the curtain and froze.
When he parked at the curb, the engine cut off with a growl, and the silence left behind seemed louder than before.
And all I could think was: What the hell is he doing here with something that nice when I’m about to cram three car seats, two sticky toddlers, and a five-year-old into it.
I had driven in his truck before, but for some reason I’d overlooked just how pristine he keeps everything: his apartment, his clothes, his truck.
Instant anxiety shot through me.
He was out of the truck a second later, tall, broad-shouldered, beard catching the morning light.
He looked so calm. Meanwhile, I was on the other side of the door trying to remember if I’d packed enough diapers or if my shirt had toothpaste on it.
A knock. Then his voice, warm and breathy: “Camille?”
He greeted me with that crooked grin. Before I could second-guess myself, he leaned down and kissed me. It was soft, easy. Like he was coming home after a day of work. That triggered butterflies, nerves, relief, all tangled up.
Then he pulled back, nodding toward the pile by the door. “That the load out?”
I laughed nervously. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s… a lot.”
“Not a problem,” he said, already scooping up the stroller effortlessly. He slung the diaper bag over his shoulder with his free hand, leaving me standing there blinking.
“Wait,” I called, following him toward the truck. “Do you know what you’re doing with those?”
But he was already opening the back door, placing each of the kids’ car seats in the truck, without a second thought. I stopped short. “You… you know how to install those?”
He smirked over his shoulder. “Yeah. My buddy Logan’s got a daughter. Made me practice until I could do it in my sleep.”
I stared at him as he clicked the first seat into place, muscles flexing, movements confident.
In that moment, it hit me: he wasn’t flinching, wasn’t hesitating, he was making space in his shiny truck for my kids’ car seats like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He practiced so that he could do it right, which told me he might also be holding his own doubts close, fighting his own battles against long-held fears of his own inadequacies.
Yet, he stood unwavering, and that vulnerability, whether voiced or unvoiced, mirrored my own, knitting our shared courage tightly together.
Within minutes, the twins were strapped in, happily squishing their toys against the car seat fabric, babbling to each other. Zeke climbed up into his booster, legs swinging, already peppering Hunter with questions.
And me? I stood there on the curb, a diaper bag still slung across my chest, watching Hunter tighten straps and double-check buckles with practiced hands.
“You don’t have to—” I started, but my voice faltered.
He glanced up at me, his blue eyes unwavering. “I want to.”
That’s simple. No fuss, no hesitation.
I slid into the passenger seat, heart racing, while he folded the stroller into the bed of the truck without a hitch.
The second he climbed in beside me, the smell of his cologne mixed with the faint new-leather scent of the truck, and I felt my nerves spike all over again because here we were.
Him behind the wheel. Me in the passenger seat. My kids in the back.
He glanced over before starting the engine, that grin tugging at his mouth. “Ready, Beautiful?”
“Do I have a choice?” I muttered, fiddling with the strap of the diaper bag.
He chuckled, leaned over, and kissed me quickly, right there with my kids squealing behind us. Just a gentle brush of his lips. “C’mon, it’ll be fun,” he said softly, before turning the key.
The truck rumbled to life. Zeke cheered. The twins squeaked their toys in unison, as if approving the plan.
And me? My heart pounded, my doubts hummed, but for the first time in a long time, I let myself sit back in the seat and hope.