Chapter Fifty Six
Hunter
Ihadn’t been back to upstate New York in almost two years.
Not since I’d gotten out of the Corps. Not for birthdays, not for holidays.
I didn’t even run home after my divorce.
I toughed it out, slept on a buddy’s couch, let the silence gnaw at me until it dulled.
After I got out, I sank into a hectic routine, piecing together a new life.
Found a new place, settled into my new job, and meticulously polished every inch of my bike, all while pretending I had it under control.
Each new project was a way to silence the guilt of not visiting, of not picking up the phone to just say ‘hi.’ I told myself I’d make time, that I’d fly back soon, but months turned into years, and with each passing day, the thought of seeing her filled me with a mix of longing and anxiety.
Excuses stacked up until I stopped trying to explain them, to others and to myself.
So now, I ran back home, unsure what to do in the days after my call to Cami went unanswered after my third therapy session.
I was already sharing things I’d buried for years.
The therapist wasn’t like the ones at the VA.
When I told her everything, she said, “Thank you for sharing that with me,” and began helping me unravel the guilt, anger, and trauma of those experiences.
I wasn’t cured, not even close, but I wasn’t drowning alone anymore.
I wanted to get better. Not just to breathe, but to be a man who could stand in Camille’s kitchen, lift her kids into his arms, and not feel like he was falling apart.
After my third session, I sat in the truck long after sunset, skipping through songs Camille used to tease me about.
I felt lighter. I thought about her laugh, the kids’ smiles, the way she looked at me that night before I left.
I couldn’t lose that. Not because of fear.
Yet when I called her to tell her I’d been working on things, apologize for the walls, and let her know I couldn’t lose here, my call went unanswered.
I probably didn’t deserve another shot, but my hands shook in an attempt not to run away, but towards her.
She hasn’t called back, though. Probably decided I’d done too much damage at that point.
So here I was at my mother’s. Pulling into her driveway, duffle bag heavy on my shoulder, I felt small again, like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office.
The porch light blinked on, and there she was, my mom, framed in the doorway.
Her hands flew to her mouth. “Hunter.” Just my name, but it broke something open inside me.
She hurried down the steps and pulled me into a hug, fierce enough to steal my breath.
The world outside faded, replaced by the memory of sun-drenched afternoons under the old oaks, the air thick with the promise of summer.
Her arms, smaller than I remembered but steady, held me in place, and for a moment I was a kid again, safe and unburdened.
Her perfume was the same, warm and floral, a scent that felt familiar.
The soft texture of her sweater brushed against my cheek, just like when I’d leaned into her as a child, and it anchored me further in a moment I hadn’t realized I missed so much.
“You finally made it,” she said against my chest, pulling back to look me over. Her eyes swept my face, my beard, the tired lines around my eyes. “God, it’s been too long.” She shook her head, swatting my arm lightly. “You never make time. Always too busy. Too far. Too… something.”
I tried for a grin, weak as hell. “I’m here now.”
She studied me a beat longer, her eyes softening. “Yeah. You’re here.” She kissed my cheek, then motioned me inside.
The house smelled the same, lemon cleaner clinging to the air, fresh bread warmth drifting from the kitchen.
Curtains, sun-bleached and fraying, fluttered in the breeze, painting shifting patterns across the floor.
On the fridge, a faded photo of me, gap-toothed and grinning, hid among newer snapshots and a scatter of holiday magnets.
My mom’s love for small, seasonal touches was everywhere: a summer wreath on the door, sunflowers brightening the table.
I stood there, duffle bag at my feet, oversized and out of place, a stranger in the place that used to be a sanctuary.
At first, she let me settle in, piling food onto my plate, asking about work, the truck, if California still felt foreign.
She laughed at my half-answers, acting as if she didn’t notice how I couldn’t sit still.
But by the second morning, she had me pinned at the kitchen table, coffee steaming between us, her eyes fixed on mine as if she could see every secret I’d tried to bury.
My heart thudded hard, matching the weight of her stare.
The air felt close, my breath shallow, as if the walls were inching in.
She set a mug of coffee in front of me at the kitchen table, then finally asked, “So. Why now?”
I froze, fingers curling around the mug. She didn’t ask gently. She never did. With my mom, you didn’t get coddled. You got the truth, straight and sharp.
“I just needed to… get out for a while,” I said carefully.
Her brows lifted as she studied me. “Is it about a girl?” Her gaze was sharp, too knowing, pinning me across the table.
“You didn’t run home after your divorce,” she added, letting the words hang between us like a truth neither of us wanted to face.
Her eyes searched mine, waiting for the true answer.
“So why now? Don’t sit there and tell me it’s just to see me.
I know you, Hunter. You don’t fly cross-country without a reason. ”
Her words cut because they were true. I dropped my gaze to the mug in my hands. “I screwed things up, Ma.”
“With that girl?”
I didn’t answer, which was all the answer she needed.
Her sigh was sharp. “Then fix it. Don’t you dare sit here in my house, hiding, licking your wounds, and pretending that’s easier. You chose her, Hunter. You don’t get to run when it gets hard. You hear me?”
I nodded, throat tight. “Yeah.” I let the silence fill in what I couldn’t say.
I’d never told her much about Camille or the kids.
I kept most things to myself. She didn’t know the ways the military had worn me down, or how my body sometimes ached in places I didn’t talk about, or how my relationship felt like a secret I was still learning to trust.
I remembered taking Camille out on my bike for the first time, the way she leaned into me, the way she looked so at peace sitting on the pier, curls blowing wild under the setting sun.
Her laugh echoing in the hallway as she joked with Chloe, her voice a melody that chased off my doubts for a moment.
Avery’s sticky fingers grabbing my hand, anchoring me in the middle of the storm.
Those small, ordinary moments became my quiet refuge.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love Camille or want to share her with the world.
I just knew some things were safer kept close.
She leaned back, arms folding. The softness from before shifted into steel. “You always did have a bad habit of running when things got too real.”
I opened my mouth, but she cut me off. “Don’t. Don’t tell me it’s different this time. You chose her, Hunter. I can see it all over your face. And now you’re here because what, she scared you? She made you feel something you weren’t ready for?”
Her words landed heavy, right where I didn’t want them to.
“I’m not running,” I muttered, but it sounded pathetic even to me.
Her eyes narrowed, sharp and knowing. “Don’t lie to me.
You’re not eighteen anymore. You don’t get to play boy and man at the same time.
You either show up, or you don’t. You chose her, Hunter,” she pressed, voice softer now but no less firm.
“Don’t you dare run from someone you already chose. That’s not how love works.”
The truth of it burned because she was right, and with my mom, you don’t ask questions and, you don’t argue, you do what she says.
And this time, as hard as the truth was, I knew she was right.
She may have stood at only four-foot-eleven, but what she lacked in height she more than made up for in pure, loving intimidation.
As I sat there, the weight of her words settled into my bones.
After dinner, I fell asleep in my old room, staring at the same ceiling fan that had seen me plot escapes and practice speeches and pray for things I didn’t know how to name. My luggage slouched in the corner like a guilty dog. I didn’t dream; I just sank.
???
By the third night, even the quiet was too loud. When Ben texted, “Beers? Luke’s in town too,” I answered yes without thinking.
The bar hadn’t changed since we were idiots with fake IDs. Neon signs buzzed in reddened corners. A snowmobile helmet hung above the dartboard like a trophy. The jukebox cycled through Springsteen, 90s country, and a random salsa track someone always played to mess with the locals.
Ben was already in the booth when I walked in, nursing a beer while enjoying his first moment of solitude in a week.
He looked good in the way tired men look good: content, a little rumpled, a wedding band he twisted without noticing.
“There he is,” he said, standing to pull me into a shoulder-pound hug.
“Thought you’d gone witness protection.”
Luke slid in a minute later, haircut still sharp enough to measure angles, that watchful ease some of us never lost. He chin-jerked hello and took the outside seat, back to the wall, the way we all did without saying a word.
It had been years since we’d all been together; the last time was my brother’s wedding, five years back.
Ben had a whole family now, a wife and five kids.
Luke was still single, still living the bachelor life, still on active duty in the Corps.
He left for boot camp just a year after me.