I’d send him pictures of the kids like Zeke showing off his block tower, the twins covered in applesauce, and where he used to respond in seconds withlook at them!or a dozen laughing emojis, now it was hours. Sometimes, there was no reply at all.
The calls were worse.
I found myself clutching the phone at night, waiting for it to ring, replaying old conversations just to remind myself what his voice sounded like when he was present. But when it did ring, once, maybe twice a week, he sounded distant, his words clipped, laughter forced.
And still I clung to those scraps because between work at the doctor’s office, rushing to pick up the kids, late-night studying for exams, and exhaustion pressing down on me like a weight, his presence had been my one soft place to land.
Now that softness was gone. The twins hadn’t noticed yet; too little to understand. But Zeke did.
One night, while I was cleaning up toys, he looked up and asked, “Why doesn’t Hunter come over as much?”
The question hit like a gut punch. I smiled too quickly, smoothing his curls. “He’s just busy, baby.”
But as Zeke nodded, already distracted by his toy car, I felt the lie settle heavy in my chest. Because I didn’t know if Hunter was busy… or if he was leaving.
Chapter Forty Eight
Hunter
The Fourth of July came in full force.
Cami planned a small cookout at her mom’s. Hot dogs, sparklers in the driveway, nothing wild. The night before, she texted to ask what kind of pie I liked, her messages scattered with emojis and that easy warmth she carried into every corner of her life. She sent a picture of Zeke, tiny flag in hand, grinning as if he’d already claimed the whole day for himself.
I wanted to say yes. Hell, I wanted to be there more than anything.
But when the day came, I couldn’t do it.
I told her I wasn’t feeling well, blamed it on a rough night, and said I’d try to catch up on sleep. The lie slipped out too easily, and that stung more than I wanted to admit. Her reply came after a pause I could almost feel, a gentle hesitation that pressed through the screen. “It’s okay, maybe next time.”
She didn’t push, and that somehow cut deeper.
By dusk, the air outside had that heavy July heat that sticksto your skin. I sat on my couch with the TV on low, trying to pretend the silence didn’t bother me. I thought about calling her, just to hear her laugh or the kids running in the background, but the guilt hit before I could reach for the phone.
Then a single firework went off outside.
Pop.
Too sharp. Too close.
And just like that, my chest tightened, breath caught halfway. A high-pitched ringing started in my ears, drowning out the world around me, growing louder with each heartbeat. My vision narrowed, colors blurring as if I was looking through a warped lens. My body moved before my brain caught up. I dropped low, shoulder against the wall, muscles locked and ready for impact. The sound cracked through me like a live wire.
Another pop. Then another.
The air thickened. The flash through the blinds hit the room in bursts of red and white, and suddenly, I wasn’t in my apartment anymore. The floor wasn’t carpet, it was dirt. The smell wasn’t barbecue, it was smoke, fuel, sweat.
My hand twitched toward a weapon that wasn’t there.
The old training kicked in fast—scan, cover, assess—but there was no threat, no orders, no team at my back. Just me. Alone. In a living room that didn’t feel safe anymore.
I tried to breathe through it.
Four in. Six out.
But the noise outside wouldn’t stop. Each one felt like it dug deeper, pulling pieces of the past I’d buried under miles of silence.
The convoy ambush.
The flash before the dust.
