Later that night, almost as if Hunter had heard the chatter in my head, I noticed a missed call and voicemail from Hunter.
His voice had filled the room, rough and uncertain, carrying the weight of something he wasn’t used to saying. “Hey, Camille. It’s me. I… I’ve been working on some stuff. Real stuff. I’m sorry for the silence. I don’t want to lose you. Or the kids. I know I don’t deserve another chance, but I want to try. Please. Just… call me back.”
By the end, my throat was tight, eyes stinging. His words lingered in the quiet, hope and hesitation tangled together, pressing against old wounds and stirring something I thought I’d buried. I closed my eyes and let his voice settle over me, pulling me back to the small, ordinary moments when his presence made the chaos feel less sharp.
I wanted to believe him. Part of me leapt at the sound ofhis voice, at the wordtry.But another part reminded me of past broken promises, men who swore they wouldn’t leave. And every time I ended up alone.
It was for that reason that I hadn’t responded to the text he’d sent me the day before.
He didn’t get to show up and make it better with one message. Not after disappearing, not after leaving me to pick up the pieces again. I couldn’t let another person think they could walk in and out of my life whenever it suited them — knowing I’d always open the door. That’s how it had always been before. Second chances that turned into third, fourth, and fifth ones. Apologies that came too late, words that meant nothing once the damage was done.
I couldn’t do that again.
So I left his message unread. Not because I didn’t care, if anything, because I cared too damn much. Because part of me still wanted to believe him, and I couldn’t afford false hope.
Life didn’t stop for heartbreak or hope; it just kept moving.
And I sat there in the middle of it, torn between the ache of missing him and the fear of letting him close enough to hurt me again, but I couldn’t call back because I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to be the only one holding us together anymore. The kids needed me, school deadlines didn’t wait, and patients at work didn’t care if I was distracted. I moved through it all with a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes, saving the storm for the quiet moments after bedtime.
I told myself I should delete the voicemail, that leaving it there was just asking for more hurt. But whenever I picked up the phone, my finger hovered over the trash icon and froze.
Instead, I replayed it. Once, when the kids were napping. Once, when the house was quiet, and I couldn’t sleep. Once, when the ache in my chest felt too heavy to carry alone. Each time, the same words pressed deeper:“I don’t want to lose you. Or the kids. I want to try.”
At night, I lie in bed and let myself imagine both paths.
One where I called him back, let him in again, risked it all only to have him walk away. And another where I stayed silent, closed the door, and taught myself once more how to carry the weight alone.
Neither felt safe.
But the one that terrified me most was the first.
I didn’t know if I could survive watching him leave again.
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 aftermy 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 rememberedbut 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 herstare. The air felt close, my breath shallow, as if the walls were inching in.
