Page 1 of Once Upon A Second Chance

Chapter One

Richard

The GPS chimes "You have arrived" in its robotic voice, but I already know.

The sign—Welcome to Mount Juliet, Established 1835, Population 40,136—leans slightly to the left, the paint peeling at the edges like sunburned skin.

I roll the rental car to a stop at the empty intersection, engine idling. The air conditioning wheezes, struggling against the Tennessee humidity that presses through the cracked window.

My phone lights up on the passenger seat. Rebecca. For the billionth time.

You can’t run forever.

I flip it face down without answering. The divorce papers are finalized, ink dry, but she’s still carving her demands into my life like initials in a jail cell wall.

I take the turn too sharp, and the tires catchgravel.

The town unfolds in front of me—neat brick storefronts, a diner with a flickering neon OPEN sign, an old man on a bench feeding pigeons. It’s nothing like New York. No sirens, no steam rising from grates, no impatient crowds.

Just slow, sticky Southern time. I remember how much I liked the pace of the South when I was in school at UT in Knoxville. So different from New York.

And just what I need right now.

Temporary locum position, I remind myself.

Just filling in at the clinic until Holloway finds someone permanent.

Just long enough to remember what it’s like to breathe without Rebecca’s lawyers and my parents’ expectations and the weight of a marriage that collapsed under its own emptiness.

I pull into the parking lot of The Blue Pine Inn. The motel paint is a rather faded gray, and the vacancy sign buzzes like an angry insect.

Ah, my temporary home.

The key the clerk hands me is attached to a plastic tag shaped like a guitar. "Nashville’s just down the road," she says, as if I might need reminding.

I drop my bag on the floral bedspread and stare out the window.

Somewhere in this town, Penny Morgan is living her life.

Twelve years since I last saw her. Twelve years since I walked away from her in a Knoxville dorm parking lot, telling myself that going to medical school was more important than love.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Holloway.

Clinic opens at 7:00. Don’t be late.

I exhale.

Tomorrow, I step back intoherworld.

The Mount Juliet Medical Center smells like antiseptic and cheap air freshener—a cloying fake lemontrying to mask the underlying sweat and sickness.

My dress shoes click too loudly against the linoleum, announcing me like an outsider. I’m going to have to change that.

The receptionist—Darlene, according to her name tag—looks up from her computer, eyes widening slightly. "You must be Dr. Hogan."

"Just Richard," I say automatically. "I’m only here temporarily."

I’m not sure if that’s a lie, but it still tastes bitter on my tongue.