Page 122 of Once Upon A Second Chance

He sets his mug down, slow and deliberate. “You asking for my permission?”

“No,” I say evenly. “She doesn’t need anyone’s permission but her own. But I am asking for your blessing.”

The silence after that is heavier. He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Why?”

I know what he means. Why askme. After all this time. After all he didn’t do.

“Because I respect her,” I say. “And because I know what it means that you’re trying to be there for her again. You didn’t have to do that. But you did. I figured if you’re showing up for her, I should show up too.”

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.

“You left her once,” he says. Not accusing. Just stating a scar that never quite faded.

“I know.”

“She fell apart.”

“I know that too,” I say. “And I hated myself for it. I told myself I was doing the right thing, giving her space, letting her grow. But really I was just afraid. I’ve learned better since.”

He looks out the window for a beat. I don’t push.

When he turns back to me, his gaze sharpens. “So let me be clear, then. If you leave her again—if you break her—there won’t be a second forgiveness. Not from her. Not from Jesse. And definitely not from me.”

I nod slowly. “Understood. But letmebe clear. If anyone—you included—tries to push her around, guilt her, or undermine her decisions under the guise of protection, I’ll be the one in your kitchen saying the same thing.”

He stares at me.

Then, to my complete surprise, he smiles.

Just a small one. Barely there. But it’s real.

“Well,” he says, lifting his mug. “Now that we’ve threatened each other, I guess we can move on to the part where you make her happy.”

“That’s the plan,” I say.

And in that moment, the weight between us shifts—not gone, but balanced.

Not erased, butacknowledged.

We sit for another few minutes, talking small things. Work. The town. How Jesse’s been eating too much takeout. I finish my coffee, grab a muffin for the road.

When I stand to leave, he rises too.

“You’ve got my blessing,” he says. “Not that she needs it. But you’ve got it anyway.”

“Thank you,” I say. And I mean it.

Because now I know the next conversation I have—the onethat matters most—is hers.

The sun sets around 6:42 p.m. tomorrow. I know that because I’ve checked the forecast twice and refreshed the local park website more times than I care to admit.

October in Mount Juliet can be fickle, but tomorrow promises crisp skies and that golden-amber light that makes everything look softer, like the world’s been dusted in something forgiving.

The Willow Creek overlook isn’t fancy. There’s a simple stone path that winds up a hill, a few picnic tables tucked under a canopy of oaks, and a view of the lake that glows at sunset like it’s trying to remember something holy.

I’ve walked it once with Penny before, months ago, and I remember thinking then that the place felt like it belonged to her—the way she paused to breathe it in, the way the wind pulled at her hair and she didn’t even flinch.

It’s the kind of place that feels like a yes.