Page 17 of Once Upon A Second Chance

I set a broken wrist, temporarily at least, stitch a nasty gash from flying debris, and try not to watch her.

I fail.

She’s magnificent.

A flashback hits me like a punch: Penny in our college anatomy lab, handing me instruments before I asked, her brow furrowed in concentration. "You’re thinking too loud," she’d muttered once, pressing a scalpel into my palm. "Just trust your hands."

"Richard."

Her voice snaps me back to the present. She’s holding out a bottle of water, her other hand braced against the wall for balance. Dark circles bloom under her eyes.

"You need to hydrate," she says.

I take the bottle, our fingers brushing again. "You first."

She shakes her head. "There’s a kid with asthma in the corner—"

"Penny." I catch her wrist before she can turn away. Her pulse jumps under my fingers. "Sit down before you fall down."

For a second, I think she’ll argue. Then her shoulders slump, and she lets me guide her to an empty cot.

The basement smells of damp clothes and antiseptic. Somewhere in the crowd, a child cries softly.

The worst of the storm has passed, although the rain continues; some of the uninjured people may be able to return home soon.

Penny’s knee presses against mine as she sits. Neither of us moves away.

"You okay?" I ask quietly.

She looks down at her hands, streaked with dirt and someone else’s blood. "I will be."

The lights flicker again, casting her face in shadow.

For the first time in twelve years, I let myself really look at her—the new lines at the corners of her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw, the freckle just below her ear that I used to trace with my lips.

She’s still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

And I’m still the idiot who walked away.

A crash of thunder shakes the building. Penny jumps, her hand flying to my arm.

"It’s OK. Just more thunder. Shouldn’t be too much longer now," I murmur.

Her fingers tighten briefly before she pulls away. "We should check on Mrs. Henderson again."

I nod, standing with her.

We continue to work on the more minor injuries and the night stretches on—long and exhausting. But for now, in this dim basement, we work side by side.

And for the first time in years, something in my chest unclenches.

The remnants of the storm finally passes just before dawn, leaving behind aneerie silence.

The Community Center doors creak open to reveal a world washed in pale gray light—broken branches litter the streets, power lines dangle like severed veins, and the festival decorations flap tattered from their ropes.

Penny steps out beside me, her arms crossed against the morning chill. Her scrubs are wrinkled, her ponytail half-fallen out, and there’s a smudge of dirt along her jawline. To me, she’s beautiful.

"Jesus," she breathes.