Page 45 of Once Upon A Second Chance

The road unwinds before us, a twisting ribbon of asphalt cutting through endless stretches of pine and oak. Sunlight flickers through the canopy overhead, dappling the dashboard with shifting patterns of light.

Penny's fingers tap an absent rhythm against her thigh, her other hand resting on the center console, palm-up. An invitation.

I take it without hesitation, lacing our fingers together. Her skin is warm, her thumb brushing idly over my knuckles.

"You're quiet," she says after a while, turning her face toward the window. The sunlight catches the gold flecks in her eyes when she glances back at me.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

How this feels like the end of something before it's even begun.

"Patient charts," I lie, squeezing her hand. "Holloway probably screwed them all up."

She hums, unconvinced, but lets it drop. The song changes to something slower, a melancholy guitar riff filling the space between us.

We pass a roadside farm stand, its colorful signs advertising fresh peaches and homemade jam. Penny sits up slightly.

"Stop," she says suddenly.

I brake harder than intended, the tires kicking up gravel. "What? What's wrong?"

She's already unbuckling. "We need jam."

"Jam."

"Homemadejam, Richard." She points emphatically at the crooked sign. "It's the rules."

I stare at her. "Since when are there rules about jam?"

"Since right now." She hops out before I can argue, her sandals crunching on the loose stones.

By the time I catch up, she's already deep in conversation with the elderly womanmanning the stand, sampling what appears to be her fourth variety of preserves.

"—the blackberry is good," Penny's saying, "but I think the peach has more—oh, here, try this."

She turns, pressing a small spoon to my lips before I can protest. The jam is sweet and tangy, bursting with summer flavor.

"Well?" she demands.

I swallow. "We're getting both, aren't we?"

She grins, victorious.

Back in the truck, our haul includes two jars of jam, a loaf of still-warm zucchini bread, and a handful of wildflowers the woman insisted we take "for the road."

Penny arranges them carefully in an empty water bottle, her tongue poking out in concentration as she tries to keep them upright.

The moment is so perfectly, painfullynormalthat something in my chest tightens.

Penny catches me staring. "What?"

"Nothing." I start the engine. "Just thinking how much Rebecca would hate this."

The laugh that bursts out of her is loud and unguarded, the sound bouncing off the truck's windows. "Oh, my God, she'd bemiserable."

We spend the next twenty minutes gleefully imagining Rebecca's hypothetical suffering—her disdain for the "unsanitary" jam samples, her horror at the lack of cell service, the way she'd undoubtedly complain about the humidity ruining her hair.