Page 5 of Once Upon A Second Chance

The memory hits like a stray spark— sudden and bright.

Richard's finger tracing lazy circles on my bare shoulder where my tank top strap had slipped. The library fluorescents hummed overhead, casting our study carrel in sterile white light.

"This," he murmured, dragging his ballpoint pen across my skin, "is your supraspinatus." The ink tickled as he drew. "And this..." His lips brushed the spot just above my collarbone. "...is where you're ticklish."

I swatted at him, laughing despite myself. "We're going to fail because of you."

"Nah." Hecaught my hand, lacing our fingers together. "We're gonna fail because you can't remember the brachial plexus to save your life."

The clock read 2:17 AM. Our anatomy final was in six hours.

His thumb rubbed circles on my wrist, and suddenly I didn't care about grades or sleep or anything except the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he looked down at our joined hands.

"Earth to Penny." Lena snaps her fingers in front of my face. "You're doing that thing again."

I blink. "What thing?"

"The 'smiling at nothing' thing. Which, given our scintillating conversation about medical ethics, either means you're having a stroke or thinking about a certain doctor's—"

"Rotator cuff exercises," I interrupt too quickly. "I was thinking about... modified rotator cuffexercises for Mr. Higgins."

Lena's grin turns wicked. "Mmm. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

The straw makes an obscene noise as I suck down the last of my coffee. The ice cubes rattle like bones in a cup. "I hate you."

"No, you don't." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "You hate that I'm right."

The parking lot lights flicker on as dusk settles over Mount Juliet. Somewhere beyond the tree line, a car engine fades into the distance. I crush my empty cup in my fist.

The lie tastes bitter. "There's nothing to be right about."

The porch light flickers as I trudge up the steps to my bungalow, my scrubs sticking to my back from the relentless Tennessee humidity.

Mrs. Delaney’s silhouette appears in her rocking chair before I even reach my door.

"Long day, sugar?" she calls, her voice syrup-thick with sympathy.

Bijou, my tiny Papillon, launches herself off Mrs. Delaney’s lap and skitters toward me, her feathery tail wagging furiously. I scoop her up before she can bolt into the bushes—again— and she immediately starts licking my chin like I’ve been gone for years instead of hours.

"Just peachy," I mutter, scratching behind Bijou’s ears.

Mrs. Delaney eyes me over her glasses. "Mmm. That’s your ‘I hate the world’ voice."

"It’s my normal voice."

"No, your normal voice says ‘bless your heart’ while secretly judging. This one says ‘I will cut someone.’"

I can’t help but snort. "Maybe a little."

Bijou squirms in my arms, demanding to be put down, then immediately darts inside the second I open the door. "Your dog is a traitor," I tell Mrs. Delaney.

"Your dog," she corrects, smirking. "She just spends the day with me because you’re a workaholic."

I flip her off half-heartedly and let the door swing shut behind me.

Inside, I toe off my shoes, pour a very generous glass of red wine, and flop onto the couch. The remote is right where I left it—wedged between the cushions like some kind of modern-day Excalibur. I stab the power button and flip to TLC, where 90 Day Fiancé is mid-drama.

Perfect.