Page 79 of Once Upon A Second Chance

The worst part—the part that guts me—isn't even that she got mad.

It's that she looked... defeated.

Like in some way she was actually expecting it.

Like some part of her had been holding her breath all along, just waiting for me to prove that I still thought she wasn’t enough.

I lean back on the bed, stare up at the cracked ceiling tiles, and wonder how I became this.

How I became a man who could love someone so much it terrifies him—and still, still let pride and fear make him say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the worst moment.

Memories creep in, uninvited and merciless.

Penny’s laughter yesterday morning in the kitchen, wearing my shirt, hair messy from sleep.

The way she looked at me today when I brought her coffee—like maybe the world wasn’t such a bad place after all.

Her lips on mine, hungry and sure, just before the phone rang.

The way she stiffened when she heard what I said.

The way she let me go.

I scrub a hand through my hair, then stand too fast, pacing the narrow motel room like a caged animal. My reflection in the mirror over the dresser catches me off guard.

I look older. Tired. Hollowed out.

Not the hero from the newspaper article.

Not the man who dove into a river without hesitation.

Just a scared, selfish idiot who may have lost the only thing that ever made him feel like more than a collection of stitched-together mistakes.

I walk to the window, peel back the vintage motel curtain. The parking lot’s empty except for a couple of old pickups and a battered sedan with one headlight out—what we used to call ‘a pididdle’ when I was a kid.

The streetlights buzz against the night sky.

I think about getting in my truck.

I think about driving to her house, banging on her door until she has no choice but to hear me out.

But what would I even say?

That I’m sorry?

That I love her?

That I’m a coward when it counts most, and she deserves someone whoisn’t?

I press my forehead against the cold windowpane, my breath fogging the glass.

The world outside keeps spinning. Someone’s TV blares down the hall. Somewhere, a dog barks once, sharp and solitary.

And me?

I’m stuck right here. In this motel room. In my own goddamn skin.

In the wreckage I built with my own two hands.