Page 81 of Once Upon A Second Chance

I imagine my father, silent as always, nodding along. So, I don’t send it. I don’t even save it to drafts.

I just close the message and set the phone face-down on the nightstand.

The screen glows for a second longer—like it’s waiting for me to change my mind—then goes dark.

I lie back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, arms crossed tightly over my chest.

The cheap motel pillow smells faintly of bleach and something sour underneath, but I don’t bother moving.

I don’t bother changing into something more comfortable. I just lie there, staring into the dark, every muscle tense, every thought a wrecking ball.

Time drags.

At some point, the air conditioning kicks on again with a clatter, rattling the thin window. Someone slams a door two rooms down. Tires crunch gravel outside.

But inside my head, it’s nothing but silence and regret and the memory of her voice when she told me to go.

I roll over onto my side, facing the wall.

I tell myself I’ll text her tomorrow.

That I’ll show up. Explain everything. Beg if I have to.

But for now? For tonight? I stay right here.

Trapped.

Lonely.

Restless.

Andentirely alone.

The clinic is louder than usual when I walk in—phones ringing, nurses laughing too brightly, patients rustling in their seats like the whole building can’t decide whether it’s a hospital or a social club.

I barely make it through the door before I see her.

Penny.

At the far end of the hallway, clipboard in hand, head down like she’s reading something very important. Too important to notice me.

Except I know she noticed me. She’s been avoiding me all morning. No casual hellos, no eye contact. When she passes me at the nurses’ station, it’s like there’s an invisible barrier she won’t cross.

She doesn’t even glance my way.

I deserve it. God, I deserve worse. But knowing that doesn’t make it easier to stomach.

I push through my rounds, reviewing x-rays, updating post-op charts, pretending I’m notcounting the minutes until I get five damn seconds to talk to her properly.

No such luck.

By midmorning, it’s clear Penny’s made an art form of dodging me.

She disappears into patient rooms the second I enter the hallway, retreats behind supply cabinets, buries herself in paperwork. She’s faster than half the running backs I treated last season.

I’m filling out a referral request at the front desk when Lena slides up beside me, her presence as subtle as a sledgehammer.

"You and Penny having a lover's spat, Doctor?" she asks, voice low but unmistakably sharp.