Page 98 of Once Upon A Second Chance

Ours.

Chapter Twenty-One

Richard

I’m not sure I’ve ever been more nervous about a simple dinner in my life.

And I’ve survived medical school interviews, malpractice depositions, and Thanksgiving with Rebecca’s extended family, so that’s saying something.

Penny sits beside me in the passenger seat, legs crossed, hands tucked into her lap.

She looks calm on the surface, but I can tell by the way she keeps smoothing the hem of her dress that she’s not exactly relaxed either. She catches me glancing at her and offers a small, wry smile.

"It’ll be fine," she says, sounding more like she’s trying to convince herself than me.

I reach over and squeeze her hand gently. "I don’t care if it’s a disaster. I’m not going anywhere."

Her smile warms, softens. "Me either."

Still, my stomach churns all the way to the restaurant.

The place my parents picked is the most upscale Mount Juliet has to offer—a white-tablecloth kind of establishment that tries a little too hard with things like balsamic reductions and words likefusionon the menu.

But it’s quiet, the lighting’s warm, the tables are spaced far enough apart that it feels almost private, and the food is actually quite good.

We spot them near the back—my father already nursing a whiskey, my mother rearranging the silverware like a general preparing for battle.

They stand as we approach, and I brace myself for impact.

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, my mother steps forward and smiles—an actual, genuine smile—and reaches out to take Penny’s hand in both of hers.

"Penny," she says warmly. "You look lovely."

Penny thanks her, squeezing back lightly, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

We sit, and for a few minutes, everything feels oddly... normal. Drinks are ordered. Menus are perused. Small talk about the weather and the town’s seemingly endless construction projects floats easily across the table.

Then, somehow—maybe because we all secretly know we need to air it out—the conversation shifts to the past.

"Remember when you tried to cook Thanksgiving dinner in that shoebox apartment you had senior year?" my father asks, glancing at me with a rare gleam of humor.

Penny laughs, bright and unguarded. "He nearly set the oven on fire."

"I wasmultitasking," I protest, grinning despite myself.

"You put a frozen turkey in at 450 degrees," Penny says, nudging my foot under thetable.

My mother actually chuckles, dabbing her napkin at the corners of her mouth. "Richard always thought he could brute-force his way through things."

"Still does," Penny mutters under her breath, just loud enough for the table to hear.

We all laugh, even my father, and the knot in my chest finally starts to ease.

The conversation drifts from there—college memories, old stories about classmates Penny and I both knew, light teasing about how I once got a black eye playing intramural basketball because I refused to wear goggles.

For the first time in a long time, it feels... easy.