Page 2 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Two

Penny

The clinic door clicks shut behind me with finality.

The late summer air sticks to my skin like a second layer of scrubs as I watch Richard’s rental car turn left out of the parking lot.

My keys bite into my palm where I'm gripping them too tightly.

"Damn, girl. You look like you just saw a ghost. Or pissed off a particular surgeon."

Lena's voice makes me jump.

Her quiet crepe soled shoes, favored by most of our nurses, make no noise as she appears at my elbow holding two sweating iced coffees, her twist-out curls pulled back in the messy bun she only wears on late shifts.

The coffee’s condensation drips onto the asphalt between us as she holds one out to me.

I take it with what I hope is a convincingly casual shrug. "Just tired. And, for the record, I don’t generally piss off any of our surgeons.”

Lena takes a loud sip through her straw, the ice rattling like punctuation. "Uh-huh. And that's why you 'accidentally' spilled his coffee earlier? To test your theory?"

My face goes hot. "That was an actual accident."

"Like how you 'accidentally' memorized his schedule this week?" She wiggles her eyebrows. "Face it, Morgan. You're busted."

The coffee tastes like betrayal— exactly the right amount of caramel and oat milk. Lena knows my order too well.

I focus on the icy slide of coffee down my throat instead of the way my pulse jumps when I remember how Richard's shoulders filled out that stupidly perfect dress shirt.

"Look," I say, aiming for detached and landing somewhere near defensive. "He's just a locum—he won’t be here very long. I'm a professional. The end."

Lena makes a show of looking around the empty parking lot. "Wow. That sounded almost convincing. You practice in the mirror this morning?"

I flip her off, but there's no heat in it. The cicadas scream their approval from the trees lining the lot.

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." He caught 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 cuff exercises 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.

"Oh, sure," I say to the TV as some woman tearfully explains why she’s moving across the world for a man she’s known for three weeks. "What could possibly go wrong?"

Bijou hops onto the couch beside me, side-eyeing me as she settles onto a pile of laundry.

"Don’t judge me," I tell her.

She exhales through her nose, like she absolutely is judging me, then curls up with a stolen sock.

I take a long sip of wine, letting the bitter tang sit on my tongue. The TV couple argues in the background, their voices rising as the music swells.

My phone buzzes.

Lena: You ignoring me or just drinking alone?

I snap a picture of my wine glass and the TV screen, sending it with the caption: Both.

Lena: Ah. The ‘I’m fine’ combo. Classic.

I don’t respond. Instead, I drain the glass and reach for the bottle again.

Somewhere in New York, Rebecca Hogan is probably sipping champagne in some sleek high-rise, laughing about how pathetic I am.

And here I am.

With a half-empty bottle of discount Cabernet, a judgmental Papillon, and a heart that still hasn’t learned its lesson.

The glow of my laptop screen is the only light in the living room now. The wine bottle sits nearly empty on the coffee table, and Bijou has abandoned me for the bedroom, clearly disgusted by my life choices.

The TV murmurs in the background—some rerun of Say Yes to the Dress—but I’m not paying attention.

Instead, my fingers hover over the keyboard.

This is a bad idea.

I type before I can stop myself.

Richard Hogan Columbia Med

The results load instantly. Faculty page. Headshot. His stupidly perfect face stares back at me, all sharp jaw and easy smile. Dr. Richard Hogan, Orthopedic Surgery.

My chest tightens.

I click back, fingers moving faster now.

Hogan divorce New York

Gossip articles. Tabloid snippets. A paparazzi shot of Rebecca at some hospital charity gala, her left hand conspicuously bare.

"New York’s Top Surgeon’s Wife Spotted Without Ring—Trouble in Paradise?"

I shouldn’t care.

I don’t care.

I click anyway.

The article is full of vague, salacious hints—"insiders say the split was messy," "Dr. Hogan seen leaving their Upper East Side apartment alone," "rumors of another woman?"

My stomach twists.

I slam the laptop shut harder than necessary.

Bijou pokes her head out of the bedroom, ears perked.

"Yeah," I mutter. "I know."

I pour the last of the wine, turn up the volume on the TV, and try to forget that Richard Hogan ever walked back into my life.

But the thing about ghosts?

They never really leave.

Rain slashes sideways through the parking lot, soaking through my hoodie in seconds.

The streetlights flicker, casting jagged shadows across Richard’s face as he shoves his acceptance letter from Columbia Med into his backpack like he’s trying to hide evidence.

"It’s just a few years, Pen." His voice is too loud over the storm, his hands gesturing wildly. "Then I’ll come back. We’ll figure it out."

I wrap my arms around myself, the fabric of my sleeves clinging to my skin. "You won’t."

"What?"

"You won’t come back." My throat burns. "You’ll get there, and you’ll meet some brilliant New York girl who knows all the right people, and you’ll forget Tennessee exists."

Richard runs a hand through his rain-slicked hair, frustration tightening his jaw. "That’s not— You could come with me!"

"And do what?" The words tear out of me, raw and bleeding. "Be your plus-one while you become some hotshot surgeon? Follow you around like a lost puppy until you realize I don’t fit in your shiny new life?"

"Jesus, Penny." He steps back like I’ve slapped him. "Is that really what you think of me?"

The rain blurs his face, but I don’t need to see it to know the hurt in his eyes. I know every line of his expression, every shift in his voice. I know him—maybe better than he knows himself.

"I think you’ll try," I say quietly. "Until you don’t."

For a second, he just stares at me. Then his shoulders slump. "You’re not even trying to make this work."

The laugh that escapes me is hollow. "Funny. I was gonna say the same thing about you and New York."

A car horn blares somewhere in the distance, muffled by the downpour. Richard looks away first.

"I have to go," he says.

I don’t stop him.

The laptop screen is dark. The wine is gone.

Bijou whines softly from the bedroom, pawing at the door like she can sense the storm brewing in my chest.

"Yeah." I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until stars burst behind my lids. "Me, too, girl."

The TV drones on, some bride twirling in a gown she’ll probably regret in five years.

Outside, a car drives by, tires hissing on wet pavement.

Somewhere in this town, Richard Hogan is lying awake in a shitty motel bed, staring at the ceiling.

And here I am.

Still waiting for a rainstorm to end that already drowned us both a long, long time ago.