Page 27 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Penny

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, toothbrush dangling uselessly from my hand, my reflection fogged with steam but sharp enough to see the questions in my own eyes.

Something feels... off.

It’s not just the heaviness in my limbs or the headache that settled behind my eyes sometime around dawn. It’s not the faint, creeping nausea that came and went like a ghost while I finished brushing my teeth a moment ago.

It’s not even the way my skin feels too tight, like I’m walking around in a body that’s slightly misaligned, like I’ve shifted half an inch out of sync with myself.

It’s all of it. Subtle. Persistent. Building.

I press a palm flat to my stomach, like I’ll be able to feel an answer just beneath the skin. Nothing sharp. No pain. Just a dull, low-simmering awareness I can’t shake.

It could be stress. After everything with Rebecca, after the lawsuit drama, the gossip, the tornado, we barely made it through with our sanity intact—it could just be my body coming down from the adrenaline, demanding the rest I’ve failed to give it.

But that explanation doesn’t quite fit, not with the way my appetite has flickered out the past couple of days, or how the sight of my coffee this morning made my stomach tilt sideways.

A ridiculous thought lodges itself in my brain and refuses to leave, as quiet and persistent as a splinter: what if…

No. I shake my head quickly, too quickly. I’m not doing this. It’s probably nothing. Hormones. A bug. Sleep deprivation.

Behind me, the water shuts off in the shower, and a moment later Richard emerges, a towel slung low around his hips, steam curling from his hair.

He’s humming something tuneless under his breath, drying his face as he crosses behind me.

He plants a kiss against the top of my head and smiles at me in the mirror like everything is perfectly normal.

And for him, it is. His world is stable again. Rebecca’s gone. His name is cleared. His parents are starting to come around. He looks lighter than I’ve seen him in years.

He has no idea something might be wrong.

And I want it that way.

I paste on a small smile, lean back against him slightly as he wraps his arms around my waist for a moment. The heat of his body bleeds into mine, grounding me just long enough to keep my expression even.

“You good?” he murmurs, resting his chin on my shoulder, voice still rough from sleep.

“Yeah,” I say. It comes out too fast, too practiced, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Gotta leave in ten,” he says, already stepping back to grab his clothes. “Want me to make coffee?”

“Sure,” I reply. “Thanks.”

I wait until he’s gone to look at myself again in the mirror, studying my face for something solid. Proof I’m imagining it. Proof I’m not.

I don’t find either.

By the time I step out into the hallway, fully dressed, hair pulled back, the routine of getting ready smoothing out my nerves just enough to function, Richard already has coffee waiting. He’s drumming his fingers on the counter, scrolling something on his phone, totally relaxed.

I accept the mug from him with a grateful nod, bringing it to my lips mostly for the ritual—though the smell still turns my stomach slightly, enough to make me pause and pretend to sip.

He kisses my cheek again, distracted, murmuring something about back-to-back surgeries and grabbing lunch if we both finish early. I nod, say yes to everything, follow him to the truck like I always do.

And I tell myself this is nothing.

That I can keep it to myself until I know something real.

But somewhere beneath the rhythm of the morning, beneath Richard’s easy confidence and the slow crawl of sunlight across the dashboard as we drive toward the clinic, I feel it. Something shifting. Something coming.

And I don’t know if I’m ready.

The fluorescent lights hum louder than usual this morning, and the therapy center smells like antiseptic and the overripe bananas someone always leaves too long in the break room.

I slip into my routine easily: checking the schedule, setting up resistance bands, tidying foam rollers that always end up under chairs like lost socks.

I tell myself that staying busy will help. That motion will distract me from the strange hollow feeling that’s been tugging at my gut since I woke up.

It doesn’t.

By mid-morning, I’ve already seen four patients, and each session passes like I’m moving half a second behind myself.

I’m saying the right things—correcting form, offering encouragement, recording progress notes—but there’s a slight fuzz at the edges of everything. Like I’m here, but not fully here.

At 10:30, Mrs. Kelley hobbles in for her post-op knee rehab, all sass and glittery eye shadow, armed with stories about her church choir and her cat’s latest adventures with her neighbor’s Roomba.

I smile, guide her through the warm-up, and brace her for our usual step work on the balance trainer. She chats the whole time, barely pausing to breathe, and I’m grateful for the noise—it keeps my own thoughts quieter.

We move to assisted stretches and, as I kneel beside her, gently coaxing her leg through a range-of-motion pass, I feel it.

A sudden flush of heat climbs from my chest to my scalp. My skin prickles. The room tilts ever so slightly to the left, like someone shifted the floorboards without warning. My grip on Mrs. Kelley’s ankle loosens.

I close my eyes, just for a second. Breathe.

One. Two.

It passes, but my mouth has gone dry and my stomach churns like I skipped breakfast—which I didn’t. I try to remember if I drank enough water. If I’ve been upright too long without a break. But this isn’t just tired legs or skipping a meal. This is deeper. More ‘wrong’.

“You all right, sweetheart?” Mrs. Kelley asks, watching me with more shrewdness than I’d like.

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Just stood up too fast earlier. Need to eat.”

She narrows her eyes like she doesn’t quite buy it, but bless her, she lets it go. “Well, you better not pass out on me, Penny Morgan. I still can’t bend this leg enough to climb stairs, and if you go down, I’ll be yelling for backup.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, managing a half smile.

We finish the session, and I go slower than usual, pacing myself through the cool down with extra care. I don’t let myself sit down—because I know if I do, I won’t want to get up again.

The second she’s out the door, I duck into the supply room. Shut the door. Lean against the shelf of boxed ice packs and unopened tape rolls, trying to ground myself.

I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, then to my stomach, then lower—just for a second. Just long enough to acknowledge what I’ve been refusing to say out loud.

This isn’t nothing.

This isn’t just stress.

This is... familiar.

Faintly. Distantly. From somewhere in the fog of years ago, when I thought about the possibility and promptly buried it. When I still had my mother to ask awkward questions, to hold my hand and hand me ginger tea without needing me to explain why I felt off.

She would know.

The thought hits harder than I expect, and for a moment, the ache of it outpaces the nausea.

I open my eyes, the shelves steadying themselves again. I reach up, grab a bottle of water, take a few deep sips, and tell myself I can finish the morning. I can make it to lunch. I can figure out the rest afterward.

But as I step back into the hallway, clipboard in hand and a new patient waiting in the vestibular room, one truth clicks into place so loudly I can’t pretend not to hear it anymore.

Something is happening inside me.

And it’s not going away.

The pregnancy tests are tucked on the bottom shelf, behind two different brands of ovulation kits and a dust-covered bottle of fertility supplements that expired in March.

I crouch down and scan the options like I’m comparing coffee beans instead of trying to confirm whether or not my life is about to change permanently.

My hands are clammy.

The box I reach for isn’t even the one I know from commercials or magazines. I just grab the one with the cleanest packaging. Two tests. Results in three minutes. Easy-to-read lines.

There’s nothing easy about this.

I shove it into my basket beside a bottle of vitamins and a couple of granola bars I don’t want but needed to camouflage the real purchase. My heart is hammering, but I tell myself no one’s looking. It’s Mount Juliet, but it’s not that small. Not everyone knows my business.

I should’ve known better.

I’m halfway to the register when I hear a voice that freezes me in place.

“Penny?”

I turn slowly, praying I imagined it, but no—there he is. Jesse. My big brother, wearing his dusty work boots and a sleeveless tee that still smells like fresh cut lumber, staring at the box in my basket like it just bit him.

I start to tuck it behind the granola bars, but it’s too late. He’s already seen.

His eyes go wide. “Are you—? Are you serious right now?”

“Jesse,” I warn, lowering my voice, glancing around to see who’s within earshot. “Don’t start.”

“You’re buying a pregnancy test,” he says, like I don’t know, like it’s news to me. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

“I’m not doing this here,” I hiss.

Jesse’s mouth opens like he’s about to launch into full protective-older-brother mode, but I shoot him a look so sharp it stops him cold. Doesn’t matter. He’s already turning, walking away fast, shoulders tense.

“Jesse!” I call after him. “Don’t you dare—”

But he’s gone.

Out the door, keys already in hand, headed for his truck. Headed for Richard.

“Goddammit,” I mutter, gripping the edge of my basket so tightly the plastic creaks.

I want to scream. I want to chase him down and drag him back by the collar and tell him that this—this—was not his news to run with.

He shouldn’t get to steal this moment from me because he’s too proud and overprotective and emotionally constipated to keep his damn mouth shut for five seconds.

This is mine.

My decision. My timing. My fear. My hope.

And now it’s out of my hands.

I storm to the self-checkout, scan the box like I’m scanning a weapon, pay, and jam the bag into my purse before half the pharmacy can blink.

As soon as I’m outside, I dig out my phone, heart still pounding, fury singing in my veins like electricity.

I don’t want to do this over the phone.

I wanted to sit Richard down. I wanted to hold his hand and say the words carefully, on my terms, in my space, with my voice steady and his eyes on mine.

But Jesse’s already in motion, and if I don’t get ahead of this, everything—everything—will spiral before I’ve even peed on the stick.

I hit Richard’s name and press call, holding the phone to my ear with a hand that trembles, not with fear, but with rage.

It rings once. Twice. Then his voice: “Hey, babe—what’s up?”

I close my eyes.

“I’m sorry I’m doing it like this,” I say quickly. “I didn’t want it to be this way. I didn’t want it to be on the phone. But Jesse saw me buying a pregnancy test and now he’s on his way to find you, and I just—” I stop, breath catching. “I didn’t want him to be the one to tell you. I’m sorry.”

There’s silence on the line for a beat too long.

Then Richard says, voice gentler than I expect, “Okay. I’m here. Tell me.”

I sit down on the bench outside the pharmacy, bag pressed against my knees, head bowed.

“I don’t know anything yet,” I say. “I haven’t even taken the damn test. I just… I’ve been feeling off. Weird. Not myself. And it started adding up. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s just stress. But I needed to know. And I needed you to know. From me. Not from Jesse.”

Richard exhales slowly. “Okay,” he says again, voice calm but serious. “Thank you for calling me. We’ll figure this out. Together.”

The words hit me square in the chest—solid and real and reassuring.

But the anger’s still there, simmering hot beneath the fear and uncertainty.

I hang up a minute later after asking him to come by my place tonight, and as I slip the phone into my pocket and head for my car, one thought burns through everything else like a brand:

Jesse is going to regret opening his damn mouth.