Page 30 of Once Upon A Second Chance (Once Upon A Time…To Happily Ever After #2)

Chapter Twenty-Five

Penny

I wake up before the sun does.

The light outside the window is the faintest suggestion of morning—just a pale blue hint beyond the curtains.

Richard is still asleep, his arm heavy and warm across my waist, his breath soft against the back of my neck.

I stay there a while, perfectly still, letting the silence stretch long and comforting.

My body feels… different.

Not dramatically. Not in any way I could pinpoint. Just subtly rearranged. Like I’ve stepped into a new version of myself and the skin hasn’t settled yet.

I slide out of bed carefully so I don’t wake him, tug one of his t-shirts over my body, and pad barefoot into the kitchen.

I turn on the kettle and wait until it starts to hiss low on the stove. I busy my hands with brewing tea even though I know I’ll probably forget about it five minutes in.

My mind is already spinning.

Pregnant.

The word feels soft and huge and impossible.

I lean against the counter, both hands cupping the warm ceramic mug I’ve barely sipped from, and let the thoughts come.

I picture a nursery. Not pink or blue, but soft greens, warm woods, sunlight through gauzy curtains.

A rocking chair. A bookshelf. A tiny onesie with lemons on it that I saw once and thought was so stupidly adorable it made me ache.

I picture tiny hands curling around one of Richard’s fingers. Picture the way he’ll look at them—like they’re a miracle he never thought he deserved.

I also picture the other things.

The disruption of all my routines. The loss of sleep. The fear. What if I’m not enough? What if I lose myself in it? What if I break something that can’t be fixed?

My free hand drifts instinctively to my stomach again.

There’s nothing to feel. No flutter. No curve.

Just the knowledge of possibility.

And the terrifying, aching truth that everything has already changed.

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. Try not to panic. Try not to jump ahead.

I remind myself I don’t have to have all the answers yet.

But even as I try to breathe through it, Jesse’s face flashes in my mind—and just like that, the warmth in my chest cools.

Because I know he’s going to make this harder before he even tries to make it better.

Jesse’s been on high alert ever since Mom died.

It was like a switch flipped the day we buried her—older brother became something closer to a sentry. He hovered. He worried. He policed. And for a while, I needed it. I was barely keeping myself afloat back then, trying to keep the house, the memories, myself from falling apart.

But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about support and started being about control.

Travis made it worse. Jesse never said it outright, but I saw it in the way he looked at me afterward—like I’d failed some invisible test of judgment. Like he’d trusted me to avoid danger and I’d let him down.

And now, with this? With Richard?

It’s like every instinct in him has gone into overdrive.

He doesn’t see me as someone capable of making my own decisions anymore. He sees me as something to protect, even from the people I love.

And I’m tired of it.

I love him. I always will. But I can’t keep living like I owe him an explanation for every choice I make. This is my life. This baby is my future. Mine and Richard’s. Not his.

Somewhere between the tea cooling in my hands and the sun cresting over the distant treetops, I realize I have to talk to him. Not yell. Not accuse. But talk. Set the boundary. Make it clear.

Because if I don’t, he’s going to keep pushing. And I’m not going to let him bulldoze the first real peace I’ve found in years.

Not this time.

Mrs. Delaney’s front steps look steeper this morning, like they’re holding a grudge. I stand at the bottom, arms crossed, eyeing the walkway like it’s personally responsible for her fall.

“You don’t need to glare at the concrete,” she calls from the doorway, wrapped in a cardigan the color of oatmeal and smugness. “It already won. Let’s not give it the satisfaction.”

I smile despite myself and start up the steps. “Don’t test me. I’m in the mood to demolish something.”

Richard chuckles beside me, shifting the tote bag full of extra pillows and a heating pad we brought her. “Maybe we should ask the city to install padded flooring.”

“Or a trampoline,” Mrs. Delaney suggests dryly. “If I go down again, I’d like to bounce back up.”

She’s still moving gingerly, cradling her ribs with one arm, but her eyes are clear and sharp. Being fussed over doesn't suit her, but she tolerates it with a kind of amused patience.

“Would you mind putting the kettle on for some tea, Penny? I’m not moving very quickly today, I’m afraid.”

Once she’s settled on the couch, I go make some tea and bring it to her in the living room where we all sit and enjoy a mug, as the early autumn chill lingers in the air.

“I swear,” Mrs. Delaney mutters, “I leave the house one time after sundown and end up with a rib full of gravel. You two don’t know how lucky you are to be young and bendy.”

I glance at Richard. “Speak for yourself.”

“Hey,” he says, mock-offended, “I’m extremely bendy.”

Mrs. Delaney snorts, satisfied.

After a moment, her voice softens a little. “You two were good last night. Didn’t panic. Moved fast. You’re already halfway to parenting.”

The words hang there, gentle and offhanded but hitting me squarely in the chest.

Richard just smiles faintly and says nothing. I press my fingers to my thigh and nod. “We’re trying.”

I stare out the living room window for a beat, then say, quieter, “It’s not the baby I’m worried about, though.”

Mrs. Delaney’s brow lifts in the rearview mirror. “Jesse?”

“Yeah.” I chew my lip for a second. “He’s just... locked into this idea that it’s his job to control everything. To protect me. And I get where it comes from. After Mom died, he stepped up. Too much, maybe. And after everything with Travis, it got worse.”

Richard’s hand brushes mine lightly, but he stays quiet.

Mrs. Delaney nods once, sagely. “Some men think protection is the same thing as love. Usually because that’s how someone showed love to them.”

I glance back at her. “He doesn’t mean to hurt me. But he doesn’t trust me to handle things on my own. And now, with the pregnancy…”

“He’s drowning in it,” she says. “Trying to fix something that isn’t broken, and pushing you under in the process.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s just true.

“What should I do?” I ask, because somehow it feels safe asking her.

Mrs. Delaney shrugs, then winces at the movement. “Talk to him. But don’t do it in your kitchen while you’re both tired and mad. Pick a place where no one can slam a door or storm off.”

“Like a coffee shop,” I say slowly.

“Exactly. Public, but calm. Less testosterone, more muffins. Makes everything feel more civilized.”

I smile, already pulling out my phone. “Thanks.”

She waves a hand like it was nothing, but there’s a warmth in her expression that says she’s rooting for me.

As we help her get comfortable on the couch with a pillow behind her ribs, and the heating pad at the ready, I thumb open a new text:

Penny:Hey. Want to meet for coffee tomorrow morning? Just to talk. My treat. Neutral ground.

I stare at the screen for a second, then hit send before I can overthink it.

By the time Richard and I are walking back to the truck, my phone vibrates.

Jesse:Yeah. Okay. Just us.

I slip the phone into my pocket, the knot in my chest loosening just slightly.

It’s not a solution. But I guess it’s a start.

The bell over the door chimes softly as I step into the coffee shop, the warmth and scent of cinnamon drifting over me like a blanket.

For a second, the world feels ordinary—mugs clinking, quiet chatter, the hiss of milk steaming behind the counter. I spot Jesse in the corner booth, already nursing a black coffee, his baseball cap pulled low and a scowl tucked under it like he’s expecting a fight.

I square my shoulders and start toward him, my hand resting unconsciously against my stomach. I’m ready. I’ve rehearsed my points. I’m calm. I’m not here to yell—I’m here to draw a line.

Then I see who’s sitting across from him.

And everything in me stops.

Dad.

Still dressed like it’s 1995—pressed jeans, button-down shirt with a collar stiff enough to slice bread, the faintest scent of too-expensive cologne wafting from across the table.

He looks older than I remember. Paler, thinner. Like grief hollowed him out and he just never refilled the spaces. But it’s definitely him.

He stands when he sees me, unsure whether to smile or brace for impact.

“Penny,” he says quietly.

I don’t return the greeting. I look at Jesse. “What the hell is this?”

Jesse has the decency to look uncomfortable, but only just. “I thought it might help to have some perspective.”

“You called Dad?”

“I didn’t think you’d listen to me, and you weren’t thinking straight, and he—”

“I wasn’t thinking straight? According to you, maybe. So you called the man who vanished into his job the second Mom died? Who hasn’t visited since her funeral, and now he suddenly gets to be involved because you’re out of arguments?”

Dad flinches. “Penny, I didn’t come here to take sides—”

“Then why are you here?”

The coffee shop hum drops by half. I don’t care. Let them listen.

“I came because your brother asked me to,” he says, voice measured. “But I stayed because he was wrong.”

Jesse’s head snaps toward him. “What?”

Dad nods toward me. “Well, Jesse told me about your conversation. And I think you’re right, Penny. It’s not Jesse’s decision. You’re an adult. You’ve built a life. You’re going to be a mother. I don’t have the right to tell you what to do, and neither does he.”

For a second, I forget how to breathe.

Jesse looks stunned, like someone pulled the floor out from under him.

Dad clears his throat, then adds, “But I want to try to be here for you. If you’ll let me.”

My stomach turns, not with nausea this time but with something knotted and complicated. Anger and sadness and the hollow ache of years I can’t get back.

He wants to ‘be here’ for me? What exactly does that even mean?

He wasn’t there when I needed him most—when I was crying in the bathroom after Mom’s service, when I was driving to the clinic alone for my first day back, when Jesse and I couldn’t afford the furnace repair on the house and he wouldn’t even contribute to the upkeep of his own home.

But now there’s a baby, and suddenly he wants to be close again?

“I don’t know what you expect,” I say, my voice quieter now but no softer.

“You can’t just show up and be Grandpa of the Year because Jesse decided to throw in the towel or something.

You weren’t there when we really needed you; when we needed to pull together as a family—or what was left of one, anyway. ”

“I’m not asking for forgiveness overnight,” he says. “I’m just asking for the chance to earn it.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. I don’t know what I feel.

So I sit down slowly across from them, and when the waitress comes by, I ask for decaf, and I try to act like this is a conversation I wanted to have.

Because maybe I do and maybe I don’t. But either way—it’s already happening.

When the waitress comes by and sets down the mug, I stir the decaf with a flimsy wooden stick, watching it swirl but not drinking. My stomach’s too tight for that.

Dad’s watching me cautiously, hands folded like he’s not sure if this is a family meeting or a funeral. Jesse keeps glancing at both of us, waiting for someone to light the fuse.

“You missed my birthday last year,” I say, quietly but not without weight.

Dad’s eyebrows lift slightly. He opens his mouth, then closes it.

“You called,” I continue. “Three days late. Left a voicemail that said, ‘Hope it was good.’ I didn’t even play it until the next morning because I’d already gone to bed crying.”

He shifts like the booth’s gotten smaller. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“You were only twenty minutes up the road in Nashville. But you skipped Thanksgiving and Christmas both. And every other holiday since Mom died.” I look at him squarely now.

“You said the house in Nashville was hard to leave. That you needed time. But as close as you were to us geographically, you were worlds away from us emotionally. That really hurt, Dad. We’d already lost one parent and then we lost you, too. ”

“It was hard,” he says after a long pause. “But that’s not why I stayed away. After a while, I told myself you two had each other. That if I showed up after failing you so badly, I’d just make things worse.”

“You did make things worse,” I say, more tired than angry. “By not showing up at all.”

Jesse exhales hard beside him, arms crossed, eyes on the table. “We all did what we thought we had to.”

“No,” I say. “We did what was easiest. You tried to control everything. He disappeared. And I... I just kept moving. Because someone had to.”

The silence after that is long and raw.

“I know I let you down,” Dad says, and this time there’s no evasion in his voice. Just grief. “I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing that I said nothing at all.”

“That’s still a choice,” I say, softer now. “One that lasted years.”

He nods.

“I thought if I just stayed in the house, kept things quiet, took things one day at a time, that the pain would dull on its own. But it didn’t.

” He looks down at his hands. “Hearing about the baby… I realized I want to be part of something again—part of our family again. Not just float around in the past.”

Jesse shifts beside him, still clearly reeling from the turn this took.

“I thought you’d back me up,” Jesse mutters to Dad.

“I was going to,” Dad admits. “But you told me what Penny said to you. And I see how she handles herself. She’s a strong woman now who doesn’t need someone to fight her battles. What she needs is people who will stand with her.”

He turns back to me. “I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

I stare at him.

He’s still the man who missed holidays, who left me to be the strong one, who thought his guilt exempted him from showing up. But now he’s sitting across from me, finally using his voice for something more than excuses. And that matters—even if it doesn’t erase anything.

“You want to move to Mount Juliet?” I ask carefully.

“Well, I’m looking at some properties,” he says. “Nothing final yet. I just want to be nearby, if you’re open to it. And, even if I stay in the Nashville house, it’s only twenty miles down the road.”

I nod slowly. “Okay. But you’ve got work to do.”

His shoulders ease, and he nods with something that might be relief—or maybe just resolve.

Jesse doesn’t speak, but his walls are thinner now. I can see it in his posture. Something got through. Finally.

We sit there for a while longer, nursing drinks and not saying much, and it’s not everything.

But it’s more than we’ve had in a long time.