Page 103 of Once Upon A Second Chance
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 plantsa 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 somethingreal.
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 rightthings—correcting form, offering encouragement, recording progress notes—but there’s a slight fuzz at the edges of everything. Like I’m here, but notfullyhere.
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.
