Page 64 of Once Upon A Second Chance
She doesn’t want me back.
She wants me ruined.
And the worst part?
It might be working.
I don’t knock.
I almost do, standing on Penny’s porch like some kid with a confession and no good words to wrap it in. But then the porch light flickers on before I raise a hand, and the door swings open like she was alreadywaiting.
She takes one look at me—hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, tension wound so tight across my shoulders it probably shows in my walk—and steps aside.
“You heard,” I say.
She closes the door gently behind me. “It’s a small town.”
“I didn’t say anything. I just walked out.”
“I know.”
“And I didn’t—” My throat tightens. “I would never—”
“I know, Richard.”
I finally look at her.
She’s not afraid.
Not uncertain.
Not asking for explanations I don’t know how to give.
She just opens her arms, and I go to her like I always have—like I always will.
“I never believed her,” she murmurs against my shoulder. “Not for a second.”
I exhale for the first timesince the pharmacy.
“Come on,” she says, taking my hand and guiding me into the kitchen. “You need something warm. And I need to make use of the fact that I found my mom’s hot chocolate recipe in the back of my junk drawer this morning.”
“You sure it wasn’t just a packet of Swiss Miss?”
She throws me a look over her shoulder. “Excuse you. This is real, from-scratch, emotional-support-level hot chocolate. There’s cinnamon and everything. Surely you remember.”
The kitchen smells like cocoa and a little like her perfume, and suddenly the weight in my chest doesn’t feel so sharp.
She hums as she works, pulling out a saucepan, heating milk. She doesn’t ask about the pharmacy again. Doesn’t push.
Just makes the drink with quiet care, as if this is what she’s done all along—found ways to soothe wounds too deep to bandage.
When she hands me the mug, I take a sip and nearly groan. “Holy hell. This tastes like childhood and forgiveness.”
She smirks. “Told you. It’s the cinnamon.”
We settle on the couch, mugs in hand, Bijou curled up at Penny’s feet like a glorified foot warmer.
After a few minutes, she says, “Do you remember sophomore year? When you tried to impress that pre-med advisor and pulled four all-nighters in a row?”
