Page 7 of Once Upon A Second Chance
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 throughmy 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 screenis 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.
