Page 115 of Once Upon A Second Chance
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 outmy 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 slicebread, 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.”
“Youcalled 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 becauseyou’reout ofarguments?”
Dad flinches. “Penny, I didn’t come here to take sides—”
