That Second Chance

by Quinn, Meghan

“You’re such a liar.” Jen finishes up with the fudge; its arrangement is rainbow inspired today, the colors all flowing together, beautiful and appealing.

  For how old the shop is, it really has its charm, partly because of the displays my mom so carefully designed and partly because my parents have restored every historical piece of architecture in the joint while keeping everything up to code. Wood-beamed ceilings, bay windows at the front, original hardwood floors, and white shiplap bordering the walls, giving the entire space a light, coastal feel.

  Brig smiles like a fool. “Hey, I can’t help if I think I saw my soul mate last night. Red hair, big brown eyes, freckles for days . . . she was stunning, just sitting there, looking like a goddamn fiery angel.”

  “Why do you keep going after tourists?” Jen asks.

  “Because you never know when you can turn a tourist into a lifer.” Brig wiggles his eyebrows like an idiot before growing serious. “And no one local will even give me the time of day.”

  Rolling her eyes dramatically, Jen eyes me from where she’s making coffee. “And what about you, Griff? Any tourists who’ve caught your eye lately?” Brig’s comment doesn’t escape me; I know full well what he’s talking about, why not one single local girl will even consider going on a date with him, but Jen refuses to acknowledge our “beliefs.”

  Keeping my head down, I make a noncommittal sound and focus on showcasing the pastries. Raspberry scones, blueberry scones with lemon icing, and apple-cinnamon-chip scones. Just keep focusing on the scones.

  “Griffin, I’m talking to you.”

  “And I’m ignoring you,” I answer honestly, not wanting to get into another one of her “you have to get back out there” conversations.

  “It’s been two years.”

  I’m well aware of how long it’s been, believe me. Every day I wake up to an empty bed, a wifeless home. No pink slippers flopping around the house; no You’re Foxy mug being sipped from in the morning and at night; no sweet, addictive laughter bouncing off the walls of my home during a late-night Scrabble match.

  Instead I face empty silence, growing lonelier and lonelier with each passing day.

  “I know,” I mumble, the dull ache in my chest, which I live with on a constant basis, growing.

  “Why won’t you at least let me set you up with Jessica, the head of the PTA? She’s been very vocal about her interest in you. She’s asked me multiple times to set up a blind date—and you know how unusual that is in this town. Besides, you would like her, Griff. She has two kids, both darlings, nothing like my demonic spawn, and she’s really good at yoga, which means she’s flexible.”

  I shake my head. “Not interested.”

  “Griffin, I hate seeing you so alone. It hurts my heart.”

  Taking a deep breath, I plaster on a fake smile. “I’m not alone; I have you fools.” I clear my throat and put an end to the conversation. “Now, come on, we still have some work to do before we open.”

  Jen doesn’t move right away; instead, I can feel her gaze stuck on me. “I talked to Kathy the other day, you know.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a deep breath, not wanting to get into this with Jen again, not wanting to hear the lecture that follows after, the one where Jen tells me that even though my wife died, her mom didn’t, and I should still talk to her.

  “Jen,” I warn.

  “She worries about you, Griff.”

  “Tell her I’m fine. Now let’s move the fuck along.”

  And that puts an end to the conversation. Thankfully.

  I put the finishing touches on the bakery case, Jen preps the coffee and hot water, and Brig tests the fudge—the guy eats everything he sees and sets out to be more of a barnacle than a helper.

  From the already bustling streets outside, I’m guessing this is going to be a very long and busy day. My only hope of catching a break—from both the workday and Jen’s concern—is if I’m somehow called in to the station.

  Here’s hoping there’s a cat stuck in a tree somewhere.

  CHAPTER TWO

  REN

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  A heavy sigh escapes me. I keep two hands on the steering wheel, my mom’s worried voice booming through my car’s speaker as I drive down the windy back roads of my new home state.

  Maine is a far cry from the arid, dry landscape of Southern California. Instead of tumbleweeds and palm trees lining the road, giant conifers stretch high in the sky, the bottom half of their trunks devoid of branches. Gorgeous scenery is visible through every window of my car, luscious green plants and cute split rail fences separating open fields from the worn-out asphalt of the weary road.

  This place is everything I dreamed of and more.

  “I’m fine, Mom.”

  “And your car works okay? I don’t like that you bought a used car without your father checking it out.”

  “Mom, it’s a very reliable car. I promise.”

  Usually helicopter moms are only motoring around their kids when they’re young, but not mine. She’s constantly hovering over me, making sure I take my vitamins, eat a healthy, well-balanced diet, and make smart, intelligent decisions without being too hasty. She’s morphed me into an overly anxious person I don’t even recognize, and that’s one of the reasons I need this new start: to separate myself from the worrying she’s constantly projecting onto me. And she became even more overbearing after my car accident. I need the separation, the room to breathe.

  I don’t want to be scared anymore.

  I want to be independent, free of anxiety.

  I want to live.

  “But after your accident, you can never be too sure.”

  “Mom, that was a year ago. I recovered, and I want to move on. I think it’s time you moved on too.” Please, for the love of God, move on.

  The sound of my newish car bumping down the road fills the silence while I wait for her to say something. In my mind, I can envision the consternation marring her features, worry set in the wrinkle between her eyes.

  “We almost lost you, Ren.”

  And just like that, at the sound of her worried voice, my annoyance transforms into understanding.

  “I know, Mom, and I know it was really scary for you and Dad, but I’m okay. This move is important to me. I want to show myself I can do this, live past the accident. I’m ready to start this new chapter in my life.” Far away from the constant hustle and bustle of Los Angeles.

  A year ago, as I was coming home from work, a car that was being chased down by the police rear-ended mine on the freeway, launching me into the car in front of me and causing a seven-car pileup, along with a punctured lung, broken ribs, and a head injury that almost cost me my life. It was a long road to recovery, but now that I’m just about back to 100 percent, I’m ready to put the past behind me and start living my new life.

  I need this new start more than anything. A fresh, clean slate, someplace new where I can gain confidence on my own and, once again, take on this crazy world by myself.

  “But why did you have to take a job so far away?”

  “We went over this, Mom.” I let out another long sigh. “I wanted a small town, a place I could connect with, a place where I can slow down and really enjoy life. Of all the schools where I applied, Port Snow gave me the best offer, and it’s a picturesque town, exactly what I was looking for.”

  “It’s across the country.”

  “Well aware, Mother.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. Don’t you ‘Mother’ me.” The playfulness in her voice tells me she’s starting to let up a bit.

  “I know this is hard, but try to be excited for me. And it’s not like you won’t see me in a month or two when you and Dad drive the rest of my things across the country.”

  My dad refused to let me drive a moving truck all the way from California, since driving trucks is what he does for a living. He offered to make it a road trip with my mom when we found out I had to report to a school meeting in late summer—before eith
er of them could make the trip. So I flew into Portland, Maine, got my seminew car, and started making the drive up north to Port Snow, so I can get settled before the meeting. Clearly, I’m an only child. Not many parents would offer to drive your belongings across the country while you fly. Too bad it won’t be until the fall when Dad has time off.

  Luckily, the cottage I rented is fully furnished, so I don’t have to worry about sleeping on the floor. I do need to find a Target or Walmart, though—the kitchen is completely devoid of pots and pans, and I’ll go crazy if I can’t cook.

  “Your father couldn’t be more excited about making the trip. I really think you made his year by asking for help. You know, he’s felt helpless since your accident. Such a hard feeling for a parent to get over.”

  I love my mom dearly, but boy, is she good at laying on the guilt thick, like peanut butter, slathering it on with no possible breathing holes.

  I hastily change the subject. “Hey, Mom, do you think you can send me that list of kitchen essentials we talked about? I really want to make some of your classic King Ranch chicken casserole as one of my first meals at my new place, you know, break it in right, and I want to make sure I have everything I need.”

  “Oh yes, I can do that.” See, if you task her to do something, she forgets to worry. “Would you like it as an email or text?”

  “Email works. Thank you. And I should go. I’m coming up on Port Snow, and I want to make sure I know where I’m going.”

  “Okay, honey. Be safe, and call us when you get settled. We love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  We hang up, and I let out a long breath, allowing my body to ease back into the leather seats of my little two-door Honda Civic, berry red because it caught my eye—a little something spicy to add to my more-than-humdrum existence.

  Oncoming traffic from the left yields as I take a slight right past an old white chapel, the paint chipped and the stained glass windows having seen better days. But it’s still beautiful, so different from the churches back home. Grassy New England meadows and quaint buildings border the road, reminding me that I’m getting closer and closer to my new town.

  Up ahead, a white-and-blue sign comes into view:

  WELCOME TO THE TOWN OF PORT SNOW

  A happy smile, full of anticipation, spreads across my face.

  This is where it all begins, the new chapter in my life.

  New town.

  New house.

  New job.

  New—

  “Holy hell!” I scream as a giant—and I mean giant—brown moose gallops into the middle of the road. “Moose attack!”

  Hysterically, I swerve my tiny car off to the side, avoiding the Godzilla of all deer, and careen down an embankment, plowing through wild grasses and flowers.

  “I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.” I close my eyes, my body jostling up and down from the hilly terrain, my hands gripped like a vise on the steering wheel.

  Who knew the new chapter in my life would end so abruptly?

  No to be continued . . .

  No happily ever after.

  Instead, I’m going to die, thanks to a suicidal moose!

  “Damn . . . you . . . moose,” I say on each bump of my car as I feel the vehicle catch a surge of air and fly before coming to a halting, crunching stop. My head slams into the steering wheel.

  Ooof.

  My car wheezes; a poof of air whirls in my face right before the airbag detonates.

  No, detonates is much too generous a word, since the bag has expanded to barely full size, and about five seconds too late.

  I blink a few times, my head already starting to throb as a trickle of wetness begins to stain its way down into my eye. I try to gain my bearings, struggling against the flashes of my previous accident.

  The sound of the car crunching.

  The scent of air-conditioning fluid.

  The flashing lights.

  The taste of blood in my mouth.

  My breathing becomes labored, my lungs begging for air, fresh air, the constraints of my car closing in on me . . .

  Wait.

  No!

  It’s okay. You’re okay, Ren.

  Your legs don’t hurt. Your arms are intact, and all limbs are moving.

  This is not like last time, not even a little.

  I take a calming breath through my nose and out my mouth.

  Through my nose and out my mouth.

  I’m okay.

  I check the rearview mirror and spot a small cut above my eye where my head hit the steering wheel. I try to wipe up the blood with my hand, but it’s no use; the cut is a gusher.

  Without a stock of napkins in my new car, I have no choice but to utilize the only other source of absorbent material available. I quickly take off my T-shirt, revealing my new black bralette—stupid impulse purchase—and ball up the fabric right above my eye, applying pressure.

  Okay, I just need to take some deep breaths, let the initial adrenaline wear off for a few minutes.

  Deep breaths in and out. In and out. Everything is going to be okay.

  Once I find that I’m calm and ready to face the damages, I grab my phone and purse and go to open my car door—only to find it’s stuck.

  “What the. . . ?” I pull the lever and push again, but it doesn’t move.

  Looking out the window for the first time, past the T-shirt hanging over half of my face, I focus and take in a very tall tree blocking my door.

  “Oh crap, that’s not good,” I huff. “Thank God for two doors.” I turn toward the passenger-side door and blow the sleeve off my face just in time to see an identical tree blocking in the passenger side as well.

  Like a ping-pong ball, my head bounces back and forth between the two doors, taking in my only two exits. I’m completely blocked off.

  Crap.

  The car hisses.

  Steam billows out from under the hood.

  Something is dripping. Is something dripping? I swear I can hear something dripping.

  Oh God.

  Okay, remember when I said I was calm and collected?

  Not anymore.

  Nope, pure hysteria consumes me in a nanosecond as I fumble for my phone and dial 911.

  Shirt pressed to my forehead, my bra on display for the wildlife to see, I bounce my foot up and down, waiting for someone to answer.

  On the second ring, a voice comes on the phone.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “I’m going to die!” I scream into the phone, spit shooting out of my mouth, hands flying to the roof of my car. I’ve morphed into a frenzied, neurotic person on the verge of a mental breakdown—oh God, I’ve become my mother.

  CHAPTER THREE

  GRIFFIN

  I sit on the edge of my seat, ready to pounce out of the truck, the suspenders connected to my pants pulling on my shoulders with every hill and pothole the truck runs over.

  The break from a very busy day at the Lobster Landing is needed, but after listening to the recorded 911 call, I’m feeling a little anxious. The call was choppy, but from what we could hear, a woman was about to die in her car on the side of Route 1 near mile marker 183, just outside of town.

  I’ve been a volunteer firefighter for years now, and even though I’ve been trained in everything under the sun and I’ve seen more tragedy than I’d prefer, I still get a stomach full of nerves every time I’m sent out on a call. The uncertainty of what we’re going to be driving up to—that doesn’t go away.

  And whenever a car is involved, I always think the worst.

  “Are you ready?” Greg, one of my fellow firefighters, asks. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

  Dave, the driver, slows down as we hit the mile marker where the respondent directed us.

  “Over there,” Greg calls out, pointing out evident tire marks in the wild, grassy slope off to the side.

  Dave parks the truck. Greg and I hop out immediately, jogging down the hill to find a sm
all red car wedged between two pine trees and suspended about half a foot above the ground, branches resting on top of the car like a blanket. Steam filters from under the hood, and from a first assessment, I’m thinking this can’t be good.

  “Oh shit,” Greg mutters, echoing my exact thought.

  Not sparing a second, I race through the overgrown grass, my boots sinking into the ground, muddy from the rain showers the night before, as I make my way to the driver’s side door.

  I lean forward, trying to get a good look in the car, and spot a figure lying across the center console of the vehicle.

  Shit.

  Please don’t be dead.

  “Greg, radio the EMT; make sure they’re on their way,” I yell over my shoulder.

  “On it,” he calls out.

  Nerves building up at the base of my spine, I knock on the window with the knuckle of my index finger. “Emergency responders—are you okay?” I shout, trying to get the woman’s attention.

  She doesn’t move. My heart sinks, my instincts kicking in. There’s no getting the car door open, which means I’m going to have to break open the window.

  I pull out my rescue tool, a gadget built for breaking windows, from my holster and peek in the window again. I knock on it once more for good measure, my eyes trained on the woman, my pulse thudding, pounding, rocking my body—just as she shoots forward and presses her face against the window, bloody forehead smearing across the glass, pure hysteria on her face, scaring the ever-living crap out of me.

  “Get me out of here!” she screams, pounding on the window.

  Jesus Christ.

  I catch my breath, trying not to show how startled I am by this jack-in-the-box victim popping up.

  “Ma’am, no need to worry. I’m going to get you out of there. Everything will be okay.”

  “Am I going to die?” she asks, pushing what looks like a bloody T-shirt against her forehead. “The car is going to explode any minute, isn’t it?”

  I shake my head. “No, the car should be fine, but I’m going to have to break your window to get you out. Are you able to scoot to the other side?”

  “Yes, I can scoot over. Just be careful with that ax. I’m young and still have so much life to live.”