Page 2 of One More Chance
And we remember what happens next.
I had the grotesque privilege of knowing the horror on the horizon. The lonely condos, the hollow sex… Angie crying in the rain or shrieks of rage that reverberated in the halls. Then there was Slone’s silence, Violet’s disappearance, and finally Liam's series of incarcerations.
So what was I supposed to do? Relive the wreckage? Play it all again and hope for a different ending?
Fuck. I hadn’t just ruined our family. I had obliterated Sloane, us, and everything we had built together. All I felt in that moment of clarity, coursing through my veins like ice water, was horror. I was a goddamn scumbag; a shell of a man in a skinsuit.
My death should have been my final punishment, my penance for the pain and suffering I had caused. Instead, I was somehow back again.
I stumbled out into the parking lot, the morning air sharp and cold against my skin. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. The world felt too big, too real. Twelve years of knowledge burned behind my eyes as I slid into the driver’s seat of my truck. The crisp, sterile smell of new leather and carpet smothered me, a reminder of how easily I'd buried guilt under the guise of waste and luxury.
As I breathed through the onslaught of nausea, tears pricked at my eyes. For the first time in years I let myself cry. I sat there for a long time, staring out the window of my truck, watching the bruised sky as the sun rose, feeling like some cruel god had dragged me out of the grave just to force me to witness the beginning of my own ruin. Not to change it, simply to watch it. Helpless. Aware.
Bile rose once again and I couldn't hold it back. I threw open the door, emptying out the remains of my stomach as the invasive thoughts kept coming.
I deserve this. This is Hell. This is my punishment for all I've done.
Hell or not, I knew something with bone-deep certainty: no matter how young my body, my soul was already rotting. And Sloane? Fuck, she would never look at me the same again.
Wiping the tears and vomit from my face, I crawled back in and started my truck. Anger coiled in my stomach as I came to the conclusion I needed.
Fuckwhatever sadistic god brought me back andfuckwhatever they had planned for me. I didn't care if it was intended as a curse, gift, or punishment. I had one more chance. I had to find Sloane and tell her how sorry I was before I lost her all over again.
Because Irefusedto lose her again.
Chapter 2
The first thing I did was check the date and time to confirm what I already suspected.
Twelve years. Twelve fucking years.
I sat there, trembling in the car, my hands unsteady as I tried to claw through the onslaught of my most recent memories from my previous life: from the death of Old Me. I had been driving. The light turned green. A horn, long, panicked, too late and then the impact. The sharp violent jerk as the front of a truck barreled into my truck at, what, seventy-five miles per hour? Maybe more? That bright burst of metal in my peripheral, a scatter of glass, and the sickening crunch as my body ceased to exist.
I could imagine all that must have remained of me: a mangled mess, my body nothing more than a stain to be scraped off the front of the truck’s grill, a human carcass that couldn’t even be recognized as one anymore.
Whatever god standing nearby in those solemn last moments must have taken pity after listening to me beg for ten years for anotherchance. That skeletal wave of his hand was all that was needed for a second opportunity, a time-travel resurrection, a get-out-of-death-free card.
Even now, as surreal as all of this felt, I knew that I could not fuck up my life again. The Old Me had blindly destroyed everything, and never took the time to appreciate how perfect my life had already been.
The feeling of desperation held taut as my chest heaved from the pressure. The thought of what I’d put Sloane through tore into my stomach, a knife of guilt stabbing into me. Ineededto see Sloane.
Trying to ground myself, I checked my wallet and took an inventory of what cards and cash I had on me. Debit, credit, cash and a punch card to a coffee place Angie loved.
Well that is fucking trash now.
A small wave of relief passed through me when I remembered that my important documents, passport, birth certificate, social security card, were safe. Sloane had them. She’d been smart enough to suggest I leave them with her back when I was still in the midst of moving in with Angie.
Angie. My mistress.
Even the word felt filthy as it made my stomach twist.
Looking to the sky, I realized that I still had plenty of time left before Sloane woke up for the kids and her demanding job.
The constant chaos at the emergency vet clinic left her drained and I had been too stubborn to let her stay home with the kids until my business became a success. By that point, Sloane's love for the industry kept her working there as she held every paw and hand that came through those doors.
As for me, I was a builder by trade. Simple. Predictable. I built homes. Big, beautiful structures meant to last lifetimes and for a while,I thought I was building a future, too. Business was booming. Money flowed in like water from a busted pipe, and I was arrogant enough to think it would never dry up since the housing market was on fire. I let myself believe I had outsmarted the system.
What I didn’t know at the time, what none of us saw coming, was that the world was about to break. A slow, creeping apocalypse was already threading its way through airports, subways, and schools. A virus that didn’t care how many zeroes I had in the bank and trust me when I say I had plenty. Like a bleak noir story, the end was already moving, silently and ruthlessly through the world, and by the time we realized it, we were all too late.
