Inside the tent, I help Penny into her sleeping bag, watching as she clings to her stuffed bunny. Her eyes are already drooping as I zip the bag up to her chin.
“Mom?” she whispers, voice thick with approaching sleep.
“Hmm?”
“Josh is nice, isn’t he?”
My heart misfires, a regular occurrence lately. “Yes, he is.”
“Like Daddy was?”
The question steals my breath. Penny never made comparisons. I’m the one constantly drawing parallels in my head, measuring Josh against Daniel’s memories. I swallow past the dilemma of how to answer.
“No person is the same, honey,” I say carefully. “But yes, they’re both kind, brave men.”
She nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer. “G’night, Mom.”
“Night, sweetheart.” I kiss her forehead and slip out of the tent.
Josh is waiting outside, leaning against a nearby tree. “All set?”
“She’s already half asleep,” I tell him. “But if you could sit out here for a few minutes, it would make her feel better.”
“No problem.” He smiles—that easy, genuine smile that makes it impossible not to grin back. “I’ve got this covered.”
I return to the pit, reclaiming my camp chair and the stick I was fidgeting with earlier. The flames have died down to a steady glow, the wood shifting with pops and hisses. I poke at a burning log, watching as the fire burns through it.
Am I about to get consumed too? Is the closeness to Josh going to incinerate me? It feels like that sometimes. Like every smile, or shared joke, and moment we spend together pushes me closer to the one thing I swore I’d never do again: love a man who runs into danger while everyone else flees away.
Josh’s footsteps crunch on the pine needles as he returns from Penny’s tent. “She’s out like a light,” he reports, settling into the camp chair next to mine.
Warmth blooms in my chest despite the night chill. “Thanks for being so patient with her today.”
“Are you kidding? I had a blast.” His smile is bright in the firelight. “She makes even complaints entertaining.”
“Penny the Grumble-Bee.” I chuckle.
“I never asked.” He frowns. “Is Penny short for Penelope?”
Oh. A simple question, but he’s unknowingly poked at a bruised spot in my heart, the kind that never heals. I shake my head, eyes fixed on the fire. “No, it’s not short for anything. Just Penny.”
Josh nods, accepting my reply without pushing. But then he shifts in his seat, angling his body toward mine. He’s sitting closer than he was earlier when we kept to opposite sides of the fire—at a safe distance. Now he’s near enough that I can smell the wood smoke clinging to his clothes, see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes reflecting the flames.
His proximity turns my skin electric, nerves buzzing with awareness.
“Why Penny?” he prompts.
Ah. He always knows when I’m not telling him something. But the story of Penny’s name is so intertwined with Daniel, with our love, with everything I lost, that sharing it feels like reaching into my chest with bare hands and pulling, not caring what tears on the way out.
We lapse into silence, both staring at the dancing flames. The blanket of night wraps around us, the distant hooting of an owl the only interruption. I appreciate that he never pushes. He offers the space and lets me decide whether to fill it. Josh makes room for my grief, my hesitation, my limits, without making me feel broken for having them.
“Daniel called me ‘Lucky,’” I whisper above the crackle of the fire. “Lucky Penny.”
I know Josh hears me because he turns his face toward me, but I keep staring at the fire.
“He’d found a penny on the sidewalk the morning we met,” I explain. “And after that, the universe sent us more pennies whenever things were hard.”
I poke at the fire again, sending more sparks into the night. “Daniel kept them in a jar by our bed, one for every time I ‘brought him home.’ When he was lost, he used to say I’d find him, that I was his real-life lucky penny.”
