Chapter 2 Spencer
TWO
SPENCER
When it’s time for the awards, I find myself… waiting.
Not for the applause. Not for the recognition. But for her.
Rhea Sinclair.
Her name’s etched in my mind—alongside the sharp, elegant clarity of her proposal. Out of over a hundred applications, hers was the one that lingered. Smart. Clear-eyed. Full of purpose.
I remember reading it twice—first with interest, then with something closer to awe.
Not because it was flashy. But because it was rooted in something deeper. There was a steadiness in her language, a quiet urgency that made it feel less like a pitch and more like a promise.
Every detail had weight. Every paragraph was built on the last with surgical clarity.
And tucked between the charts and projections, there it was—this undercurrent of something incandescent.
Her why wasn’t performative. It was lived in.
Earned. The kind of purpose that doesn’t just chase impact—it creates it.
But behind that proposal, I hadn’t expected her.
I expected brilliance. Purpose. Maybe nerves and an outdated blazer.
Not someone who walks into a room like a whispered poem in a black satin dress.
And yet—when her name is called as the winner
“The Maplewick Literacy Access Project—Maplewick, New Hampshire. Accepted on behalf of the initiative by Ms. Rhea Sinclair…”
She doesn’t move.
Not right away. It takes her a moment, as if her brain and body need time to sync. Then she stands, blinking slowly.
And I watch her face break open with wonder.
By the time she’s halfway to the stage, I see them—tears. Not the delicate kind. Real ones. Rolling down flushed cheeks. And damn if I don’t feel something sharp and quiet tug behind my ribs.
Now this is a good use of wealth.
She’s about three steps from me when it happens.
Her heel catches, and suddenly she’s off-balance—falling forward—momentum, panic, and black satin all hurtling towards me.
I react without thinking, catching her just before she hits the floor.
And for a split second, time halts.
Her hands clutch at my shoulders, her face just inches from mine.
Our eyes lock—hers wide with panic, then embarrassment, then something else.
Her breath is shallow, warm against my neck.
For a moment, we’re the only two people in the room. The laughter, the music, the clink of glasses—all of it fades.
Then the moment breaks.
She straightens with a gasp, pulling away as her face flushes a deep, cabernet red.
And just like that, the room comes rushing back—dozens of eyes on us, murmurs rising, curious smiles hiding behind flutes of champagne.
I pivot. I turn to the mic, still holding her hand, and say:
“They say the best stories knock you off your feet. Looks like hers just did.”
Laughter rises. Then applause.
I squeeze her hand once, lightly, before letting it go.
The crowd is still clapping, but I’m only watching her.
She’s smiling now.
Still flushed. Still blinking back tears.
But smiling.
And I know right then this is not the last time I want to make her smile like that.
When the formalities are over, the band kicks in with something bold and brassy. Guests start filtering toward the dance floor, champagne still in hand, heels already coming off under the tables.
I’m not interested in the music. Or the canapés. Or the small talk.
I’m scanning the room for her.
I spot her in a far corner, mid-conversation with two of our board members. She’s animated, cheeks still a little flushed, hands moving as she speaks.
“…and by partnering with rural schools and mobile library units, we’ll be able to expand access by nearly sixty percent,” she says. “It’s about meeting people where they are—literally.”
She’s covering every angle—vision, logistics, gratitude—and doing it all with a grounded sincerity that makes even seasoned board members nod like first-year interns.
“Excuse me,” I say smoothly. “I’m wondering if I might take this winner onto the dance floor—”
She’s still for a beat.
And that’s when I notice that I’m holding my breath. Feeling something I’m not used to feeling.
“—assuming, of course, you’re feeling steady on your feet.”
I wink.
She laughs. Full, bright. Like she’s finally shed the last of that earlier embarrassment.
“I’ll do my best,” she says, and places her hand in mine.
Whatever clumsiness she felt earlier is long gone. Her posture is light, balanced. Confident. The orchestra swings into a big-band rhythm—horns blaring, drums popping—and suddenly she’s dancing.
Really dancing.
She’s in sync with every beat, every turn—fluid and fearless.
Like she’s channeling a black-and-white film and some long-lost swing legend who raised her right.
“Where did you learn to dance like this?” I ask, breathless.
“My grandpa,” she says, grinning. “He thought the jitterbug was a life skill.”
She spins out, I catch her hand, and we laugh like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
Then the tempo shifts. Slows.
A softer melody takes over. A crooner’s voice glides across the room like velvet, and couples melt into each other. I should take a break. Let her go. Thank her for the dance.
But I don’t.
Instead, I take her hand again. And with nothing but a look, I ask the question.
Her smile is the only answer I need.
And when she steps in close —closer than before—I’m breathing in honeydew and fresh rain. Like spring, waking up. Like a clean slate I didn’t know I needed.
In this moment, all I know with perfect clarity is that I want her even closer still.
When the band takes a break, we do too.
The sudden quiet feels louder than the music.
“I’ll grab us drinks,” I offer.
She hesitates, then smiles. “I think I need to switch to ginger ale. Early flight.”
I nod, but the words hit harder than they should—like a door starting to close just as I’m reaching for the handle.
I’ve barely scratched the surface.
I return with two ginger ales and spot two open stools at the bar. Neither of us glances toward the big round tables where the real schmoozing is happening. We take our seats at the edge of the room like it’s just the two of us.
She tells me about her planned trip to Europe this fall. France. A long-deferred dream. She plans to use the summer to get the grant initiative off the ground, build the team, put the systems in place, and then go.
“When I graduated from college, I had a one-way ticket and a map of bookshops I wanted to visit,” she says, a little smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “But the day before my flight, my mom got her diagnosis. Stage four cancer.”
“That’s rough.” I say, “How is she doing?”
“She’s been gone for just over a year now.” She says it plainly, not fishing for sympathy—just being authentic..
“I stayed. I took a job at the local library, thinking I’d be there just until things stabilized.” She lifts her glass. “Four years later…”
My throat tightens. Not just from her story. From her.
She is beautiful—yes, but it’s more than that.
She’s funny. Honest. Self-deprecating in a way that feels real, not rehearsed.
With flushed cheeks, bare shoulders, and a loose curl slipping free from her updo, she looks like she stepped out of a story I forgot I’d been waiting to read.
There’s a dimple in her left cheek that only appears when she really smiles.
And she’s completely unaware of what she’s doing to me. Like just by looking at me, she sees a person, not a dollar sign.
“Actually, I’m headed to France too,” I say. “Biking -The Haute Route Alps. Seven days. Four hundred miles.”
Her eyes widen.
“You race?”
“More like I try not to embarrass myself. But yeah. It’s brutal. And addictive.”
“Sounds awful,” she says, laughing into her glass. “But in a good way.”
I shrug. “Maybe we’ll cross paths.”
As soon as I say the words, I realize how silly they must sound. She’s not going there until October. Not until the grant project is up and on its feet, and not until she’s saved and tucked away a few more dollars.
She’s smiling at me now, soft, slow, and a little surprised, and I feel something shift.
Not a spark, but a pull.
The kind that settles in your chest and refuses to leave.