Epilogue
Canaan
May of the following year . . .
The stands were full of people excited to witness the Formula One comeback of Canaan Jackson.
Although I’d won another NASCAR race and had competed in other Formula One races, I had to conquer my ultimate fear: racing on the track that almost killed me.
I refused to practice the way I had last year, using my time preparing for my other races as my training.
Malcolm had nearly quit when I relayed that I would not be practicing for this race.
While I meditated, my instinct told me that I was prepared, and only fear prevented me from excelling.
I decided that if I couldn’t find peace within before the race, I wouldn’t compete.
Although I knew Kensie was worried, she didn’t try to deter me or talk me out of my decision.
She told me countless times over the past few months how she believed in me.
Her relentless and unwavering support as she traveled with me whenever she could—whether to races or practices—until she became too big with our child to travel, had only drawn us closer.
Sharing a life that grew inside of Kensie matured our love faster than time, and we were quietly married in Barbados, in the backyard of my grandparents, on New Year’s Eve, with all our loved ones present.
My mother and my two sisters were even in attendance.
She’d seemed proud of me, and maybe we would talk about her decision to leave me with her parents, with little contact over the years, and how that affected my ability to trust. Or maybe we wouldn’t.
It no longer mattered why because I had been blessed to be raised by Pops, Mama G, my father, and Ms. Murielle.
Kensie chronicled our life together, sharing it in posts for the fans who loved and supported us.
She rarely went live on social media, focusing her creative energy on her third book after completing her doctorate and turning her dissertation into her second book.
This time, she planned to explore how to keep it hot and maintain love when both individuals are career-driven.
Her editor loved the idea, and the advance she was offered demonstrated the love.
Kensie had delayed the job at Howard until we could relocate to D.C.
as a family, but would begin in the fall as an assistant professor.
For now, Kensie was content to be a mother and a writer.
Kennedy Carron Jackson was born in January to a sobbing daddy, who loved that my first was a girl.
A little girl who looked just like Kensie did as a baby.
Kennedy also appeared to have my energy and physicality.
Her motor skills developed rapidly. At four months, she was alert and sitting up independently.
Ms. Murielle claimed that her fast development was nature’s way of making room for the next baby.
I hoped so. I loved seeing Kensie swell with my child as much as she enjoyed being pregnant.
Creating a family with Kensie made me feel more like a man than anything I’d ever done.
Malcolm tapped my shoulder. “You’re good?”
“Yeah. I got this,” I grinned before placing my helmet on my head. “One heart. One mind. One soul.”
“One heart. One mind. One soul,” Malcolm recited back, and we bumped fists. “Be safe and come back in one piece.”
“I’ll try,” I drawled. “Might get distracted from you yelling in my ear.”
“Get in the damn car,” growled Malcolm, and he stormed off.
Sometimes, I played too much. I would apologize later for not acknowledging my friend’s worry.
I wouldn’t be half the driver I’d become without Malcolm “Mal” Patterson, and I needed to make sure Malcolm knew that.
Before I slid into the car, I scanned the crowd and held up my thumb and index finger to create an “L,” my signal of love to Kensie.
She returned the signal as she anxiously watched with my father and Ms. Murielle.
Her parents, who finally decided to travel, were back at the hotel, happy to babysit Kennedy.
Pops and Mama G watched from Barbados while my mother and sisters cheered from Chicago.
I settled in my car and closed my eyes, and soon, Kennedy’s happy gurgles filled my ears. My engine roared to life like a dragon breathing fire, ready to attack, and from the depths of my soul, I knew that victory and a place in history wouldn’t elude me this time.
An hour and six minutes later, I crossed the finish line eight seconds ahead of my nearest competitor. While Malcolm and my team rushed to my car to congratulate me, I had eyes only for my proud wife, who pushed through the crowd, determined to reach me.
Pops once told me the right woman wouldn’t be a distraction to my goals and dreams. As she approached, full of joy and love for me, I couldn’t imagine anyone else besides Kensie Garrett-Jackson by my side to madly drive me for the rest of my life.
THE END