Chapter 20
I spent the weekend reading. Beck was still out of town. She and I talked a few times, but I kept the calls short, claiming
the kind of creative urgency that didn’t tolerate interruptions. Beck knew what that looked like, but it wasn’t true—not this
weekend. I was recovering and taking a break. I had to put distance between my revisions and all the wonderful books I’d been
ingesting.
The next few days at the center flew by in a blur of drafts, edits, and pep talks with the students. I’d assigned each of
the six students who planned to enter the contest a laptop so they could type their final entries. I even invited some of
them to come in early so they could work on their submissions.
We’d turned the back table into a mini publishing hub. Taylor and I agreed that having them make corrections on paper would
teach them good editing skills, so we printed everything. Papers littered every inch of space, and I commanded the action
like a military general. Taylor manned the printer because it jammed every third page.
Although the printing was annoying, the room still buzzed with good energy, and I had a feeling that those who had not agreed to submit an entry had regrets.
My eyes kept drifting to Regina, who sat by the window with her pages spread out neatly, a serious look on her face.
When I reached her, she was rewriting her final paragraph, her neat, slanted handwriting deliberate and steady.
Before I even had to ask, she passed the paper over. I read the new ending:
The water doesn’t forget. It remembers who you are, even when you don’t. When I stand at the edge and look out, I see every
woman who came before me. Their stories move with the tide, coming back again and again.
I lowered the page, unable to speak for a moment. “You did it,” I said finally. “You found the heart of it.”
Regina’s eyes brightened. “I wanted it to sound like how Grandmama talks.”
“It does,” I said. “And it sounds like you too. That’s the gift.”
Across the room, Taylor called, “We have less than an hour before you all have to submit!”
Technically, the deadline was tomorrow, but we wouldn’t be here.
“Time to upload, team,” I said, clapping once. “Make sure your name, school, and word count are on your paper. I don’t want
anyone losing points for a missing header.”
Regina typed the new ending into her Word document, then slid into the seat next to me as I opened the submission portal.
I guided her through attaching the file, double-checking everything.
“Okay,” I said, hovering over the trackpad, “are we ready?”
She bit her lip. “I’m scared.”
“Good,” I said gently. “That means you care.”
She took a breath. “Click it.”
I did. A small spinning wheel, a progress bar, and then “Your entry has been received.”
Regina gasped, covering her mouth. “Oh my gosh.” She looked at me, eyes wide and shining. “I can’t believe it.”
I laughed. “Believe it. You’re officially entered in the state writing contest.”
The kids around us started whistling and clapping. Regina glowed, and I wanted to bottle that moment—the pride, the disbelief,
the joy of realizing you’d created something that mattered. They all had that look, and I congratulated them.
“Time for a reward,” I said. The kids made a dash for the snack bin. I watched them choose, my pride bursting like they were
truly my own.
And then I felt a presence behind me, close and warm. I turned. Gabe. “Good job,” he said. Then to the children, he added,
“I’m proud of you.”
They smiled and blushed and, in general, were proud of themselves. He gave each of them a high five as they left the building.
Taylor was out the door behind them, leaving Gabe and me to lock up.
“You’re doing a great job with them. I would not have encouraged them to enter that contest.”
“I’m not making a mistake, am I?”
“No, stretching themselves is important, no matter what happens.”
“I think Regina has a real shot at making the finals. I know I have no idea what other kids are writing around the state, but, Gabe, this girl is special.”
Something warm eased into his expression. “Reminds you of yourself?”
“How do you know that?”
“I sense it. It’s coming across in every muscle in your body.”
“Who would I be if I could have written like that at her age? Who will she be?”
Gabe took one of my hands and squeezed. His eyes crinkled around the corners like they always did. As much as I fought my
own signs of aging with every cream and retinol I could afford, I loved the lines on his face. Every one of them looked hard-earned.
They told a story—one I wanted to know more about.
“Regina will be who God says she’ll be,” he said. “I have to get home for a virtual book club meeting. I’ll see you tomorrow
at six.”
I nodded. He let my hand go, and I missed his warmth immediately.
Before I reached the cabin, my phone pinged with a text from Gabe with the question: What is your favorite movie? Give me something that’s an old classic.
That was easy. I texted back: Mahogany. Why?
Gabe: ????
I knew he wasn’t going to answer me, which added to my excitement about tomorrow.
Maybe I was more excited than I should have been.
This wasn’t a date-date. I was a plus-one.
No one liked to be alone. Even someone like Gabe occasionally wanted to enter a room with someone at his side.
Plus, he owed me. That’s what I told myself every time the possibility he might be interested in me skittered through my mind.
The idea of him stirred something hopeful and reckless, and just as quickly, the logic shaped by therapy and hard lessons showed up to slow it down.
The part of my brain that signaled warnings wanted me to retreat into the safe box I’d been residing in, but my heart wasn’t shy. It wanted love again.