Chapter 41
I received two important emails the next week. One from the committee hosting the state awards ceremony. Even though they
offered a Zoom link for those who couldn’t attend, I RSVP’d for the in-person event. Regina deserved to stand on that stage.
If she won, I wanted her to hear the applause with her own ears. The second email was from Dana, letting me know acquisitions
were backed up.
I was at Gabe’s house when I read Dana’s email. He was packing for his last round of book events while I sat sprawled out
on his couch, sorting out logistics for the trip to Columbia.
He paused in the hallway, suitcase half zipped. “You’re sure you don’t want to rent a van?”
“I don’t want to drive something that big,” I said. “Regina’s the only one who finaled. Her mother and uncle are coming. I’ll
let her invite a few of the other students so she has witnesses who can brag on her to the other kids.”
Gabe leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching me, approval in his posture. “This is sweet of you. Some of them never
get out Charleston County. And Regina will remember it forever.”
“Especially if she wins.”
“Win or lose, she’ll know you cared.”
He was right. I still remembered my tenth-grade English teacher. She was the first person who ever called me a writer. I’d
dedicated a book to her.
Gabe disappeared again and came back rolling his suitcase toward the front door. “I’m all set.” He grabbed his laptop bag
and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll follow you to the center so you don’t have to come back for your car. I’ll grab a Lyft
to the airport.”
“I can take you,” I said. “It’s the least I can do.”
He shook his head. “The airport is chaos right now. I wouldn’t put that on you.”
“Maybe I want to.”
His eyebrows lifted with playful surrender. “Well . . . since you put it that way.”
I hesitated, nervous about what was about to come out of my mouth. “Before we go, I have something to tell you.”
He dropped his bag, giving me his full attention. “Go for it.”
“You know I’ve written a lot of stories, but until now . . .” I stretched out the words like a dare to myself. “I hadn’t written
one about two writers falling in love.”
He cocked an eyebrow, amused. I swallowed.
“Surprise,” I said, trying for light, but my voice betrayed the nerves. “I’m thinking about sending it to my agent.”
His eyebrow lowered, replaced by a slow, unbothered smile. “Sounds like a winner.”
“You don’t mind?”
“I appreciate the heads-up, but I trust you,” he said, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. “Let’s go.”
I wasn’t sure what I expected—questions about the plot? Maybe a pinch of panic? Instead, he trusted me. Fully. I’d never experienced that, and now that I had, I wanted to trust him just as deeply.
We dropped my car at the cabin, and then I drove him to the airport. I eased to a stop at the curb. Gabe unbuckled his seat
belt, then leaned over the console, brushed a hand against my cheek, and kissed me like he’d been doing it for years.
“I’ve never borrowed someone’s car before,” I said, suddenly feeling anxious about all the buttons and features. “This is
a lot of responsibility.”
“Well . . .” He grinned. “Girlfriends borrow cars.”
I blinked. “Is that what I am?”
“Aren’t you?”
I rolled my neck. “A few kisses don’t lock anyone down.”
He thumped a fist against his chest. “Me Tarzan. You Jane. Will that do?”
I laughed. “It’ll work.”
Laughter rolled out of him. “Good to know how you like it,” he teased.
I batted my eyelashes playfully. “This feels like high school.”
Gabe shook his head. “You must’ve had more fun than I did.”
He opened the door, grabbed his bag from the back seat, then leaned in for one quick press to my lips. “I’ll text,” he said.
“At the gate, when I land, et cetera. Like a good boyfriend.”
I sat there a moment, watching him weave through the crowd, and felt ridiculously, entirely like the luckiest woman alive.
I pressed Dana’s number on my phone and pulled into traffic. When she answered, I said, “Dana, I finished the book. But the
version I finished is much bigger than the one you sent to Sally.”
Silence. Then: “Tell me about it.”
I slid the phone into the hands-free mount and drove slowly, explaining the new novel. I waited for hesitation. Instead, Dana
said, “Send it to me.”
“It’s a draft.”
“That’s the best time to get feedback.”
I emailed it to her at the red light.
The next morning, I woke to my phone ringing.
“Alex, this is wonderful. I stayed up all night reading it. I started to call you at 3:00 a.m. when I was done.”
“Really?”
“It’s beautiful. Very special. Where have you been hiding this?”
“I honestly don’t know. But I love it too.”
“You should. I’m going to put some feelers out.”
I felt the joy bloom in my chest. This didn’t feel like the end of my career anymore.
It was turning into a new beginning.
When I RSVP’d for the dinner, I learned I could only bring five people. I let Regina choose another student to invite. Surprisingly,
she chose Malachi because he was her cousin. Now I knew why they seemed close and why he hadn’t been attending either. Neither
of them had a ride.
I met them all at Regina’s house. As far as the kids were concerned, Gabe’s SUV was a limousine. The oohs and aahs started
before we even left the parking lot—over the leather seats, the rear air-conditioning, the way the dashboard screen lit up.
Their wonder rolled through the car in waves, and for once they didn’t try to hide it behind cool teenage indifference.
By the time we pulled up to the South Carolina State Library, their excitement had built to a soft buzz. After waiting for
them to get out, I handed the keys to the valet.
We were directed to our assigned table, where place cards and folded programs waited like something out of an awards show.
Regina and Malachi sat tall, eyes wide, whispering to each other as they took it all in—the linen tablecloths, the gleaming silverware, the chandelier light glinting off water glasses. It was so tasteful and pretty.
Dinner was served, and I was surprised that the meal was no typical banquet fare. It included a flavorful grilled chicken,
a rice that looked like Hoppin’ John, seasoned green beans, and corn bread.
“Soul food all the way ’round,” Regina’s uncle said, smiling. He was a man who looked like he’d eaten quite a bit of soul
food in his day. It was announced that the chef had taken care to align the menu with the Southern Sound Bites theme of the
contest.
“The food at things like this is usually bland,” I replied after taking a bite and realizing it was well seasoned.
“At least we get some good food if Regina loses,” Malachi said.
Regina frowned. “I’m about to be sorry I let you come.”
Malachi laughed. “No, no, no. I’m just sayin’ like, who want to travel this far for nasty food?”
Regina’s mother had barely spoken a word the entire evening, and then she didn’t eat much and rejected the peach cobbler that
was served for dessert. Every few minutes, her gaze flicked toward the stage, then back to her daughter, hope and fear warring
in her eyes. She wanted this win with a fierceness she didn’t quite know how to hide. So did I.
I reached for her hand and squeezed. “Regina is very talented. She didn’t final for no reason.”
She squeezed back, her voice tight but sincere. “Thank you for believing in her and exposing her”—her eyes lifted and moved
around the table, taking in each child, each pressed shirt and nervous smile—“them, to this.”
The emotion in her voice hit something soft in me. “It’s my honor to work with them,” I said, and meant it.
Two men rolled out a table with trophies on it. We didn’t know there would be trophies. The master of ceremonies announced that they would begin the presentation of awards. They began with the essay entry and then the poetry, saving short story for last.
My whispered prayers turned into begging. Please. Let her win.
“And the winner in the short story category . . .”
The emcee paused, taking the card being handed to him.
My eyes found Regina’s across the table. I gave her a small nod, the kind that said, No matter what, you did something beautiful.
“Regina Collins!” he announced.
For a full second, the room didn’t exist. Then everything rushed back at once: the cheers, the scrape of chairs, the swell
in my chest so big it felt like breath wouldn’t fit around it.
Malachi shouted her name. Her mother broke into tears. Regina’s uncle slapped the table and nearly knocked over a water glass.
And then she walked—slow and steady, chin high—to claim the award that belonged to her.
She accepted her trophy, her certificate, and an envelope that no doubt held her prize money. The emcee stepped aside so she
could speak.
“I thank God for my words and ideas,” she said. “I thank my instructors at the Lowcountry Literacy Center, especially Miss
Alex, for believing in me the most, and Mr. Gabe. And I thank my mother for always finding a way to support me.”
On those words, I watched Mrs. Collins fold into herself. Her hand covered her mouth, tears ran freely, and her shoulders
shook in a way that said everything about how much this victory had cost her too.
Pictures. Applause. More pictures. More applause. Then we were back in Gabe’s SUV, riding home on a wave of joy.
“That’s what’s up!” Malachi said from the back seat. “Winning! Miss Alex, I’m entering the poetry competition next year.”
“Good,” I said. “Trying can go a long way.”
A video from Gabe came through, him grinning into the camera, proud and playful, sending congratulations. Regina watched it
three times, smiling wider each time.
When we reached Regina’s house, we all climbed out under a full moon that hung so bright it felt like stage lighting for her
big night. Her uncle and Malachi left, while we snapped photos on the walkway with the trophy held high.
With fresh tears in her eyes, Regina’s mother walked toward me, slowly and intentionally.
“God bless you for adding light to our lives,” she said, before pulling me into a hug that was full of gratitude, exhaustion,
and relief.
A small hand tugged mine. Regina looked up at me, trophy tucked against her chest.
“Thank you for everything, Miss Alex.”
I wanted to say so much, but speech failed me.
“You’re welcome,” I whispered instead.
They went inside. The door shut. The night grew quiet again.
I stood there under the moonlight, realizing that somewhere along the way, I stopped just teaching writing and started believing
in it again.