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And Beck, who I was most worried about reacting poorly, has handled me dating his sister better than I expected. He’s mostly treated me the same as before, which was a best-case scenario.
He’s smiling now, same as Saylor and Sophia’s parents, as we approach the table where they’re all seated. More and more people continue to fill the big ballroom where the ceremony is set to take place, chatter emanating all around us. I had no idea what to expect from tonight, since it’s my first photography awards event. The turnout is impressive, and the setting is sophisticated, which I know is adding to Sophia’s nerves.
Sophia’s cheeks are flushed as she leans forward to explain some of the categories to her parents, the silk dress she’s wearing clinging to every curve and reflecting the candlelight. She’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, so I reach under the table and rest my hand on her knee. She relaxes some, her hand finding mine under the table as she continues talking to her parents. I’m so glad they came, that they’re showing up for Sophia this way after years of attending Kluvberg games.
She’s nervous about tonight. Wanting to win. But I know part of her apprehension about these awards—the reason she took so long to decide what to submit in the first place—is that she thought she needed to prove something to her family. I hope them being here is all the assurance she needs that photography is the right path.
A few minutes later, the lights dim, one on the stage glowing brighter. A woman walks up to the lectern and gives a long speech that’s honestly a little boring. Partly because I’m almost as anxious as Sophia. Anxious for Sophia. I want this win for her more badly than I’ve ever wanted to win a game myself. This moment when she has her entire family here, supporting her passion. Cheering her on at her version of a football match.
They run through the categories alphabetically, each winner getting announced and the recipient going up onstage to receive their award.
Finally, the Sports one is up. The same woman who’s introduced each category speaks up, talking about all the amazing entries and how inspiring sports photography can be. All the finalists’ photos get flashed up on the screen, Sophia’s last. It remains on the screen, and that’s how I know who the winner will be before it’s actually announced.
The woman leans forward and declares the winner is Sophia Beck.
FORTY-TWO
SOPHIA
Metal rumbles as suitcases continue to appear on the conveyer belt running in an endless circle. I’m trying to keep an eye out for my luggage, but I’m also so exhausted that I can’t even remember what color my suitcase is right now.
I hide a yawn behind one hand. “I’m so tired.”
“You should have slept on the plane,” Will tells me.
“I tried to sleep on the plane.”
I wore an eye mask, I had a glass of wine, I put on noise-canceling headphones. Nothing worked.
He grins. “You’re cute when you’re grumpy.”
“I’m not grumpy,” I grumble.
Will hums what sounds suspiciously like a strong disagreement, but he’s smart enough not to say anything else. He slept the entire flight and now appears relaxed and well rested.
I’m excited about this trip. So, so excited. I’ve wanted to come back to Africa ever since the program I participated in, and this time, I get to bring Will with me. But I forgot—purposefully—how much traveling for twelve hours straight sucks. I was up packing late last night, so I’ve averaged about five hours of sleep in the past forty-eight hours.
Will steps forward and pulls one of our bags off of the belt. We’re traveling with three suitcases—two of which are mine. One is my photography equipment, painstakingly stored to make sure it made the journey safely. I hide another yawn as Will retrieves our two other bags.
“Need me to carry you too?” he teases as we head for the exit.
I roll my eyes, but I’m a little tempted to say yes.
The wheeled suitcases roll seamlessly over the wood flooring.
It’s just past two a.m. local time, the sleepy passengers from our flight are the majority of the people inside the Kilimanjaro Airport.
As soon as we step outside, it’s obvious how far we’ve traveled. Rather than the cold draft we left behind in Kluvberg, the air is warm and dry. At least twenty-five degrees Celsius. It’s a welcome—and unfamiliar—experience for January. We traveled to Boston to spend the holidays with Delilah, Tripp, and Tripp’s boyfriend, Jayden, and it was just as chilly in Massachusetts as it’d been back home.
A smiling man wearing a green linen shirt is waiting for us outside the airport, the logo of the company we booked the safari with emblazoned on the side of a beige van. He greets us warmly and then loads the luggage for us. Three other couples climb into the van as well, filling up the rows of bench seating.
I doze against Will’s shoulder for the entire drive, the darkness making it hard to see much of anything past the sides of the road. I rouse when we reach the campground where we’ll be staying. When I went to Kenya through the photography program, we stayed in a lodge, exploring a nearby park by Land Rover to spot impalas, rhinos, buffalo, lions, and more. We also were able to experience some local culture and attend a weekly festival of an indigenous tribe. I was part of a community within the program, and that was reflected in where we stayed.
So far, Tanzania appears to be more isolated. The shuttle stops in front of a small cluster of platform tents. We all climb out. I’m not the only one smothering yawns as another man and a woman appear, not looking nearly as exhausted, even though this is the middle of the night for them. They must get accustomed to welcoming visitors at all different times of the day.
We’re assigned to tent five. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a message from Saylor. It’s three a.m. here now, so one a.m. in Germany. She’s probably up with Gigi, who’s still teething.
SAYLOR: You there?
