1
Alana
It feels surreal walking through the halls of an academy that my childhood friend Mair built from the ground up, especially when I remember us talking about our big dreams back when we thought forty was ancient.
"You and Murphy have really created something wonderful here."
"Thanks. But you do the same type of thing. You just spread your money out versus me dumping it all into this one place," she says with a laugh.
"I've got years to catch up, though. I mean, sure. Of course, I've donated money throughout my adult years, but I didn't really start my philanthropy work until Dad died when I got control of the family fortune," I say, still a little overwhelmed by the thought.
"But you've given back in other ways. Your writing has touched so many people," Mair says, linking her arm into mine while pulling me into a room. "Check out our science lab. It would put any major university to shame."
My friend proudly shows off the high school lab setup, pointing out state-of-the-art microscopes and chemistry equipment that looks like it almost belongs in a cutting-edge research facility. No wonder the kids here thrive. After we step back into the warm summer air, I can't help but smile at what she's accomplished.
"So you have a science wing here. What about one for lit?"
Mair shakes her head. "We don't have a separate literature wing. All of our English and writing classes happen in the main building with the other subjects. But our lit teachers are fantastic."
"Does Scriver still teach here?"
"Oh, yeah. He's an OG. Have you met him before?"
"Not through you and Murphy, but through our author circles."
"Cool. Hey, I'm starving. Are you ready to head to the lodge for lunch?"
"For sure."
As we walk toward the parking lot to Mair's car, I say, "So have you ever thought about a separate literature wing for the middle and high schoolers? Would you like something like that?"
"Oh, one-hundred percent," my friend says as she slides into the driver's seat.
"Sounds like I've got a new endeavor," I say, grinning as Mair stares at me in shock.
"You are amazing," my friend says, taking a bite of her shrimp as we sit in the restaurant at Raven's Perch Lodge and Hearth. Her eyes light up. "Will we call it the Alana Fairchild wing?"
Scrunching up my face, I say, "Oh, no. I don't want my name on it."
"Well, then how about Childers?" She suggests, bringing up my pen name.
Shaking my head again, I say, "No. I don't think so. I want to do this one-hundred percent anonymously."
"I'm not giving up on that idea," Mair says. "But moving on, congratulations on makingThe New York Timesbestseller list again. You're still killing it."
"I definitely have no complaints."
"Are you planning to keep using the pen name?"
"Definitely. I write about so many class issues that my sales would tank if readers knew I was a billionaire."
"A verygivingbillionaire."
"Yeah. But still a billionaire," I say with a shrug, taking a sip of wine. On the dance floor, a few couples have started swaying to the live music.
A slight twinge in my gut sends a shooting pain of envy through me. The couples look so content, so connected. I can't remember the last time I felt that kind of intimacy with someone. Writing keeps me busy, and philanthropy fills my days, but at night when I'm alone in my penthouse, the emptiness echoes.
Feeling my friend's eyes on me, I look over at her.
