Chapter 4

 

Chapter Four:  Bluegrass & Bright Futures

The Gate

 I got to Keeneland early. Partly because I like being early. Mostly because I don’t know how to do “casual” when it comes to seeing her now. The air had that sharp, bright fall feel—cold enough to make my hands sting if I kept them out of my pockets, crisp enough that every breath felt like it had edges. People were already streaming through the big wrought-iron entrance: men in tweed, women in jewel-toned hats, groups laughing, the kind of low, building buzz you only get before something big is about to start. I stood just off to the side of the main gate, hands tucked into my coat pockets, pretending to study the flow of people. Truth was, I was staring at the opening like a teenager waiting for his prom date. She’s on her way. She’s really on her way. I pictured her landing in from North Carolina, moving through the terminal, boarding the shuttle, telling a driver, “Keeneland, please.” We’d spent months stitching a relationship across airports and weekends. I’d gotten used to loving her at a distance. I didn’t like it. I’d learned to tolerate it. But nothing in the world compared to that small window of time right before she appeared—this electric mix of nerves and joy and there she is, there she is, even before I saw her. “Mark!” Her voice found me before she did. I turned, and there she was—shoulder bag slung from the flight, hair bouncing, scarf loose around her neck, sunglasses pushed up on her head instead of hiding her face. For a second everything around her blurred: the hats, the banners, the entire swirl of Breeders’ Cup chaos. All I saw was the way her expression broke open when she spotted me. That full, unguarded smile that always hits me like sunlight. Then she was running. I barely had time to get my arms out before she reached me. She launched herself forward; I caught her, hands firm around her waist as her feet left the ground for a second. She laughed into my shoulder, breath warm against my neck. “Hi,” she said, pulling back enough to look at me. “Hi,” I managed. I sounded rougher than I meant to. “God, I’ve missed you.” We just held there a moment—her legs back on the ground now, but her body still pressed along mine, my hands resting at the small of her back like they’d been waiting for their job to come up again. If anyone had been watching, we probably looked like any couple reuniting at a special event. But I knew—down to my bones—that this wasn’t just a reunion. This was a continuation. Evidence that what started at that dinner, at that terrace bar, hadn’t faded in the light of regular life. It had deepened. “Ready to bet on some horses?” she asked, eyes bright. “Only if you promise to explain the difference between a trifecta and a superfecta,” I said. She grinned. “Absolutely not. I picked my favorite horse last time because its name sounded like a perfume. I’m here for vibes, not math.” I laughed, and just like that, we settled into step together and walked through the gates.

Bourbon and Big News

We checked into a little bed-and-breakfast near downtown Lexington. Brick walls with ivy climbing up them. Wide-planked floors that creaked in all the right nostalgic ways. It felt like the kind of place that had seen a thousand stories and wasn’t tired of holding one more. We didn’t linger in the room long. Bags down. Quick freshen up. A kiss that felt more like I remember you than nice to see you. Dinner was at a bourbon bar with dim lighting and a fireplace that looked like it had been there before either of us was born. We slid into a booth on the same side, which has quietly become our thing—no conversation about it. We just both go there. She was telling me about her flight—hands moving as much as her mouth. “There was this turbulence over the Appalachians,” she said, eyes wide, “and I swear the guy next to me was snoring like a lawnmower, and I’m over here gripping the armrest thinking, ‘If this plane goes down, I do not want this to be my last soundtrack.’” I smiled, just watching her. That’s something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to: how much I enjoy simply watching her be herself. The content of the story barely matters. It’s the way she owns the space around her when she gets going. “Honestly,” I said, “I’m a little impressed you didn’t storm the cockpit to negotiate smoother air.” “Oh, I considered it,” she said. “But then I remembered I had a date at the Breeders’ Cup. Figured I should try surviving for that.” “I like the way that sounds,” I said. “A date at the Breeders’ Cup.” She looked down at her water with that small smile she gets when something lands somewhere deep. “I do too,” she said. When the plates came—salmon for me, roasted chicken for her—we both picked at the food, but it was the conversation doing the real work. “I’ve already put about half my stuff in storage,” I said after a while, the words feeling like heavy marbles I’d been carrying in my mouth all day. “Realtor’s been through. We’ve picked a listing date. If everything stays on track, I should be in North Carolina before Thanksgiving.” Saying it out loud like that made it feel more real—even to me. She set down her fork, her whole attention shifting onto me like a spotlight. “You’re really doing it,” she said, a quiet awe threaded through her voice. “You’re actually doing this for us.” “Yeah,” I nodded. “For us. For you. For… the next part of my life. I’m packing up hurricane shutters in exchange for learning what a real winter coat is.” She laughed, then her eyes softened. “I don’t take it lightly,” she said. “You know that, right? I’ve had people say they’d come closer before. You’re the first one who actually… is.” I reached for her hand. “Well,” I said, “you’re the first person I’ve ever wanted to uproot my life for.” That’s when she got that look—excited and nervous at once. “I have news too,” she said. “Big news.” “Good big or bad big?” I asked. “Good big,” she said quickly. “Definitely good big. I accepted a new teaching assignment. Starting in January, I’ll be teaching online. From home. Full time, still, but I can set my own hours. No commute. More flexibility.” It took a second for that to connect with everything else in my head. “You… you did that?” She nodded. “I want to be there—in our life. Not just at the edge of your day. I want to be able to meet you for coffee in the kitchen, not just send you a good morning text on my way out the door.” I let out a slow breath. “Kimmy,” I said. “You didn’t have to—” “I know I didn’t have to,” she said, squeezing my fingers. “I wanted to. You’re shifting your world for us. I can shift mine, too. Feels good that we’re both walking toward the same place instead of one of us just standing there waiting.” From the outside, if someone glanced over at our booth, they’d probably see a couple leaning into each other, two plates, one dessert, shared laughter. It wouldn’t look like anything out of the ordinary. But from where I sat, watching her—and realizing we were making actual plans, not just wishes—it felt like the ground under us had shifted into something solid.

Dressed for the Day

The next morning at Keeneland, we looked like we’d been styled for a magazine spread. That wasn’t the goal, but I wasn’t complaining. I wore a dark purple sport coat I hadn’t had an excuse to pull out of the closet in years. White dress shirt. Purple-and-white striped tie. Gray slacks. Polished shoes. I felt… good. Present. A little younger than my driver’s license claimed. Kimmy walked beside me, her hand tucked into the crook of my arm. Her dress was cream-colored with small purple flowers printed across it, as if someone had dusted blossoms over the fabric on purpose. It fell just below her knees and hugged her curves in a way that was more elegant than showy. Off-the-shoulder neckline, low enough to frame the line of her collarbones, high enough to feel like her, not a costume. We both wore sunglasses. The two of us together looked intentional. Like we’d planned this. We hadn’t. We just matched. I glanced over at her as we moved toward the paddock and had to stop walking for half a heartbeat. “You okay?” she asked, turning back to me. “I just…” I shook my head and laughed at myself. “I still can’t believe a woman this beautiful is on my arm.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “You’re just saying that because my dress matches your jacket,” she said. “We look coordinated. We’re unstoppable.” “I’m saying it,” I replied, “because it’s true. The coordination is a bonus.” She looked away for a second, then back at me. “It feels good,” she said quietly. “Being here like this. With you. Dressed up. Out in the world. Not… sneaking this in between grading and emails and flights.” “It feels real,” I said. “Like we didn’t just imagine it on a boat somewhere.” We joined the flow of people heading toward the paddock, her hand still hooked into my arm, like it belonged there.

The Photo

Near the paddock rail, I asked a couple—older than us, the woman wearing a burgundy hat that could probably tell its its own stories—if they’d take our picture. “Of course!” she said, more enthusiastic than I expected. “Stand right there.” Kimmy slid closer without being prompted, her hand resting lightly on my chest. I slipped an arm around her waist. We turned slightly toward the camera. Someone behind us laughed, a horse snorted, and for a second it all faded into a single frame. The woman snapped a few shots and handed my phone back. “You two make a lovely pair,” she said. “Thank you,” I said automatically. When I looked down at the screen, my breath caught. It wasn’t the quality of the picture—nothing fancy there. It was what it showed. The two of us, colors matching. Her hand on me like she’d always known where to put it. My arm around her like it had finally found what it was meant to hold. Our bodies angled toward each other, the easy closeness of people who had stopped asking permission to exist together. For a moment, I didn’t see myself the way I usually do—older, a little weathered. I saw us the way a stranger might. And I understood why that woman had sounded so certain. “What?” Kimmy asked, leaning in. “Is it terrible? Do I have a weird face?” “It’s…” I turned the phone so she could see, then back to me. “You’re stunning,” I said. “Honestly. You might be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Her cheeks colored. She bit the edge of her lip. “You do that,” she said softly. “Do what?” “Make me see myself differently,” she replied. “I spent a long time looking at pictures and picking them apart. With you, I see this and think… ‘Yeah. That’s me. That’s us.’ And I like that.” I slipped the phone into my pocket, the image burned into my mind. “Good,” I said. “Because I really like us.”

The Races

We were not, by any stretch, professional bettors. That was fine. We were there for the experience, not the paycheck. I pored over the racing form like I was prepping for an exam, trying to make sense of fractions and track conditions and past performances. Kimmy chose horses based on what she called “vibes plus ankles.” “That one’s got powerful legs and the attitude of someone who knows where the good snacks are,” she’d say, pointing at a horse circling in the paddock. “Put a little on him.” We lost our share of small bets early. Every time, she shook it off with a laugh. “Character development,” she’d declare. “We need it.” In one of the mid-card races, I put my money on a horse named Arcadian Autumn—good record, decent odds, nothing dramatic. She pointed at a bay mare named Dahlia’s Wish. “She looks determined,” Kimmy said. “And her name sounds like a poem.” “She’s 14-to-1,” I reminded her. “So?” She shrugged. “So am I, some days.” We split a bet, a little on mine, a little more on hers. As the horses loaded into the gate, we stood at the rail, her arm pressed against mine. The bell rang. The gates sprang open. For most of the race, my pick looked like the right call—Arcadian Autumn settled near the front, steady and strong. Dahlia’s Wish stayed mid-pack, unremarkable. “See?” I murmured. “Trust the numbers.” “Trust the vibes,” she countered. Then they came around the far turn. Dahlia’s Wish swung wide, almost like she’d just heard the starting bell for the first time. Her stride lengthened, muscles working in visible, powerful lines. One by one, she started eating up the horses in front of her. Kimmy grabbed my arm with both hands. “Go, girl, go—go,” she yelled. I forgot to root for my own horse and found myself shouting for hers instead. Down the stretch, Dahlia’s Wish outran all of them. She hit the wire first by more than a length. Kimmy screamed. There’s no other word for it. Then she turned and flew at me, arms around my neck, legs almost lifting off the ground again as I caught her and spun her in a short half-circle before my knees politely suggested I stop. “We won!” she said, breathless in my ear. “Did you see that? She flew!” “I saw,” I laughed. “I always knew you’d pick a champion. I bow to your superior, chaotic selection method.” We cashed the ticket. It wasn’t a life-changing amount, but it paid for lunch and then some. More importantly, it put this little glow around the entire day. It felt like the universe had glanced our way and said, Here. Have a win. You’re allowed.

 “You Look Like Home”

We sat on the patio of a café on the grounds for a late lunch, the smell of food mixing with the distant earthy scent of the track. At the table next to us, a woman in a feathered fascinator and a man in a rumpled sports coat struck up easy conversation. “You two having a good day?” the man asked. “Great day,” I said. “She just picked the winner in the last race.” I nodded toward Kimmy. “Nice!” the woman smiled. “You make a good team.” She tilted her head, looking at us over the rim of her glass. “How long have you been married?” The question landed in my chest like a stone dropped into a still pond. I felt Kimmy’s hand slide more firmly around my forearm where it rested on the table. A tiny squeeze. Not panic. Not correction. Just… something claimed. I glanced at her. She glanced at me. We didn’t scramble to clarify or offer a rushed “oh, we’re not—” I just smiled at the woman and said, “That’s sweet of you to say.” The woman beamed. “Well, you look like it,” she said. “You look like home.” If anyone had been looking closely, they might have seen the way Kimmy’s fingers tightened one more time around my arm after that. They might have noticed the way her smile spread without her even seeming aware of it. We drifted back into casual conversation about where everyone was from, which horses had surprised us, which shoes were a mistake. The usual race-day small talk. But the comment stayed with me like a warm hand on my shoulder. You look like home. It stayed with me when we got up from the table. It stayed with me when her hand found mine again as we headed back toward the paddock. It stayed with me when I realized I liked the way it sounded.

The Paddock and the Words

Later in the afternoon, with the sun starting to tilt lower and the light taking on that late-day softness, we wandered back to the paddock. Horses circled, handlers at their sides, the slow chuff of breath and the clop of hooves making a rhythm that settled into the bones. People clustered near the rail, studying form, pointing, murmuring. “Come here,” I said to her. She stepped closer without hesitation until our shoulders brushed and we were just slightly turned toward each other instead of the horses. I took both of her hands in mine. Thumb over thumb. Finger over finger. It felt like taking hold of something I’d already been holding for a long time, just more deliberately. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, eyes on mine now. Without really planning it, we leaned in until our foreheads touched. A little bubble of quiet formed around us. We could still hear the track, the announcer, bits of conversation—but all of it felt a layer away. In here, there was only her breath, my heartbeat, our hands. “I’m very, very happy,” I said. My voice surprised me. It was steadier than I felt. “And I need you to know,” I went on, “you mean more to me than I know how to put into words. You’ve given me a future I honestly didn’t think was even on the table for me anymore. I was… resigned. And then you walked back into my life and everything shifted.” She swallowed, her fingers tightening around mine. Her voice came out softer than usual. “I feel like my life finally makes sense,” she said. “Like all the wandering, all the pieces that didn’t fit... they weren’t wrong. They were just… leading here. And I’m not afraid of that anymore. I thought wanting something this big was dangerous. With you, it just feels… right.” I saw her eyes shine. A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t hide it. I brushed it away with my thumb. “I love where we’re going,” I said. “I love us.” “Me too,” she whispered. I leaned in and kissed her. Not a quick peck, not something performative. Just a slow, certain kiss that said yes to everything we’d been building—on riverbanks and text messages and airport gates and now here, in the heart of Kentucky, with horses circling in the background. If someone had been watching from the outside, they might have seen a couple kissing at the paddock and thought it was sweet, or charming, or one of a hundred similar moments that day. They wouldn’t have known that in that exact second, I felt something inside me settle into place for good.

Bread Pudding and Honest Talk

We found a quiet restaurant in town that night—low lighting, dark wood, and windows that let us see the streetlights come on one by one. “I loved today,” she said, once we were on the other side of the main course and waiting on dessert. She sat angled toward me, one knee bent up under her, her elbow on the back of the booth. “Not just winning that race. The whole day. Being out in the world with you. Getting dressed up. Laughing. Not having to explain us to anyone.” “I did too,” I said. “There was something about being at a place like that and just… showing up as we are. We didn’t have to justify anything. We were just… us.” She traced the rim of her water glass with one fingertip. “When that woman asked how long we’d been married…” She paused. “I felt two things at once. Part of me panicked for a second—like, ‘Oh no, don’t jump ahead and screw this up by wanting too much.’ But another part of me… liked it. It felt like she was seeing something true about us. Not ‘marriage’ in the legal sense, but… whatever home looks like.” “Same,” I said. “There was a tiny jolt of ‘whoa, that’s a lot,’ and at the same time this really clear thought of, ‘Yeah. I want that. With you.’ It’s the first time I realized how much I’d like the world to see us that way.” Her gaze softened. “You would?” “Yeah,” I said. “That’s not me dropping to one knee under the table.” I smiled. “Just admitting my heart has already started walking in that direction.” She smiled back, a little shaky but steady. “I don’t know when I’ll be ready for that kind of step,” she said. “But I know who I’d want to take it with. That’s new for me.” “That’s plenty,” I said. “More than plenty.” Our dessert arrived then—bourbon bread pudding, still warm, steam rising off the top like the scent of every holiday you ever liked. Two spoons. She took the first bite and closed her eyes. “Oh, this is illegal,” she said. “We’re in Kentucky,” I replied. “I’m pretty sure this is the law.” She laughed, head tilting toward my shoulder, and for a moment I just watched her enjoy something simple and good. I realized that’s what I wanted more than anything: as many days as life would allow of watching her enjoy things. Coffee. Sunlight. Bad movies. Quiet mornings. Ordinary afternoons. All of it.

The Shirt

The next morning, gray light stretched through the curtains, the kind of soft cloud-filtered light that makes everything feel quiet. I woke to the feeling of warmth beside me and the faint tickle of cotton under my hand. When I blinked
my eyes fully open, I saw her: hair mussed from sleep, cheek creased from the pillow, wearing one of my old dress shirts. That shirt had been hanging in my closet for ages—worn, comfortable, unremarkable. On her it looked like it had been waiting its whole life to do this job. “You know,” I said, voice still rough with sleep, “I really should get you a shirt that actually fits you.” She pulled the front of it closer around herself and shook her head. “Absolutely not,” she said. “Absolutely not?” I repeated. “This one is special,” she said. “This was the first shirt of yours I ever wore. Back in the hotel, that first stay. When this all still felt… risky. When I wasn’t sure if it was okay to want what I wanted.” She looked down at the fabric, fingers tracing one of the buttons. “When I put this on, it feels like I’m putting on us,” she said quietly. “Where we started. How far we’ve come. All the nights in between.” I felt something in my chest hitch. “And,” she added, a shy smile creeping in, “it’s really comfortable. And I can still… feel you in it.” I reached over and tugged lightly on the sleeve. “Then it’s yours,” I said. “Permanent loan. Lifetime lease. I’m not taking it back.” She scooted closer until her head rested on my shoulder, face tucked near my neck. “Good,” she murmured. “I wasn’t going to give it back anyway.”

Breakfast and What’s Next

Downstairs, the breakfast room smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and butter. We sat by a window, plates full of eggs, fruit, and biscuits. “In a few weeks,” I said, stirring my coffee, “if all goes as planned, I’ll be doing this in North Carolina. With you. In our kitchen. Probably surrounded by boxes.” She smiled. “Our boxes.” “Right,” I said. “Our boxes.” I let the next part out on a slow exhale. “I’m excited,” I said. “Really excited. And also… a little anxious. Florida’s been my whole adult life. My work, my routines, my people. It’s a lot to walk away from.” She nodded, as if she’d been expecting that. “I’d be more surprised if you weren’t anxious,” she said. “Big changes that aren’t at least a little scary usually aren’t big enough to matter.” I laughed quietly. “You’re good at this.” “I have degrees,” she said lightly. Then she wrapped her hands around her coffee mug and leaned in. “Mark, I don’t ever want you to feel like you’re losing yourself for me. I want you to bring yourself to me. That’s who I’m choosing. Not some edited version. You.” I looked at her and felt that familiar mix of gratitude and amazement. “And remember,” she said, “I’m not just sitting back and waiting for you to contort your life around mine. I’m changing things too. That new online job? I did that for us. So we can actually live this, day to day. Not just in stretched-out weekends.” “Mid-morning walks,” I said. “Grocery trips where we debate cereal brands,” she said. “Afternoon coffee breaks,” I added. “Tag-teaming dinner,” she said. “Or burning it and ordering pizza.” “We’re going to be insufferable,” I smiled. “We’re going to be happy,” she corrected. I thought about that. About the difference between the two. About how right it felt. “You’re not just leaving Florida, Mark,” she said. “You’re going toward something. Toward us. And I’ll be there to meet you when you get there. You won’t be walking into an empty house. You’ll be walking into home.” I squeezed her hand. “That makes all the difference,” I said. And it did.

See You at Home

Lexington’s airport is small enough that you can see most of it from one good vantage point. When it was time for her flight, we stood near the gate, her carry-on by her feet, her scarf wrapped around her neck. This part never gets easier. “This is the part I won’t miss,” she said. “Me neither,” I answered. We moved closer to each other without deciding to. Her hands slid up to my chest, fingers curling lightly into my shirt. I rested my hands at her waist, then moved one up to the side of her face. “I don’t want you to be sad,” she said softly. “I am, a little,” I admitted. “But it’s different this time. It doesn’t feel like we’re saying goodbye. It feels like we’re pausing between scenes.” She breathed out a quiet laugh. “You and your metaphors.” “They’re how I cope,” I said. A boarding announcement crackled overhead for some other city, some other people. The world didn’t pause for us—but our little corner did. “I’m still scared sometimes,” she said. “Not of you. Not of us. Just… how big this feels. How much I want it.” “I’m scared too,” I said. “But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.” Her eyes shimmered. “That’s unfairly romantic,” she whispered. “Blame you,” I said. “You rewired me.” They started pre-boarding her flight. We both heard it. Neither of us moved yet. I leaned in, and she met me halfway. Our first kiss there at the gate was soft, lingering but restrained—as if we both knew if we leaned too hard into it, we might never stop. When we pulled back, our foreheads stayed touching. “I’m going to cry,” she warned. “Me too,” I said. “And I’m choosing to see that as a sign of how much this matters.” She smiled through the wetness at the corners of her eyes. “You’re impossible,” she said. “Probably,” I agreed.