Chapter 5

 Chapter Five:  Christmas In North Carolina

Arrival in North Carolina

Mark stepped off the plane with his backpack over his shoulder, camel-colored blazer brushing his hips, white dress shirt open at the collar. Sixty-something years on his frame, but right now his body held the restless energy of a man half his age. His heart thudded like it hadn’t in decades.

She’ll be there.  He knew it.  And still — Will she be?  A moment of doubt. A swallow of breath.

Then the sliding doors ahead parted — and there she was.

Kimmy.

Dark shirt, jeans, hair loose, eyes scanning every face until they found his.  And when they did—she lit up like the terminal lights were made for her alone.  “Mark!” she cried, and before he could think, he jogged to her, closing the space between them like finishing a sentence he’d started years ago. She ran the last few steps, launching herself into his arms. He caught her — instinctive, certain — her legs off the ground, her breath against his neck.

They held on.  Longer than a polite greeting.  Just long enough to say everything they hadn’t said yet.  She pulled back, just enough to see him. Her eyes shimmered.

“You’re here,” she whispered.

“I am,” he said. “I told you I’d come.”

She kissed his cheek — soft, quick, reverent — like punctuation.

On the drive back, highway rolling into pine-lined country roads, snow fresh on the shoulders, she kept glancing over as if making sure he was real.  He noticed. Smiled. “Still me,” he teased.  “I know. I just…” She exhaled through a grin. “I can’t believe you’re here. In my car. In North Carolina.”  He reached over, lacing his fingers with hers on the center console. Her thumb rubbed the back of his hand — thoughtless, natural.

They passed a sign for a Christmas tree lot, a cluster of evergreens under twinkling lights.  “That reminds me,” Mark said. “Did you ever get sentimental about ornaments?”  Her eyes sparkled. “Only every year. I have keepsake ones — little pieces of my life. You?”  “Same. I brought a few of mine. Favorites.”  She turned to him fully, surprised. “You did?”  He nodded. “I figured… maybe we’d decorate together.”  Her breath caught. Not dramatic — just a quiet rearranging of the world.

“That,” she said, voice warm, “sounds perfect.”

He squeezed her hand.
And somewhere between the airport and the acre of wooded land waiting for them, the month ahead began to feel  like more than a visit.  It felt like a beginning.

They pulled into the gravel drive. Her white house sat back from the road, big porch, lights glowing in the windows. Homey. Lived in. Waiting.  Kimmy cut the engine and twisted in her seat.

“Before you say anything,” she said, eyes narrowing playfully, “no. Absolutely not. You don’t even get to think about the guest room.”

Mark lifted his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.”

“Good.” She opened her door. “Just so we’re clear.”

He laughed — real, unguarded — and followed her up the steps.

Together.

 

Dinner & the Shirts

The house smelled like simmering tomatoes and garlic the moment they walked in. Kimmy guided him through the entryway, past the living room where an unlit eight-foot artificial tree stood waiting in the corner. Lights in a cardboard box. Ornaments in neat tubs. The beginning of a season paused, mid-breath.

In the kitchen, she moved with the confidence of someone who had lived alone long enough to know her own rhythm — but the awareness of him in the doorway altered her orbit. It wasn’t clumsy, but it was… expectant. Like her space had been waiting for a second gravitational pull.  She stirred sauce in a pot, steam curling around her face.

“Spaghetti,” she announced. “With special ingredients.”  Mark leaned against the counter, blazer off, sleeves rolled. “Special, huh? Can I know what they are?”  “No,” she said immediately, nose tilting up in mock authority. “You’ll eat it and like it. Mystery magic. Chef rules.”  He held up his hands. “Yes ma’am.”  She pointed a spoon at him. “Also kitchen rules: no stealing tastes before it’s plated.”  He reached anyway. She slapped his hand lightly without looking. “I felt that,” she said.  He grinned. “Muscle memory.”

Dinner was casual and intimate without trying to be — two plates, real forks, sprigs of basil because she said, “If we’re not garnishing, what are we even doing?” They sat close, knees bumping under the table, laughter slipping into the space between bites.

After dishes, she disappeared down the hall.  Mark leaned against the counter, sipping water, feeling the kind of full that wasn’t from food. He was here. In her world. In her home. 

When she returned, she carried two folded bundles of red cotton in her arms, holding them like something precious.

She stopped in front of him.  “Okay,” she said, voice suddenly softer. “I got these… for us.”

She handed him the first shirt and unfolded her own.

His was red, long-sleeved, soft fabric, framed by tiny printed ornaments around the text:

You are all I want for Christmas.

Hers matched, same red, same frame, but read:

All I want for Christmas is you.

Something tightened in his chest, warm and awkward and right.

“You haven’t worn yours yet,” he said quietly.

Kimmy shook her head. “No. I was waiting. Because from now on…”
She hesitated — not unsure, just careful.  “…there’s no what I do and what you do. If we do something, we do it together.”

Mark swallowed. The room seemed to tilt toward her.

“You’re special,” he said, voice low, honest.

She met his gaze. “So are you.”

He took the shirt from her hands, fingertips brushing hers.  “These,” he said, “are ideal for sleeping in.”

Kimmy’s mouth curved into a grin. “Oh no. Don’t think you’re getting me out of the shirt that easily.”

He laughed — small, stunned. “Point taken.”

Later, when they changed for bed, he emerged in the Christmas shirt and sweatpants. She stepped out in the oversized shirt — the shirt — the one she’d stolen on the cruise. Sleeves past her hands, hem grazing her thighs like memory made fabric.

“Hey,” he teased gently. “Is that my shirt?”

Kimmy beamed. “It’s mine now. I love how soft it is. It feels like you’re wrapped around me.”

Mark’s heart did something reckless in his chest.
“You are special,” he said again, because it was the truest thing he knew how to say.

She crossed the room in three steps, slid into his arms, tucked her head against his chest like it belonged there.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” she murmured.

He kissed her hair. “So am I.”

Fade to black — but only because some moments don’t need narration.

Decorating the Tree

The eight-foot artificial tree loomed in the corner like a guest waiting to be welcomed. Pine-green branches, still bare, held the promise of a memory that hadn’t happened yet. The house was quiet except for the soft hum of the heating vent and the occasional clatter as Mark wrestled the ladder into position.

Kimmy handed him a string of warm white lights.

“Okay, tall guy,” she said, planting her fists on her hips. “Up the ladder. Your reach, my direction.”

He climbed two steps, glanced down with a grin. “Could you have gotten a bigger tree?”

“Oh, absolutely,” she shot back. “I saw one that touched the ceiling of the hardware store. But I figured I’d ease you in.”  “Ease me in,” he echoed. “Noted.”

She pointed to a bare gap near the top. “Also — don’t leave empty spaces. No light clusters. Think constellations, not crime scenes.”  Mark froze, gave her a dramatic salute. “Yes ma’am. I see now who is boss of the Christmas tree.”

“No,” she corrected, hands lifting in mock sternness. “I am boss of the tree. The rest of Christmas is a democracy we will negotiate later.”  He laughed, looping the string around a branch. “This feels like a negotiation I’m happy to lose.”

They moved like a system — she fed him lights, he placed them, their hands brushing occasionally, each touch small but charged, the kind of contact that left echoes.  After the last strand, they stepped back.
Kimmy crouched beside the outlet, fingers poised.

“Ready?”
A spark of anticipation.

Mark nodded.

She plugged the lights in.

The tree glowed to life — warm, golden, gentle. Not dazzling. Not theatrical. Just right.

Kimmy’s eyes widened. “It’s beautiful. Isn’t it?”

Mark slid his arm around her waist, pulling her in against his side.
“Yes,” he murmured, “but not as beautiful as you.”

Her breath hitched — small, involuntary. She leaned into him, squeezing his waist with her arm.
A moment without rush. A moment that didn’t need to prove anything.

Ornaments

“Okay,” Kimmy announced, stepping away before the moment made her cry. “Ornament time. I’ll show you mine… if you show me yours.”  “Deal,” Mark said, heading down the hall.

They returned seconds later — she with a taped UPS box, he with a Wawa plastic bag.  Kimmy set her box on the coffee table. Tapped the lid with her nail.
“Since I’m the hostess with the most-est, I get to go first.”

“I thought you were the boss?” Mark teased.

“I contain multitudes,” she said, chin up, eyes bright.

She opened the box and pulled out a ceramic ornament painted in blue and white: Greek patterns spiraling across its surface.  “Greece,” she said softly. “Girl trip. Too much wine. We laughed until we cried. It was the first time I knew I could be brave on my own.”

Mark nodded.
“Egypt,” he said, reaching into the Wawa bag. He held up a deep blue Eye of Osiris. “Since eighth grade I’ve wanted to see the Nile. It was like stepping into a book I’d been reading my whole life.”

Kimmy smiled. “Travel theme then.”
She held up a miniature Sydney Harbour Bridge. “Australia. The world felt huge and possible.”  Mark countered with a Miami University ornament.
“College. I became myself there.”  Kimmy tapped the ornament, laughing. “You wore Miami polos like they were your superhero uniform. I remember.”

She went quiet before pulling out the Eiffel Tower.
“Paris,” she said. “They say real love lives here. I didn’t know if I believed it then.”

Mark reached across the space, fingers brushing hers.
“And here we are,” he said. “Who would have thought, right?”

Her eyes shimmered. “Who would have thought.”

Then—

Mark reached into his bag again, producing a hand-painted bulb: Alaska. Mountains, snow, a team of huskies.

“I’ve been more than once,” he said. “It always felt like the edge of the world. In a good way.”

Kimmy’s breath stuttered. “I’ve always wanted to go. It seems… romantic. Like a place where people could start a new chapter.”

Mark’s voice caught. Not enough to break — just enough to show.
“Maybe someday,” he said.
Then: “Not as a fantasy. As a plan.”

She couldn’t speak. Her throat was full.

 

The Big Ones

Kimmy took a breath, reached back into the box like she was reaching into herself.  It’s okay, Be brave. He’s not like the others. He’s not going to laugh this off or run.  She reached into her box one more time and pulled out her final ornament: Mickey and Minnie under mistletoe — Minnie on her toes, Mickey leaning down to meet her.

“I bought this because… because of Mickonomics.”  She laughed lightly. “Your class. The Disney theme. It was the first time I realized learning could feel like magic. I thought… this fit us.”

Mark stared.

Slowly, he reached into his Wawa bag.
Pulled out another Mickey & Minnie ornament — this one with Mickey lifting Minnie, kissing her.

“I bought this,” he said, voice thick, “because I wanted our first ornament that was ours. Just… ours.”

Kimmy’s eyes filled.
They held the ornaments side by side.

“I love you so much,” she whispered.

“I love you so much,” he echoed.

They hung the pair dead center, chest height, exactly where the eye would land.

She started: “Here, so we—”

“—can see them every time we look at the tree,” he finished.

A shared breath.
A shared realization.

He gets me.
She sees me.

Kimmy’s voice trembled, but she held it steady.
“Promise me we’ll buy an ornament every year.”

Mark nodded. “EVERY year. One that’s just about us and that year together.”

The Alaska ornament found its place, and something like a future found its footing.

Fade.

Hot Chocolate on the Deck

Night dropped gently over the house, the world settling into shades of navy and silver. Snow dusted the railings of the back deck, soft as powdered sugar, and the trees beyond the yard stood like dark sentinels beneath a fading sky.

Kimmy stepped outside first, beanie on her head, carrying two steaming mugs.  Christmas mugs — red, chipped in places, each with a wreath of holly leaves painted around the lip. She’d added whipped cream. Of course she had.

Mark followed, adding a splash of Bailey’s to each mug like a magician finishing a trick.

“For warmth,” he said, handing her one.

“For courage,” she countered, wrapping her fingers around it.

They shared a flannel blanket, sat on the cushioned bench by the fire pit. The flames crackled and hissed, sparks lifting into the cold.

For a while, they just… breathed.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Not needing to fill the silence.

Finally, Mark spoke, voice low.
“You know… for a long time, I thought I had every chapter I was ever going to get. I thought the story was already told.”  Kimmy stared into the fire, listening.  “But then those lunches,” he continued. “Every time. I looked forward to them in a way I didn’t understand at first. You’d walk in and… suddenly the day felt lighter.”

Kimmy smiled. “Honestly? I felt the same. I used to start mornings by wondering if you’d text about lunch. Just so I’d have something to look forward to.”

He chuckled. “My favorite was when you’d meet me at Gulfstream. Dinner after the races. You always looked like you walked straight out of a novel.”

She nudged him. “My favorite was when you told me, ‘I have a plan.’ And I didn’t know if I should run away or kiss you.”

“What changed your mind?”

Kimmy lifted her mug, drinking slowly.
“Maybe it was that night on the terrace,” she said. “I asked you to stay for one more drink, and… I don’t know. Something in the air shifted. Like the world asked a question, and we both answered without talking.”

Mark’s eyes softened. “That night changed my life.”

“Mine too,” she whispered.

Snow began to fall — slow flakes drifting like feathers. Memories hung between them like ornaments on an unseen tree: river cruises, strudel on deck, the clang of horseshoes at the Breeders’ Cup, spaghetti in a tiny North Carolina kitchen.

They didn’t mention the age gap.
They didn’t mention what-ifs.
They didn’t need to.

Kimmy finished her cocoa, tucked herself under his arm, head against his shoulder.

He kissed the top of her head.

The fire crackled.
The world slowed.

Later, when they headed inside, he put on the red Christmas shirt, she slipped into the shirt. She paused in the doorway to the bedroom, lit only by the glow of the tree down the hall.

“You look good like that,” he said quietly.

Kimmy smirked, tugging at the hem. “It’s the shirt.”

“No,” he said. “It’s what’s in the shirt.”

Her expression melted — mischief giving way to something like awe.

She crawled under the covers first, stretching out her hand toward him. When he joined her, she curled into his arms with the ease of a memory.

“Finally,” she murmured.
“No leaving.”

The lights hummed softly in the hall, and snow kept falling.

 

Christmas Morning

Mark woke first.

For a moment he didn’t remember where he was — the ceiling looked different, the scent in the air different, the weight against his chest unfamiliar in the most welcome way.

Then he felt the warmth at his side, her hand resting lightly over his heart, and it all came back to him like sunrise over a dark field.

North Carolina.
Kimmy.
Christmas.

He smiled before his eyes even opened.

She stirred as he slipped from the bed, eyes blinking open just enough to track him as he moved around the room.

“Don’t go far,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

“Just to the porch,” he whispered back. “Coffee mission.”

When he returned, she was sitting up in bed, hair tousled, drowning in the shirt like it had been designed for her and only her. She wrapped her hands around the mug he offered and sighed into it.

“Christmas coffee,” she said. “That’s a separate category, right?”

“Absolutely,” he replied. “It counts as a holiday beverage. Festive by default.”

They sat on the porch wrapped in a blanket, sipping, watching the world wake up. Snow clung to the deck rails; footprints from last night’s fire pit path were already fading.

Eventually, Kimmy nudged him.

“Presents?”

Mark blinked. “Presents?”

She grinned. “You didn’t think I’d let our first Christmas go by without gifts, did you?”  “No, but first I need to get something.“ Kimmy’s eyes followed him down the hall into the guest bedroom.  When he came out he had a small shopping bag.  She eyed him suspiciously, “And what is this I must ask?” 

“Presents….” And in a somewhat mocking tone, “….you didn’t think I’d let our FIRST Christmas go by without gifts….did you?”  And they both laughed quietly.

They sat near the tree, two small stacks of wrapped packages waited — modest, mismatched paper, bows slightly crooked, hers on her lap as she sat cross-legged, his between his sprawled out legs in the old gray sweat pants.   Nothing curated. Everything chosen.

Kimmy went first.

She handed him a soft, light package. He opened it to reveal…

Fuzzy horse socks. Brown and white. Little galloping silhouettes around the ankles.

He laughed. “These are spectacular.”

“It’s because I know you’re secretly a horse girl,” she teased. “It’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”

Next: a box shaped like it had folded corners from being carried too long.
Inside — a Florida Panthers pair of socks. Navy, red, gold. The cat logo fierce across the toes.

Mark held them up. “Now these are a lifestyle.”

“I figured if you’re going to convert me,” she said, “I should start outfitting the pastor.”

He shook his head, but the grin stayed.

She passed him a third gift — neatly wrapped in blue tissue.
He lifted the lid to reveal a Miami polo style shirt — rich red, clean lines, soft collar, exactly his style.

Mark blinked. “You paid attention.”

Kimmy shrugged like it was obvious. “Of course I did.”

His turn.

He passed her the thin, rectangular box — the leather-bound journal, soft brown cover, edges slightly distressed, like a future that could handle fingerprints.

“A journal?” she breathed.

“For us,” he said. “For plans. For someday. For the years we don’t know yet.”

Her throat worked. She didn’t trust her voice, so she just nodded.

He handed her the second — a small framed photo.

A river cruise.
Budapest behind them.
Wind in her hair.
His hand at the small of her back — a candid someone else had caught.

A moment that looked like a beginning.

“Who would have thought,” he murmured.

Kimmy pressed her knuckles to her mouth.
“I would have,” she whispered.

She opened the next — a clothing box, tissue paper rustling.

A sleek blouse in a deep winter green, soft to the touch, shoulders cut just enough to hint, not flaunt. Elegant, but undeniably for him.

Her eyebrows rose.
“You think I’d look good in this?”

Mark’s answer came without hesitation.
“I think you already do.”

She didn’t blush — she glowed.

Final gift.

She reached behind her, cheeks still warm, and held out a long, flat parcel wrapped in red.

“For you,” she said. “This one… this one’s a choice.”

He tore the paper and found a Florida Panthers polo — navy, modern cut, the logo embroidered over the heart. Not ironic. Not a joke. A bridge.

Mark looked up, eyes meeting hers.

Kimmy swallowed. “Just in case I ever get brave enough to see a game with you in your world.”

Mark lifted the shirt.
“And just in case,” he said slowly, “I want you beside me when it happens.”  So I guess this last one is “OK” for me to give you then.”  She looked at him quizzically as he handed her a large wrapped box in red & white with bows on each corner.

“That’s pretty big” she said.  He shrugged his shoulders and nodded to the package.  She ripped the paper off in shreds, opened the box and stared open mouth before a big grin came over her face.  She lifted a Florida Panthers jersey out of the box.

“Just in cases” Mark said, paying homage to the film, Love Actually.  I DO want you to come to So Fla and I DO want to take you to a game.

Brief color rose in Kimmy’s cheeks as she leaned over and took his hand.  “I want to come”

They didn’t kiss.
They didn’t need to.

The air did it for them.

Childhood Christmases

They sat cross-legged on the rug, backs against the couch, coffee cups cooling on the table.

He asked first.
“Favorite childhood Christmas memory?”

She stared at the tree, eyes going soft.

“Florida doesn’t do snow,” she said. “But one year my mom insisted we dress in sweaters anyway. The air conditioner was on full blast, and we pretended it was winter. My sister and I made snow angels on the carpet. We were sweaty and laughing, and it felt… like magic we made ourselves.”

He nodded, picturing it.

“Ohio,” he said. “My brother, my sister, and I used to build snow forts in the front yard. We’d freeze our fingers off, come inside, and my dad would have hot chocolate waiting. The real kind — melted chocolate bars, not packets. For years I thought everyone did it that way.”

Kmmy smiled. “Maybe they should.”

Mark looked around the room — the tree, the stockings, the mugs — and felt something strange and steady settle in his chest.

Maybe real magic is just choosing to make it.

The Walk to the Road

After coffee and gifts and memories that clung like the scent of cinnamon in the air, Kimmy tugged on boots and handed Mark his coat.

“Come with me,” she said.

“To where?”

“Just a walk. It’s good for digestion. And perspective.”

He followed her down the porch steps. The snow was shallow but clean — untouched except for the tracks they made. The world held its breath in that way winter has, where sound feels like it arrives soft-edged.

They walked in comfortable silence, hands brushing before committing, then fully tangling together. The sky was pale, like watercolor left in rinse water.  About a quarter mile down, the trees opened, revealing the main road. A pickup approached — green, old enough to have character — garland tied around the grille like an accidental wreath.

The driver slowed. Rolled down the window.

“Merry Christmas, y’all!” the woman called. Sixties, maybe. Rosy cheeks, knitted hat, eyes that looked like she believed in every good thing.

Kimmy lifted her hand in a small wave. “Merry Christmas!”

“We just moved in,” the woman continued. “Couple weeks ago. Over by the bend. I’m Helen, this is Ray.”

Ray leaned across the seat and nodded. “Nice to meet ya.”

“I’m Kimmy,” she said, then tipped her head toward Mark. “This is Mark.”  She paused, then left it there.

“Oh, how nice,” Helen said, clasping her hands. “Christmas together is just the best. We’ve been doing it for forty-two years now. Wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Kimmy’s breath hitched. Not visible — just audible enough for Mark to feel the shift.

Helen continued, unaware. “Where y’all from?”

Kimmy smiled. “South Florida. Grew up down there.”

“Ohio,” Mark added.

Helen lit up. “Look at that — long distance finds a way! You two make a lovely pair. Enjoy your Christmas. And welcome to the neighborhood.”

Kimmy nodded, cheeks flushed. “Thank you. Really.”

Ray tipped his hat, and the truck rumbled on, leaving silence and tire tracks.

They stood there a moment longer, snowflakes clinging to their lashes.

Finally, Kimmy let out a slow, shaky exhale.

“They thought…”
She didn’t finish.

Mark squeezed her hand.
“They saw what we feel,” he said.

Kimmy leaned her head lightly against his shoulder.

“It felt nice,” she admitted. “To be seen like that. As part of something.”

Mark stared down the road, toward where the truck had gone.
“Forty-two years,” he murmured. “That’s…something.”

Kimmy looked up at him.
“Do you think that’s a lot or not enough?”

He paused — not because he didn’t know, but because saying it out loud mattered.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that it’s exactly the right number if you’re with the right person.”

Her fingers tightened around his.

Like a shirt that’s oversized, but “fits” he thought.
Like slipping into something you didn’t know you’d been cold without.

They turned back toward the house, footfalls crunching softly behind them.

“Hey,” she said after a while. “If the universe keeps throwing us hints like that, we might need to start listening.”

Mark smiled.
“We are listening.”

Kimmy bumped her shoulder against his arm, playful again, but with a new undertone — something like readiness.

“Good,” she said. “I’d hate to think we’re the only two people who don’t see what’s going on here.”

Mark laughed. “Oh, I see it.”

“Good,” she replied. “So do I.”

Back at the house, she paused at the porch steps.

“You hungry yet? I can reheat breakfast.”

Mark kissed her forehead, hand resting at her cheek.

“I’m good,” he said. “Full, actually.”

“From cinnamon raisin bread?” she teased.

“From this,” he corrected.

She didn’t argue.

Virtual Classroom

The morning after Christmas arrived gently — not with alarms or urgency, but with the sound of typing from the dining room.  Mark padded down the hall, hair still mussed, the red Christmas shirt soft from sleep. The house smelled faintly of coffee and cinnamon, the echo of raisin bread lingering like a memory in the air.

Kimmy sat at her laptop, glasses on, hair tossled – obviously didn’t care if he saw her, really saw her.  The shirt swallowing her frame like a story she refused to stop telling. The screen glowed against her face.

“Good morning, trouble,” he said, leaning on the back of her chair.

She didn’t look up from the screen, but her lips curved.
“Good morning, flattery. Attendance must be up three hundred percent.”

Mark chuckled. “If my high school students ever saw my teacher start class in
THAT outfit, they’d have given her full, undivided attention.”

She clicked from one tab to another, eyes narrowing at something a student had
submitted.  “Oh please,” she said. “If I had a teacher who looked half as
attractive as me, I’d be distracted too.”

Mark blinked.
“Did you just—”

“Absolutely,” she replied, finally glancing up at him. The grin was wicked. “Now
move. I have a pop quiz to terrify them with.”

He kissed the top of her head, hands sliding down her shoulders, thumbs
brushing the line of fabric.

“What’s your plan today?” she asked, eyes back on the screen.

“I have research to do,” he replied.

“That sounds vague and suspicious.”

“It is,” he confirmed. “Because I am vague and suspicious.”

She flicked her gaze to him again.
“You know if you’re planning something, I should be emotionally prepared.”

“Oh, you will be,” Mark said. “In a few hours.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Should I put on pants?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned. “Preferably before noon.”

Kimmy sighed dramatically. “Fine. This relationship is already getting unreasonable.”

He left her to teach — the cadence of her voice drifting through the house. Confident. Warm. Sharp when it needed to be. The kind of teacher who didn’t just educate — she altered the temperature of a room.

Mark made coffee, opened his laptop, and booked a few tabs.  His heart kicked like it remembered being young.  He closed the laptop before he could talk himself out of anything.

Around noon, Kimmy appeared in the doorway — hair brushed/pulled back in a pony, jeans on, a pink-ish blouse snuggly fitting on her frame, her small earrings catching the light.

“So,” she said, hands on hips, “what exactly is this plan?”

Mark finished his coffee in one sip.

“I’m taking you to the mall,” he said.

She blinked.
“For more presents?”

He let the silence do the work.

Her breath caught.

“Oh,” she said.
“Oh.”

Half a heartbeat passed.
Her heart said the rest.

 

The Mall

They parked near the entrance closest to the food court — the only part of the lot that had been cleared properly after the snow. As they walked, Kimmy kept her hands in her pockets, shoulders tucked high against the cold, breaths little clouds in the air.  Mark walked just close enough that his arm in the black leather jacket brushed hers every few steps.  Kimmy’s thoughts tumbled like coins dropped on tile.

Don’t overreact.
Don’t be a schoolgirl……she snorted quietly to herself….
But I was a schoolgirl once…
Who would have thought?

She laughed under her breath, shaking her head at herself.

Mark noticed.
“Okay over there?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Where are we going?”

He stopped.

Right there, in front of a display of last-minute holiday sales and a kiosk selling pretzels that smelled like childhood.

He took her hands.  Held them like something that mattered.

“You’ll see…..come with me” he said.
A beat.  Moments later he stopped and raised his arm towards the store in front of them.
“To the jewelry store?” Kimmy croaked, trying not to overthink it.

Her heart flipped. Then flipped again. Then kept going like a gymnast who had forgotten how to stick a landing.

For a second she couldn’t speak.
Then, very quietly— “Oh, ok”

Kimmy’s mind was racing….Keep your cool girl.  It’s not.  No.  He probably wants to get me a necklace.  Yeah, that’s it.  Or, what if….stop…oh my, here we go.

Inside the store, warm lighting glowed against velvet displays. A woman behind the counter — silver hair, red lipstick — smiled with practiced warmth.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted. “How may I help you both today?”

Kimmy froze.
Please don’t say necklace. Please don’t say necklace. Please don’t say necklace—

Mark inhaled.

“We’d like to see,” he said, voice steady, “engagement rings. Options.”

The clerk’s face softened. She gestured them over to a glass case.

Kimmy’s knees nearly gave.

An arm squeeze — hers on his. Not loud, not showy. Just pressure.
Right call. Right direction. Keep going.

They leaned over the glass together.

Gold bands….Platinum….Vintage settings…..Modern cuts.
Rings that whispered.
Rings that shouted.

The clerk pulled out a tray and set it gently on the velvet.
“Any preferences?” she asked.

Kimmy hesitated. “I like… ones that look like they came from a story. Something with history.”

Mark nodded. “Not flashy. But… intentional.”

The clerk smiled like she understood something deeper than what they said.
She lifted an oval cut ring, antique filigree band, tiny rubies like constellations down the sides.

“This one,” she said, “is 1930s. Original band. It was made by a jeweler who only designed three of this style. Two have been accounted for. This is the third.”

Kimmy’s breath vanished.

Mark looked at Kimmy.
Kimmy looked at the ring.
Something in the air shifted — like the choir just before it sings.

“It’s…” Kimmy began, but her voice caught.
She tried again. “It looks like something that belongs in a moment you’d remember forever.”

Mark nodded once. “It looks like you.”

The clerk stepped back.
“I’ll give you a moment.”

Kimmy touched the glass with two fingers — not to claim, just to acknowledge.

Mark watched her.

In his chest, something uncoiled — something like hope that was no longer afraid of itself.

The clerk returned.
“Would you like to size or begin paperwork?” she asked gently.

Mark shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said. “But we WILL be back.” – emphasizing the “WILL”
He looked at Kimmy. “Right, honey?”

Kimmy’s answering smile nearly broke her face.
“Yes,” she said. “We will.”

Outside the store, she didn’t wait.

She launched herself at him — arms around his neck, legs nearly leaving the floor, kisses landing everywhere: cheeks, temple, jaw, nose, forehead.

“Slow down, girl!” he laughed, stunned and delighted.

“No,” she said, breathless. “I won’t. I won’t slow down. I love you so much. And in case you don’t know— Y-E-S.”

He blinked. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she repeated, forehead resting against his. “Just… yes.”

He cupped her face in his hands.
“Well,” he said softly. “That’s good to know.”

A beat.

“Have you seen Love Actually?” Mark asked.

Kimmy groaned happily. “Of course. It’s my favorite Christmas movie.”

“Mine too.” He paused. “Remember the scene where Jamie proposes to Aurelia in the restaurant?”

Her smile turned reverent. “One of the best scenes in film history…..my favorite moment in the film.”

“Mine too,” he echoed. “And she says—”

Kimmy whispered it with him, at the same time:

“Just in cases.”

Mark’s chest felt too small for his heart.

He took her hand.
“So this trip today… just in cases.”

Kimmy nodded.
“Just in cases,” she said back.

Not a promise.
Not pressure.
Just possibility — held gently between them like something fragile and precious and new.

They walked on, hand in hand, snow beginning to fall again outside the glass doors.

Not a proposal.
Not yet.

But the path was there.
And they were on it.

Together.