Chapter 9

 

Chapter Nine – This Will Be (An Everlasting Love)

Planning the Wedding — The Game Plan

They gave themselves a week.  Not a week to plan, not a week to call people or make lists or announce anything beyond the small circle who already knew. A week simply to be engaged—to wake up with the weight of it still new, still surprising, still settling into the corners of their lives like morning light.  

Mark woke first.  He lay there longer than usual, careful not to move, Kimmy curled into his side, one hand fisted into the soft cotton of the Carolina shirt she’d slept in again. He smiled at that—how even now, with a ring on her finger, she reached for the familiar. For him.  He slipped out of bed quietly, pulled on jeans and a hoodie, and left a note on the kitchen counter even though she’d likely never see it before he was back.  Wawa. Back in ten.

The air outside was cool, early. The kind of morning that still held night in its pockets. At Wawa, standing by the coffee urns, he nearly ran into Allan.  “Well look at you,” Allan said, taking in the grin Mark didn’t bother hiding. “You look like a man who slept well.”  

Mark laughed. “Engaged will do that to you.”

Allan’s eyebrows shot up. “Engaged engaged?”

Mark nodded, poured coffee, felt the word land again. Engaged. “Yeah.”

Allan clapped him on the shoulder. “Man. That’s… that’s good. Really good.”

Mark drove home lighter than when he’d left.  Kimmy still wasn’t up. He took his coffee to the porch, wrapped both hands around the mug, and watched the woods shift from gray to green as the day found itself. When he heard the door open behind him, he didn’t turn right away.  She stepped out barefoot, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep—and nerves.  “Best night,” she said, voice soft. “I don’t think I slept more than two hours.”

He smiled. “Too excited or too nervous?”

“Yes.”

She laughed, leaned into him, rested her forehead against his shoulder. “Tonight’s the night,” she said. “We start figuring it out.”  That evening, downtown, the wine bar sat perched on the top floor of the hotel like it had been waiting for them. Glass walls. Low light. The city stretched out below, distant and quiet.  Mark dressed carefully—his favorite white pullover sweater over a red Miami polo, khakis pressed just enough to matter. Kimmy stood at the mirror, working on her hair, catching his reflection watching her.  She came out a few minutes later and he actually stopped walking.  She wore a white buttoned cardigan over her khaki skirt—simple, soft, unmistakably her. As she reached for him, the lowest button popped loose and fell to the floor, leaving just a hint of her stomach visible.  She froze. Looked down. “Oh no—I need to change.”

Mark didn’t hesitate. “No,” he said, stepping closer. “Absolutely not.”  She looked up, startled.  “You look hot,” he added, grinning. “And I want every guy in that restaurant to shake his head and know you’re with me.” Her laugh came out half nervous, half delighted. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“Completely serious,” he said, pulling her into a hug.  She shook her head, smiling, kissed him anyway. 

At the table, wine ordered, Mark reached into his pocket and pulled out two notecards and two pens.  Kimmy narrowed her eyes. “What’s that for?”

“We’re picking a date.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “You didn’t.”  He pulled out another folded paper—grid lines, four colored pens clipped to the top.  “Oh my God,” she laughed. “Coach Love, did you make a chart?”  

“Obviously.”

She leaned back, eyes bright. “Are you back at the head of your Mickonomics class now? Are we going to need graphs?”  

“Duh,” he said. “This is serious.”  They each took a card.

“Write when you think,” he said. “No talking. Then we compare.”  She wrote the first Saturday after Christmas.  He wrote between Christmas and New Year.  They turned the cards at the same time and just looked at each other.

“Of course,” she said softly.

“It feels right,” he said. “After that first Christmas.”  They started a list—venues, guests, simple reception, no fuss. Each item felt manageable. Shared. The way everything with them did.  After dinner, she suggested the terrace.  They leaned against the rail, city lights below them, glasses in hand.  “What,” he said, watching her smile. “What’s that look?”  She set her glass down, grabbed his sweater with both hands, pulled him close.  "Who would have thought,” she said. “That when I asked you to stay for one more drink on that terrace… less than two years later we’d be here.”  She stepped back, lifted her hand, wiggled the ring, laughing through tears.  “Engaged.”  Mark pulled her back into his arms.  She rested against him, holding her ring up again, examining it like it might disappear.

Inside her head, the thought settled, calm and sure: My life is so  perfect.  Who would have thought.  And for the first time since the question had been asked, neither of them wondered what came next—only that they would get there together.

Planning the Wedding — The Game Plan

They started with a notebook on the kitchen table, the same one Kimmy used for lesson planning. Mark wrote at the top in neat block letters: Wedding Thoughts. Kimmy laughed at that—thoughts, not plans—and added a heart in the margin. Inside her head, she realized how comforting it felt that nothing about this needed to be perfect, just theirs.  They debated flowers one morning over coffee on the porch. Kimmy liked the idea of something seasonal, something that felt like it belonged where they were getting married. Mark admitted he had never once thought about flowers in his life, then surprised himself by having an opinion about color. She watched him talk, amused, thinking how strange and wonderful it was to see him care about things simply because she cared.  Music came next—playlists spread across the living room floor, speakers humming softly. They ruled out anything too trendy, anything that would feel dated in ten years. Mark caught himself smiling at the thought of them dancing in their living room years from now, hearing one of these songs and saying, remember this? Kimmy noticed his smile and felt a quiet warmth bloom in her chest.  They talked about vows late one night, sitting on the edge of the bed, shoes still on, too tired to move. Kimmy wondered aloud whether she should write something formal or speak from the heart. Mark answered without hesitation, “Just say what you always say.” She laughed, but later, lying awake, she thought about how safe it felt that he already knew her voice.

One afternoon they walked downtown and wandered into a small shop with invitations in the window. They didn’t buy anything. Instead, they stood there imagining paper stock and fonts and envelopes, both silently agreeing that whatever they chose should feel simple and warm. As they walked away, Mark reached for her hand, thinking how strange it was that something so small could feel like such a big step forward.  They talked about what not to do as much as what to do. No grand entrances. No long speeches. No moments that felt staged for anyone else’s expectations. Kimmy realized she didn’t feel like she was giving anything up by choosing simplicity; she felt like she was protecting something precious.

Late one evening, they sat side by side on the couch, laptops open, calendars pulled up. Dates came and went as they tested possibilities, crossing some out gently, not with disappointment but with understanding. Mark felt a deep sense of calm watching them navigate decisions without tension—just conversation, compromise, and quiet certainty.  At some point, without either of them marking when it happened, the planning stopped feeling like planning at all. It felt like an extension of their life together—another version of choosing peanut butter, arranging furniture, or deciding what to cook for dinner. Kimmy looked around the room and thought, This is what forever looks like—small decisions made with love.

They closed the notebook one night without finishing the page. Mark said, “We’re doing good.” Kimmy nodded, resting her head on his shoulder, knowing they were.  

They went to the mall on a quiet weekday afternoon, the kind of time when the corridors felt almost hushed, stores waiting rather than selling. Mark parked farther out than necessary, neither of them in a hurry. As they walked, their hands brushed and then stayed together without either of them deciding it.  They passed the jewelry store first.  Both of them slowed. Inside, the cases glinted under soft lights, familiar now in a way that felt comforting rather than electric. Kimmy felt it before she thought it—the echo of that day, that moment, that breathless second when everything changed. Mark felt it too, a quiet warmth rising in his chest, not anticipation this time but gratitude.  They stopped. Looked. Then, almost in unison, turned to each other.

A smile.

A quick kiss.

Nothing said.

A few stores later, they paused again—this time in front of a bridal shop. Dresses floated in the window, ivory and white, some structured, some dramatic, some clearly meant to be admired from a distance rather than worn.  Kimmy leaned closer to the glass, thoughtful. “Do you think I’d like something like that?” she asked, nodding toward a more formal gown with a fitted bodice and sweeping skirt.  Mark didn’t answer right away.  He studied her instead—really looked at her—how she stood, how she held herself, the ease in her posture, the quiet confidence she carried without realizing it. “No,” he said  finally, gently. “You’ll want something simpler. Less formal. Something that looks like you.”

She turned to him, surprised. “You think?”

“I know,” he said, smiling. Inside, he thought how right it felt to see her this way—not as a bride in an abstract sense, but as the woman he loved, unchanged by ceremony.  She reached for his hand again as they walked on.

That night, they sat on the porch with glasses of wine, the air soft and forgiving. Kimmy perched sideways on his lap, one arm around his shoulders, the other balancing her glass as if she’d done this her whole life. Mark leaned back slightly, comfortable, her weight grounding him.  They talked about nothing for a while—work, neighbors, the way the light changed through the trees this time of evening.  Then Kimmy shifted, more serious now.

“Okay,” she said. “We need to decide how big. We can’t go any further without that.”

Mark nodded. “I’ve got an idea.”

She narrowed her eyes as he stood up. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

He disappeared inside and returned a moment later with two notecards and two pens.

“Oh my God,” she laughed. “You are unbelievable.”

“Instructions,” he said, settling back down. “Write one number. How many  people you want to invite. I’ll do the same. No talking.”  She shook her head, still smiling, and bent over her card. Inside her head, names flickered—faces she loved, people who mattered, a circle that felt warm but not overwhelming. She wrote quickly, decisively.  Mark hesitated longer. He thought about family, friends, history. About what felt essential versus obligatory. When he finished, he placed his card face down.

“Ready?” he asked.

They flipped them.

Kimmy: 12

Mark: 6

She looked up at him, eyebrows raised.  He laughed softly. “Okay. I can do twenty. That feels right.”

She exhaled, relieved. “Yeah. About that.”

“Let’s talk names.”

She started—two local couples, a few friends from school who had watched her grow into herself. As she spoke, Mark listened carefully, nodding, storing faces with names.  Then it was his turn.  He began listing the Derby group—Jeff, Gina, Bob, Pam—comfortable, familiar. Halfway through, Kimmy hesitated.  “Are we asking April?”  The question hung there, not sharp, not accusatory—just honest.

Mark met her eyes. “Not if you don’t want to.”

She took a breath. Inside, she felt the flicker of insecurity, then steadied herself. “No,” she said softly. “I’m a big girl. Let’s ask.”  He smiled at her, something like admiration in his expression. “Okay.”  They finished the list together, pen moving between them, no erasing, no backtracking.  When they were done, Kimmy leaned her head against his shoulder.  “That wasn’t so bad,” she said.  Mark kissed her temple. “We make a good team.”  She smiled, knowing that was true—not just about the wedding, but about everything that mattered.

They were curled together on the couch, the room dim except for the soft glow of the television. Kimmy lay half on her side, legs tucked beneath her, her head resting against Mark’s chest in that familiar, unconscious way that had long ago stopped feeling new and started feeling necessary.  On the screen, Emily was walking briskly down a Paris street, impeccably dressed, talking too fast, loving too hard.  Kimmy sighed. “She’s so cute,” she said. “But honestly… why is it that none of the guys in her love life ever seem to work out?”

Mark didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he reached for the remote and pressed pause. The screen froze mid-step, Paris suspended in time. He shifted slightly, tilted Kimmy’s chin up with two fingers, and brought his forehead gently to hers.  “Because, honey,” he said quietly, “most people are not as lucky as we are.”  The words settled between them, warm and steady.  Inside Kimmy, something melted and anchored all at once. God, I love this man, she thought, not with fireworks or drama, but with the deep certainty of someone who knew she was exactly where she belonged.  Mark felt her relax against him and thought, She is the most beautiful and perfect woman I have ever known. How did I get this lucky?  He kissed her softly, once, then reached for the remote again and hit play.  Less than a minute passed.

Click.

“Hey,” Kimmy protested, laughing as the screen froze again. “What’s the deal? We’re never going to finish this episode before I’m too tired to stay up.”  Mark grinned, that particular grin she’d come to recognize as uh oh.  “I just had a brilliant idea.”

She shifted upright, suspicious but curious. “I’m listening.”

“What if,” he began, already warming to it, “we hold the rehearsal dinner here?”

Kimmy blinked. “Here… here?”

“Our house,” he said, gesturing around the living room. “Our porch. Our table. Friends, family, good food, no fuss.”

Her smile spread slowly. “Okay,” she said. “I like that.”

“And,” he continued, eyes lighting up now, “we get married down by the creek.”

She sat up fully. “Down by the creek?”

“Surrounded by the trees,” he said, picturing it as he spoke. “That little clearing. The sound of the water. Natural. Quiet. Just us and the people who matter.”  Kimmy’s breath caught. She could see it instantly—the filtered light, the green, the intimacy of it. Her hand went to his arm.

“I love it,” she said. Then she paused. “But… what if it’s cold?”

Mark smiled. “Short and sweet. Ten minutes, max.”

She laughed. “I like that. Not too formal.”

“Exactly,” he said. “It feels like us.”

She leaned back into him, resting her head against his chest again, the picture already forming in her mind. Inside, she felt that same calm certainty she’d felt since the ring had slid onto her finger. This is how it’s supposed to be.  Mark hit play once more, and this time he let the episode run. But neither of them was really watching anymore.  They were already somewhere else—by the creek, beneath the trees, choosing each other in the simplest way possible.

Pressure, Quietly

By mid-May, their days had settled into a rhythm so steady it surprised them both.  Morning coffee. Porch light fading as the sun came up. Kimmy already “in class,” Mark easing into the day beside her or heading out for errands. Nothing dramatic. Nothing hurried. And somehow, everything felt full.  Ever since Allan had asked—half joking, half curious—What’s the deal with Wawa anyway?—Mark had turned it into a ritual. Most mornings, he met Allan there for ten or fifteen minutes before Allan headed to work. Coffee refills. Talk about nothing and everything. The weather. Pickleball schedules. Wedding plans that weren’t really plans yet. It felt easy. Grounded. Like the kind of friendship that didn’t need to prove itself.  Kimmy had found her own rhythm.  Sally had dragged her—lovingly—onto the pickleball courts twice a week. Kimmy liked the pace, the laughter, the way everyone talked more than they played. She liked, too, the quiet thrill of realizing she had a new best friend, one she hadn’t been looking for. Inside, she felt something settle: This is my life now.

Which is why, when the weekend conference came up, she didn’t hesitate.  “Come with me,” she told Mark. “I don’t want to do it without you.”  They packed together, laying their new matching luggage side by side on the bed — the set they’d bought for Alaska, now breaking them in early. Kimmy smiled at that as she zipped hers closed. Practice, she thought. For forever.  

The Chetola Resort sat tucked just outside Raleigh, all timber and stone and quiet confidence. A lodge that didn’t shout luxury, but carried it anyway. Their room was large, warm, with a balcony overlooking a stretch of woods that smelled faintly of pine and rain.  The first night, they ate dinner in the lodge restaurant. Kimmy talked animatedly about workshops she was looking forward to, people she was excited to see. Then she stopped, reached for his hand across the table.  “You know what?” she said. “This is the best conference I’ve ever been to.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “Good workshops?”

She smiled. “No. You.”

They shared that look — the one that needed no follow-up.  The weekend passed gently. Mornings together. Evenings together. Mark working quietly from the balcony while Kimmy attended sessions. More than once, she caught herself thinking, This is what it’s supposed to feel like.  By Sunday night, back home, the fatigue finally hit.  They were halfway through an episode of Emily in Paris, Kimmy curled against him, when Mark glanced over. “Want to watch one more?”

She nodded. “I can do one more. But I need to get out of these clothes first.”  He waited on the couch, reflecting on the weekend — how natural it felt to belong in each other’s professional lives, not just personal ones.  

Then he heard it.

“Oh no.”

Not panicked. Just… wrong.

A moment passed.

“Oh no.”

Then louder. “Oh no… please… oh no no no no.”

Mark was on his feet instantly.

He reached the bedroom just as Kimmy stopped short in front of him,  hands trembling, eyes already filling.  “It’s lost,” she choked. “I’m so stupid. What am I going to do?”  She leaned into him, crying.  His first instinct was practical. He checked her hand — the ring was there.  Touched her neck — the ruby pendant still rested against her skin. He lifted her chin gently.  “What, honey?” he asked softly. “What did you lose?”

Her breath hitched. Then, with full force, she sobbed:  “The shirt.”  And collapsed onto the bed, face buried in the pillow.  Mark felt a smile start — and immediately stopped it. This mattered.  He sat beside her, rubbing her back.  “I’m sure it’s here,” he said calmly.

“No,” she cried. “I must have left it at the resort. They probably think it’s old and threw it away. Oh my God, what am I going to do?”

“It’s just a shirt, baby,” he said carefully. “I’ll give you another.”

She sat up so fast it startled him.

“It is not just a shirt,” she said, fierce through tears. “It’s my shirt. It’s you around me all night. Oh God, I’m so stupid.”  She fell back onto the bed, exhaustion overtaking emotion, and within minutes, she was asleep.

The next morning, she hadn’t moved. Still dressed. Still pouting, even in sleep.  Mark watched her for a long moment. Then smiled to himself.  Coffee. Cinnamon roll. Reset.

At Wawa, he waved Allan off with a grin. “Can’t stay. Major crisis.”  

Allan winked. “Say no more.”

Back home, Kimmy was still asleep. Mark set the coffee by her laptop — then paused.  Something clicked.  He walked back to their room — the one they’d painted together — and stood there a moment. Yes, he thought. This is us.  Then he went to the suitcases.  They were identical. He unzipped the front pocket of his.

And there it was.

The shirt.

Folded awkwardly, shoved into the wrong bag.  He laughed quietly, reverently, like he’d discovered treasure. He draped it over the back of her chair by the table, then headed out to the porch with his laptop.  

Five minutes later—

A squeal.

Then another.

Then running footsteps.  The door flew open.  Kimmy burst out clutching the shirt to her chest, crying and laughing all at once.  “Oh my God,” she said, breathless. “Oh my God.”  She launched herself at him, kissing his face, his neck, his forehead. “You are my hero. I don’t know how you did it. I don’t care. I’m so happy.”  She kissed him again, then spun back into the house, dancing, the shirt held high.  Mark sat there, stunned, smiling so hard it hurt.  I am proud of myself, he thought. Because my sole purpose on this earth is to make that woman happy……and today, I hit a home run.

The Rehearsal Dinner

The week after Christmas arrived without ceremony, but the house knew what it was holding.  There was movement everywhere — purposeful, familiar, already practiced. Mark moved through the rooms with a quiet focus, straightening chairs, adjusting candles, wiping an already-clean counter because it felt like the right thing to do. He wasn’t nervous exactly. He was attentive. Every corner mattered tonight.  In the kitchen, Kimmy stood barefoot at the stove, stirring sauce with a wooden spoon, her cardigan sleeves pushed up just enough to free her wrists. The smell of garlic and tomatoes filled the air, warm and grounding. Everything else was catered — salads, bread, dessert — but the spaghetti was hers. That mattered to her.  She glanced over her shoulder and smiled.  “This feels like us,” she said simply.  Mark looked up from aligning napkins and met her eyes.  “It does,” he said. And he meant more than the dinner.  He watched her for a moment longer than necessary — the way she moved with confidence now, the ease in her body, the way she belonged here as if she always had. How did I ever live a full life without this woman? he wondered, not for the first time.

She caught him watching and laughed softly. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just… everything.”

They dressed with the same quiet coordination that had become second nature. Smart casual, agreed without discussion. Mark slipped into a slate gray jacket over a black mock turtleneck, clean lines, understated. Kimmy emerged a few minutes later in a black silk blouse, slate gray accents catching the light, the neckline framing the ruby heart at her throat. A simple black pencil skirt completed it.  

She turned slowly. “Okay?”

Mark’s breath caught. “More than okay.”

Guests arrived in waves. Jeff and Gina first, loud and warm as ever. Pam and Bob close behind, bearing wine and knowing smiles. Kimmy’s friends followed — hugs, laughter, easy conversation. The house absorbed it all.  Bob leaned toward Mark quietly. “April coming?”

Mark shook his head. “She RSVP’d no.”

Bob glanced across the room where Kimmy stood laughing with her friends and nodded once. “Probably just as well.”

Then came Hal and Helen — long embraces, soft chuckles.  “We knew it Christmas Day,” Helen whispered. “We just knew.”

Allan and Sally arrived last, breathless and laughing.  “Sorry we’re late!” Sally said.

“You’re on time,” Kimmy grinned. “For you.”

Jeff caught Mark’s eye and tilted his head toward the hallway. Mark followed.

“Got it?” Jeff asked.  “Yep. All set.”  Jeff slipped a small, plain white box into Mark’s hand. “Good.”  Mark took it back to their room, set it on the bookshelf, lifted the lid just enough to see what was inside. He smiled. This will be perfect.  The rehearsal itself unfolded with lightness — Kimmy and Sally down the aisle, laughter when someone missed a cue, a quick reset, then smooth. The air was cool but kind, the trees still, the creek murmuring quietly as if practicing its role.

Dinner followed, and when plates were cleared, Mark stood.  “Thank you all for being here,” he said, then motioned for Kimmy to stand beside him. “I remember introducing my Kimmy to many of you… and I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’ll all be here tomorrow to see her become my Mrs.”  Applause filled the room — genuine, warm, earned.  Goodbyes followed soon after. Hugs, whispered can’t wait for tomorrow, promises to be on time, smiles that lingered.

The Wedding

They woke together.  Kimmy was curled into him, her head resting on his chest, her hand splayed over his heart. Mark kissed her hair softly.  “It’s the big day,” he murmured. “The first day of the rest of our lives.”

She smiled without opening her eyes. “I feel so much closer to you.”

“I didn’t think that was possible,” he said. “But here we are.”

She lifted her hand, the ring catching the morning light. “Okay, lazy boy. Time to get married.”  As she stood up she saw out the window….the snow had come overnight.

“Oh look – it snowed, this will be perfect for the wedding.  I hope it lasts while the weather warms until the ceremony itself!”

The ceremony was simple. Perfect. Mark stood at the clearing by the creek, Allan beside him.  “Got the rings?” Mark asked quietly.  Allan grinned and showed the two gold bands. “I’m on top of it.”  The music started. Sally walked first, light purple dress swaying gently. Then Kimmy appeared.  Mark’s breath left him in an audible gasp.

“Oh wow,” Allan whispered. “That’s your wife, dude.”

Kimmy walked toward him in white — sleeveless, off-the-shoulder elegance, baby’s breath tucked into her hair. She was radiant. Real. Herself.  

Nothing else mattered.

The Reception

The rooftop wine bar glowed with that particular kind of evening light that feels borrowed — warm but fleeting, the city humming below them as if aware it was hosting something meaningful.  Mark and Kimmy didn’t sit right away. Instead, they moved slowly from table to table, hands intertwined, stopping to thank people who had chosen to be here — who had chosen them.  Jeff clapped Mark on the back.  “Couldn’t miss this for the world. You look… settled, my friend.”

Mark smiled. “That’s exactly how it feels.”

Gina pulled Kimmy into a hug. “You are radiant. Truly. And I don’t mean the dress — though it’s gorgeous.”  Kimmy laughed softly. “Thank you for coming. It meant everything to us.”

Pam held Kimmy’s hands for a long moment. “I told Bob the first night we met you — I could see it. You don’t add to his life, you complete it.”

Bob nodded. “Couldn’t have said it better.”

Allan and Sally waited last, both grinning like they were in on a secret.  “Guess we’re officially family now,” Allan said.

Sally squeezed Kimmy’s arm. “And just so you know — we’re already planning that trip.”

Kimmy glanced at Mark, her heart swelling. We’re not just married, she thought. We’re anchored.

When everyone had settled, glasses refilled, and the hum of conversation softened into a collective ease, Allan stood to toast. “Since we met Mark and Kimmy, they welcomed us like family. So much so that now we’re planning to travel together next year.”  Smiles circled the table. Glasses lifted.  “And to anyone who might notice Mark’s a touch older,” Allan continued to laughter, “one look at them together tells you everything you need to know. They complete each other.”  He raised his glass.

“Here’s to your life together, kids — not just happily ever after, but happily still.”

Cheers. Clinking glasses. A kiss.

Mark felt Kimmy squeeze his arm. He squeezed back. No words necessary.

The Porch

Later, the house was quiet again — the good kind of quiet, the kind that feels like a deep exhale after a perfect day.  Kimmy leaned against the porch rail, still in her reception heels, replaying everything in her head: the vows, the laughter, the way Mark looked at her walking toward him.

“That was perfect,” she said softly.  Mark nodded. “It really was.”  Then, after a beat, “Almost.”  She turned, suspicious and delighted all at once. “What do you mean almost?”

“We agreed,” she reminded him, narrowing her eyes playfully, “no gifts.”  He smiled in that way she had come to recognize — the one that meant you should have known better.  “Out on the porch, woman,” he said gently. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”  As she sat, her heart began to race. I knew it, she thought, smiling to herself. I absolutely knew it.

Mark returned carrying two plain white boxes.  “Okay,” he said, setting them down. “Pick one.”  Her eyes flicked between them. “This feels like a test.”  

“Maybe,” he said, amused.

She picked up the larger one.

Mark grinned. “You got it right.”

She laughed. “I did? Why does that make this more intense?”

Inside was a Florida Panthers beanie and an envelope.

“What is—” she began.

“Open it.”

Her breath caught as she read.  “We didn’t get to the game the weekend we closed on the house,” Mark said. “I know how much you wanted to go. Jeff got us tickets next month. Flights are booked.”  Kimmy let out a small squeal and clutched the beanie to her chest.

“I’ve wanted to go to a game with you so badly,” she said, eyes bright. “I was so disappointed we missed it last time.”

“That reaction,” Mark said softly, “was exactly what I was hoping for.”

She leaned in and kissed him, then laughed. “Okay, okay. Your turn.”

She disappeared inside and returned with a shirt box.  “We said no gifts,” Mark protested weakly.  “Uh huh,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “And who exactly followed that rule?”  He surrendered, opening the box.  “A dress shirt,” he said warmly. “I like it.”

Then he paused. “Honey… this is way too big.”  He looked up at her, confused — and then it clicked.  “Oh,” he said, laughter catching in his throat. “Oh… I get it.”

“Look at the pocket,” she whispered.

A red script K, outlined in a heart.

“I can’t give you my oversized shirt,” she said softly, “but I can give you one with my heart.”  Mark swallowed hard. “I am the luckiest man alive.”

She took the final box.  When she opened it, she gasped — not with shock, but with recognition. Inside was a jewelry box with Pandora etched across the top.  “A charm bracelet?” she whispered.  “Check it out,” Mark said, a warm, knowing smile spreading across his face.  She lifted it carefully, her fingers brushing each charm as if they might disappear if she moved too quickly. Mark stepped closer, took her hand gently, and one by one lifted the charms, holding each between them like a shared memory made solid.

“Mickey and Minnie,” he said softly. “Our first Christmas.”

She smiled through the tears already forming.

“The palace,” he continued. “Vienna. Remember the strudel?”

She laughed, a soft, breathy sound, even as a tear slid down her cheek.

“The Breeders’ Cup,” he said next. “Our first one together as… us.”

Her voice caught. She touched the final charm.  “And this,” she began.  “The terrace bar,” Mark finished quietly. “When you bravely suggested one more drink.”  She nodded, openly crying now, clutching the bracelet to her chest before turning back to him.

“I love you so much,” she said. “You don’t know… and when you do things like this — even though I don’t think it’s possible — I love you so much more. I’ve thought so many times… what if I hadn’t asked.”  Mark pulled her into his arms, holding her close.

“But you did,” he said gently. “Who would have thought?”

They stayed like that for a long moment — wrapped in memory, gratitude, and the quiet certainty of a life chosen.

Prelude:  A Return to Paradise

The wheels touched down at Fort Lauderdale International with a soft thump and a gentle shudder, the kind of landing that barely registered unless you were paying attention. Kimmy was paying attention. She always was.  She felt Mark’s hand tighten around hers as the plane slowed, a small squeeze that said we’re here, even before the captain welcomed them back to South Florida. She smiled to herself, leaning her head against his shoulder for just a second longer than necessary. There was something different about this arrival — not anticipation, not nerves — but a calm certainty that made her chest feel full.

They were landing together.

They were leaving together.

And now, they were married.

As they made their way through the terminal, Kimmy adjusted the red Florida Panthers beanie on her head, still amused that something so small could make her feel so official — like she belonged to this part of his life now. Mark glanced down at her, grinning, that familiar look of quiet pride in his eyes.  “I still can’t believe you talked me into this,” she said lightly.  “Talked you into what?” he replied. “A weekend in Florida with friends, hockey, and cookies?”

She laughed. “When you put it like that…”  They hadn’t even reached the security exit when a booming voice cut through the ambient airport noise.

“MR. AND MRS. LOVE — OVER HERE!”

Kimmy stopped short, her hand flying instinctively to Mark’s arm as Jeff waved both arms in the air like he was flagging down a rescue helicopter. Gina stood beside him, laughing, shaking her head affectionately.  Kimmy’s cheeks flushed as Jeff pulled them both into a bear hug, one arm around Mark, the other engulfing Kimmy.

“How the hell are you?” Jeff said, stepping back to look at them. “You look disgustingly happy.”  Kimmy laughed, glancing at Mark. “We are.”

“That checks out,” Gina said warmly, kissing Kimmy’s cheek. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

The late January air was mild, a welcome contrast to North Carolina’s lingering chill. The drive to Jeff and Gina’s house was filled with easy conversation — updates, jokes, plans for the night — but Kimmy mostly listened, watching Mark slip so naturally back into this world. It wasn’t nostalgia she saw on his face; it was comfort. And she loved that she could give that back to him simply by being there.  Dinner at Jeff and Gina’s was relaxed and loud in the best way — familiar stories, teasing reminders of past Derby days, and just enough chaos to feel like family. Kimmy caught Mark watching her more than once as she talked animatedly with Gina, the beanie still perched on her head, her hands moving as she laughed. He looked content. Grounded.  When it was time to head to the game, all four of them pulled on their Panthers jerseys. Kimmy smoothed the front of hers, glancing at herself in the mirror by the door.  “I look legit,” she said, half-teasing.  Mark stepped behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “You are legit.”  The arena buzzed with energy as they made their way to their seats — high up, center ice, front row of the upper deck. The ice gleamed under the lights, the crowd already alive with anticipation. Kimmy’s heart raced, caught up in the noise, the motion, the sheer spectacle of it all.

“This is incredible,” she whispered, leaning toward Mark.  “Just wait,” he said, smiling.  The Panthers carried a one-goal lead into the first intermission, and as they stood to stretch, Mark leaned in.  “Stick with Gina,” he said. “There’s a tradition you need to experience.” Kimmy raised an eyebrow but nodded, following Gina to a small standing table near the concession area. She watched Mark and Jeff weave through the crowd, laughing like teenagers, before returning with paper trays balanced precariously in their hands.  Mark set two chocolate chip cookies and a soft drink in front of Kimmy.  “This,” he announced solemnly, “is how it’s done at a Panthers game.”  She laughed, taking a bite. The cookie was warm, soft, and somehow perfect. But it wasn’t the cookie that made her glow — it was watching Mark talk hockey with Jeff, animated and relaxed, completely himself.

I love seeing him like this, she thought. And I love that I get to be here for it.

The game tied late, tension rising with every shift, and when the Panthers scored the sudden-death goal in overtime, Kimmy jumped to her feet without thinking, arms flung around Mark’s neck as the arena erupted.  “We won!” she shouted, laughing breathlessly.  Mark hugged her tight, Jeff slapping him on the back as they all cheered. The drive back to Jeff and Gina’s was a blur of replayed goals, missed calls, and animated what-ifs, Kimmy chiming in like she’d been doing this for years.

They flew home early the next morning, exhaustion settling in as the familiar North Carolina roads welcomed them back. That night, as Kimmy changed for bed, she hung her Panthers jersey carefully in the doorway of the closet.  “I’m keeping this out for at least a week,” she said, smiling over her shoulder. “That was awesome.”

Mark laughed softly as she crawled into bed, curling up against him, her head resting over his heart.  As sleep pulled him under, Mark thought about the whirlwind forty-eight hours — the flight, the laughter, the game, the quiet joy of doing something so ordinary and so meaningful at the same time.

A married couple thing, he thought, smiling.

And somewhere between that thought and sleep, one more drifted through his mind.

On to Alaska.