9. Epilogue
Poppy
2.5 Years Later
The crowd in the Nashville Convention Center rises to its feet, the applause thunderous and unrelenting.
Onstage, I try not to fidget with the microphone. I can argue a constitutional loophole in my sleep and cross-examine a hostile witness without breaking a sweat, but delivering the keynote at the Southeast Youth Justice Summit?
That’s a whole different kind of terrifying.
“Please welcome our next speaker,” the moderator announces behind me. “Director of Youth Focused Tennessee and former First Lady of Tennessee, Poppy Boston.”
The applause swells again as I step forward. The title still catches me off guard sometimes.
Former First Lady. Poppy Boston.
I smile, smoothing my notes with one hand, my engagement and wedding rings glinting under the bright lights. It's been more than two years since Adam proposed to me, surrounded by protest signs and a cheering crowd. He gave up a future presidency to build something real with me. To build something for the kids who deserve better.
And somehow, even after all that drama, the proposal was the least romantic thing about loving him.
The way he shows up every day—with coffee in one hand and a stack of policy drafts in the other—that’s the real magic.
When the crowd settles, I begin.
“Our organization started with a simple goal: to make sure kids aren’t forgotten by a system that too often fails them. But real change—lasting change—happens when we tackle policy head-on. That’s why we created the Policy and Change Division of Youth Focused Tennessee. And thanks to the brilliance and stubborn determination of our team—” I glance to the side, where Adam leans casually against the wall, his smile only for me “—we’ve helped draft, introduce, and pass three major bills related to juvenile justice reform. And we’re just getting started.”
I finish to a standing ovation.
Later, at the small reception tucked into a nearby conference room, Adam finds me near the sparkling cider table, a glass already in his hand.
“You were amazing,” he says, handing me the glass. “Like… better-than-any-speech-I-ever-gave amazing.”
“High praise from the former governor,” I tease, clinking my glass to his.
“Former, yes. Retired. Relaxed. Frequently barefoot.”
“And, let’s not forget,” I say with a smirk, “newly crowned Spreadsheet King of the Policy Division.”
He leans in, low enough that only I can hear him. “Just wait until I get you alone. I have some very persuasive points to argue tonight.”
I arch an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
He brushes a kiss against my cheek, tender and teasing. “I love you, Poppy Boston.”
“You’d better,” I murmur, threading my fingers through his. “You promised me pizza, protest marches, and policy reform.”
“And I’ve delivered.”
We wander toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown Nashville, the city humming with possibility. Behind us, a new generation of advocates buzzes with energy and ambition.
And beside me?
A man who chose a life of meaning.
Who chose us.
Not just for the cameras. Not for the voters.
For real.
For always.