The Holiday Games

Epilogue

Leo

Two years later…

“ Q uiet on set. We’ll cue music first, Fred, then the actors. Let’s get this final scene in the can and head home for the holidays.” Caroline’s voice is tinny through the studio speakers but holds the same confidence it has since the day she put on her first show-runner headset.

She’s a natural at keeping our cast and crew organized, inspired, and on time.

And I’m far more comfortable in front of the cameras than I ever thought I’d be.

It helps that I’m only playing bit parts in our new comedy show’s sketches, and that I’m supported by people I trust. Ainsley was born to produce, leaving me more time to focus on leading the writers’ room, and our director, Fred, is equally incredible.

But we don’t need much from Fred for this scene aside from the cues. We just need our guest host to wish the viewers at home a Happy New Year—we’re filming our New Year’s Eve special a week early to give the editing team time to cut the footage—and the band to play us out.

“And five, four, three,” Fred calls out, falling silent as he mouths the final two numbers and points toward Biff, our band leader.

Biff and his musicians launch into a bluesy version of Auld Lang Syne and our host, a precocious teen pop singer who turned out to be a delightful comedic actress walks onstage, waving at the cameras. She’s followed by the rest of the cast, minus yours truly.

I’m only a bit player, after all, and our stage is small.

But that will be changing soon. The Laugh Bag filled a family-friendly comedy show niche the network didn’t realize was desperate for content until we took off in the ratings. Turns out, families are dying for something to watch together that’s just pure, whacky fun. We’ll be moving to a larger theater space in the new year and testing what it’s like to film some of our episodes in front of a live audience.

I couldn’t be more excited or prouder of what Caroline and I created.

This show is one of the best things I’ve ever done, with the exception of Bump.

We don’t know yet if Bump is a boy or a girl—we decided we’d rather be surprised—but I already know I’m going to love our baby with everything in me, just like I love his or her mother.

Half an hour later, after filming has wrapped and Caroline and I are standing outside the theater, waving goodbye to the newly engaged Ainsley and Trevor, I marvel again that this magical woman is mine.

“Want to cut through the Union Square holiday market on the way home?” she asks, leaning into my hug. “Get more of that spicy kettle corn to bring to Mom and Dad’s hotel tomorrow?”

“You’re a spicy kettle corn addict,” I tease.

“It’s not me, it’s Bump,” she says, motioning toward her midsection. “He needs spicy kettle corn to grow big and strong. He told me so.”

I mold a hand to her enormous belly. Bump is due in just two weeks, so Cherry and Bart came to the city for Christmas this year. We’ve been having a blast showing Caroline’s parents the sites and eating at all our favorite restaurants, but I secretly hope they’re back in Vermont before the baby comes. I adore my in-laws, but a selfish part of me doesn’t want to share the moment we welcome our child into the world with anyone but Caroline.

“You think he’s a boy?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat as he kicks at my palm, as energetic as he always is this time of night.

She covers my hand with hers, smiling as Bump shifts again. “That’s what Gran said when we were home for Thanksgiving. She said I was carrying too low for it to be a girl.”

“That sounds scientific.”

Caroline laughs. “Very. But Gran’s never guessed wrong before. She predicted the sex of both of Vivian’s kids.”

I grunt. “How is the whackiest relative in Reindeer Corners?”

Vivian’s easier to manage now that she’s been in therapy for going on two years, but she’ll never be my favorite person. There’s too much water under the bridge between us for that. Though family holidays are far less awkward than I feared when Caroline and I first got together.

Vivian even came to our wedding nearly two years ago today. She left before the reception, but she was there in the church in Reindeer Corners when we said our “I dos,” a show of support that I know meant a lot to Caroline.

“Vivian is fine.” The love of my life arches a wry brow. “But definitely still whacky. She just dropped two thousand dollars on penis pop candy molds for the maple syrup shop. She’s convinced that she’s going to take the Vermont bachelorette party business by storm.”

I sigh. “She probably will. She’s lucky that way.”

“Not as lucky as I am,” Caroline says, pressing up on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. “Kettle corn. We have to go now if we’re going to get there before they close.”

I hug her close, pressing my lips to her forehead before taking her mittened hand in mine. “Understood. Let’s go, missy. The sooner we get corn, the sooner we can get home to our bed.”

Her eyes glitter. “Bed sounds good.”

“So good,” I agree, endlessly grateful that my wife’s pregnancy cravings extend to my cock.

I’m a lucky man. Luckier than I ever thought I could be a little over two years ago, when I was trapped in reality show hell and crawled into a plastic igloo with an angel.

Caroline saved me. And Greg. And my hope for the future.

“Do you still want to rent a room on Martha’s Vineyard for Ainsley and Trevor’s wedding?” I ask. “Even though we’ll have Bump by then?”

“Of course. We can’t miss their wedding. We should rent two rooms and bring Gran. She’d be happy to watch the baby during the wedding in exchange for a lazy Sunday on the beach.”

“Sounds good,” I say. “I’ll book the rooms and get the cat sitter set up.”

“And I’ll talk to Gran.” Caroline sighs happily as we start down the snow-dusted city street, surrounded by the sound of holiday carols drifting from bars and people laughing over their Christmas Eve dinners in warmly lit West Village restaurants. “Want to get a tree on the way home, too? They’re on sale, and Greg enjoyed tearing the tree apart so much last year. I hate to deprive him of his holiday fun just because we’ve been too busy with the show to decorate.”

“Only if we decorate it with the non-breakable ornaments,” I say. “I was afraid he was going to cut his paws on all the glass last year.”

She squeezes my hand. “Still a good cat dad.”

“Hopefully, I’ll be an equally proficient real dad.”

“You will be,” she says, without a second of hesitation. “You’re the best person I know. I love you a ridiculous amount, Leo Fenton.”

My heart overflows again. Maybe it’s the holiday magic or maybe it’s just her, my wonderful wife, but I can’t help the sappy note in my voice as I say, “Same, Caroline Fenton. I don’t want to imagine where I’d be without you.”

She gives a mock shudder. “Oh, no. Never do that. It would be horrible. You’d be so sad.”

“The saddest,” I agree, smiling. “And I’d still be eating sandwiches and stale leftovers for every meal.”

“And much less kettle corn,” she agrees, leaning her head against my shoulder.

We wander through the holiday market, fetching snacks and a few last-minute cat-toy presents for Greg, then catch the subway to our place in Hell’s Kitchen.

Our place. Even after almost two years of wedded bliss, it still feels like a miracle.

Nearly as much of a miracle as the fact that my evil cat continues to be a very good boy.

Mostly…

As soon as Caroline and I turn off the lights that night, we hear the rustling of branches in the other room, as Greg launches into battle with his holiday nemesis. But he keeps the chaos to a respectable level.

We laugh and turn up the instrumental holiday music on our bedroom speaker, then make love to an extended cut of Carol of the Bells. I come buried deep inside my wife just as the track fades into a jazz version of Here Comes Santa Claus.

Being a comedy writer, I’m obliged to make a joke about this fact. Caroline rewards me with a round of giggles that become a cackle of laughter as the tree crashes to the ground in the other room, followed by outraged squalling from Greg.

I hop out of bed, pulling on my pajama pants to check on our furry troublemaker. By the time I bring Greg to bed for a special holiday sleepover—our only chance of keeping our tree in one piece until morning—Caroline is in flannel pajama pants and one of my sweatshirts.

We snuggle with the cat between us, watching the snow fall outside, and once again, I’m hit with a wave of gratitude that takes my breath away.

In that moment, I truly don’t believe I could love her more.

T hen, just three days later, she delivers Bump, a precious baby boy with her blue eyes and my stubborn chin, and my love grows so large it leaks out of my eyes and all over my father-in-law’s shoulder as he wraps me up in a big hug in the delivery room.

I’m glad he’s there, after all. I’m glad all the people we love are there, bringing gifts and flowers and well wishes to our suite as Caroline recovers from the thankfully relatively easy birth.

Two years ago, I was at my personal rock bottom.

Now, I’m a husband, co-creator of a hit show, and most amazingly, a father.

We take Bump—Noah Bartholomew Fenton, named after both our fathers—home two days later. Greg falls instantly, profoundly in love and spends the next eighteen months bringing Noah dead bugs as signs of his affection. When Natalie Kayla Fenton is born just days after Caroline’s June birthday, our now elderly cat showers her with the same beastly adoration, and all our hearts grow a little bigger with every passing day.

We love our life in the city and lazy summer days visiting Caroline’s parents in the mountains, but the holiday season will always hold a special place in our hearts.

It’s when we fell in love, when we said “I do,” and when our first kiddo was born.

Another eighteen months later, it’s also when we welcome our last child, a baby girl we name Joy in honor of the season and the happiness she brings to our family. Our nanny brings Noah and Natalie to visit us in the hospital, and we open little sixth night of Hanukkah presents between visits from the nurses checking on Caroline and Joy, who is two weeks premature.

But both mama and baby do so well that we’re able to head home just five days later.

We live on the Upper East Side now, in a large apartment more suited to our growing family, but we never miss the Union Square holiday market and find an excuse to wander by my old apartment at least once a month. We’ve rented it out to Ainsley and Trevor for now, but plan to move back there someday, when we’re finished raising kids and have more time and energy to hit the comedy clubs nearby.

But we’re in no rush. Even with the chaos of three kids under four years old, Greg, a new kitten, and two hamsters that became seven hamsters when we neglected to realize that Willy was actually a Wilhemina, I’ve never been happier.

Every day is a gift. Every celebration is all the more special because I get to share it with Caroline and our family.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asks from the couch on Christmas morning, where Joy is sleeping on her chest, while Noah and Natalie watch a cartoon on the carpet, surrounded by all their new toys.

But I just smile and say, “You know.”

She does, a fact she proves by mouthing, “Love you, too.”

Greg yawns on the cushion beside her and rolls his eyes, muttering, You two are as disgusting as ever, but I know he doesn’t mean it. He loves us, adores the kids, and tolerates Poppy the kitten, who is currently chewing on his tail.

It’s a good life.

The best, some might say.

I certainly would.

The End