Santa clears his throat. “By the power vested in me by the Church of the North Pole, I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
I lean over the hospital bed to kiss Kate. It’s soft and sweet and I feel more content than I ever have. I whisper in her ear. “I fucking love you, Princess.”
A little cry erupts from Anne and breaks through the laughter and clapping behind us, and Kate looks up at me with a grin. “Right back at you, Prick.”
EPILOGUE
Next Christmas
Kate
“Merry Effin’ Christmas Eve, Princess,” Caulter whispers into my ear, mindful of the little one who’s crawling across the hardwood floor in the living room at warp speed. Anne is one year old today. Two weeks ago, she started crawling, and now it's like she's a professional crawler. It's like she's been doing it forever.
“It'll be a merry fucking Christmas Eve,” I whisper back, before Anne reaches us. "Happy anniversary."
Our little girl pulls herself up, holding onto Caulter's pants, until she's standing.
"Hey, baby," I say, in the sweet sing-song baby voice that I'd always heard other people use and swore I'd never use with my child, "Who's crawling like a total rock star?"
I bend down to scoop her up in my arms as Caulter gives me a look. "Do rock stars really crawl? I feel like that's a bad metaphor."
"Let's ignore your daddy," I tell Anne as I spin around with her in my arms. She giggles hysterically the way she always does when we airplane her around the room. "Your daddy just has no appreciation for good imagery."
"Oh, I definitely have an appreciation for good imagery," Caulter says, leering at me as I look over my shoulder. I'm walking away with Anne in my hands, and his expression makes me laugh, which in turn makes her giggle harder.
"Gaaaaa…daaaaaa…." she gurgles.
"Did she just say daddy?" Caulter asks, his face lighting up.
"I think that might have been a da!" I say. "Did you try to say 'daddy,' little girl? Say it again: da-deee."
But she just looks at us like we're idiots as we slowly sound out daddy several more times.
"It might be in our heads," I say.
"Nope," Caulter says. "I heard it. It was Daddy."
"No way. She's going to say mommy first. Right, Anne? Ma-ma."
"You're totally jealous. Her first word was absolutely dad."
"If by dad, you mean a random gurgle, then yes," I say, my voice teasing.
"Jealous."
"Never," I say, kissing Caulter on the cheek. "Should we get this one bathed and ready for bed?"
"Yes. She's had a long day, and I need some alone time with you," he says.
Today was Anne's first birthday party, and we spent the afternoon with our friends and family here at the lake house in New Hampshire. Of course, it's our house now.
The day after discharge from the hospital last year, my father told us he wanted us to have the lake house. It's always been your place, he said. He was going to make his residence permanent in Washington, D.C. So we moved to Lake Winnipesaukee, to the place that held all of the memories with my mom and I, and memories of when Caulter and I fell in love.
I've been selling my art here at Libby's gallery and Caulter is still running his foundation. And now, we're going to be able to see Anne grow up here.
Our little girl plays happily in the tub with her bath toys, and Caulter slides his arm around me as we watch her. Playing with rubber duckies and plastic boats in the tub isn't exactly what I'd have pictured for our anniversary, but I'd honestly not have it any other way.
So it's not a super romantic trip to Bali or crazy sex in a hotel room somewhere. It's Caulter and I and Anne now. Our family. It's richer and more fulfilling than I ever thought it could be.
"One year," Caulter murmurs beside me. "Can you believe it? It's been one year already. It went so fast."
"Everything has changed so much since we first met."
"We're a family now," I say. "I have a feeling it's going to keep going fast," I say, looking up at him.
Caulter sighs. "I know," he says. "Are you sure we can't keep her this age forever?"
"Oh, are you enjoying the two a.m. waking up and the teething crankiness?" I tease.
"What's that?" he asks. "I'm too exhausted to understand what you're saying."
"It's all a blur."
"A happy blur," he says. "Can you finish up here without me?"
"Sure." I watch him leave, wondering what he's up to, but I'm too distracted by Anne splashing and giggling to wonder for very long. Instead, I bathe her and sit with her in the rocking chair. Before I've even read to her from one of her baby books, she's out like a light.
I watch her sleep, reflecting on this year and how much everything has changed – not only with Anne growing by leaps and bounds or with Caulter and my relationship deepening, but with everything.