But since it was Christmas, and since they hadn’t planned or prepared or done anything Christmas-y, not since the charges had been brought against John-Henry, they were going to round out the day with takeout from China Village, and that was going to be that. Definitely not the best Christmas ever, but maybe the one they needed.

  “Ree, come on. You want the General Tso’s. Just tell me you want the General Tso’s so I can call this in.”

  “I might not want the General Tso’s. I might want the moo goo gai pan.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I might want the pork egg foo young.”

  “I’m calling in the order, love.”

  Grumbling, Emery returned the menu to the side of the fridge, and John-Henry placed the call. Emery returned to his book—something on forensic entomology that John-Henry had banned from the kitchen—and Colt went back to Die Hard. The original, of course. John-Henry joined him because that’s what good dads did.

  When the doorbell rang, John-Henry said, “That was fast.”

  “Colt,” Emery said without looking up from his book.

  John-Henry was still fighting against the aches and stiffness of the last few days, trying to get to his feet, when Colt rolled off the couch and padded toward the front door. Biscuit raced to catch up with him.

  “We’re getting old,” John-Henry told Emery.

  Emery snorted and turned a page.

  Colt sprinted back through the living room and charged up the stairs. Biscuit darted back and forth, obviously torn between inspecting the strangers at the front door and following the person she loved most in the entire universe.

  “What the hell?” Emery asked.

  “Bubs—” John-Henry tried.

  “I’ve got to change!” Colt screamed back at them.

  “Why would he—” Emery stopped and said, “Good God, no.”

  John-Henry was still trying to get up from the couch—maybe the springs had gone bad, and that’s why it felt so sinky and difficult to escape—when the front door opened.

  “—because that’s why people have doors, jerkweed,” North was saying.

  “But the door was unlocked,” Shaw said, his voice moving toward the living room. “And, on account of my natural soulmatedness with Emery—”

  “What are you doing here?” Emery asked as North and Shaw stepped into the room.

  Shaw was dressed in what John-Henry was sure had been billed as a sexy Santa’s elf leotard that he’d upgraded with candy-cane-striped thigh-high socks. The knee-high suede boots matched the deep green of the leotard. It looked like he might be wearing garters. Biscuit immediately began to growl at him.

  North, of course, had on a Carhartt jacket, a hideous sweater with real, flashing Christmas lights on it—the old-fashioned kind with the big bulbs—jeans, and the Red Wings. He was also, John-Henry noticed, wearing a Christmas bow hair clip.

  “Does that sweater have a battery pack?” Emery asked, book forgotten.

  “Merry fucking Christmas to you too.” He displayed the takeout bags he was carrying. “And go fuck yourself. Where do you want these?”

  “What is it?” John-Henry asked.

  North stared at him as though there might, somewhere, have been a genetic blip in John-Henry’s past. Then, slowly, he said, “Food.”

  “Where do you think we want it?” Emery snapped, getting to his feet to herd North into the kitchen. The bickering began almost immediately.

  “Uh, thank you,” John-Henry said after them.

  “You’re welcome,” Shaw as he pranced into the kitchen, apparently choosing to ignore that Biscuit was biting one of the suede boots and being dragged along with him.

  Another knock came at the door, and as John-Henry went to answer it, Colt appeared on the stairs. He wore a quilted red pullover and dark jeans, and his hair was freshly styled and dark with water. When he noticed John-Henry’s attention, he looked off into the middle distance and hurried toward the kitchen.

  “Maybe Emery wasn’t wrong about boarding school,” John-Henry said to himself.

  When he opened the door, Tean and Jem stood there. Tean held a large paper bag stamped with the Wahredua Family Bakery’s logo. His hair was less wild than usual—clearly Jem’s handiwork—and he looked comfortable in a cardigan and khakis. Jem wore a sweater that somehow managed to look even uglier than North’s—it featured an extremely muscular and shirtless Santa who had the head of a cat, and he appeared to be riding a surfboard. Extensive use had been made of a reflective silver fabric, so that it looked like streamers of tinsel had been woven into the sweater. He was holding a McDonald’s bag.

  “There’s enough to share,” he said, “but Tean said I could be in charge of rationing the fries.”

  “He told the girls about it for fifteen minutes,” Tean said.

  “I wanted them to be proud of me.”

  “Oh God, you’re here on Christmas,” John-Henry said.

  “It‘s okay,” Tean said. “We couldn’t have gotten a flight home anyway. We talked to the girls for a long time this morning, and we’re going to celebrate again when we get home.”

  “More importantly,” Jem said, “we got Emery his own fudge cake.”

  “But don’t tell him it’s just for him,” Tean said, pressing the bag into John-Henry’s hands. “He’ll feel self-conscious.”

  They shook snow from their shoes and headed into the house, and John-Henry was reaching to close the door when the black Audi zipped up and parked across the driveway, blocking North in. When Auggie got out, he was laughing. Theo was shaking his head and saying, “—going to kill you if he sees where you parked.”

  “Duh,” Auggie said as he helped Lana out of the car. “That’s what makes it so fun.”

  “Uncle John,” Lana screamed as she bowled into him, unhindered by the brace, the snow, or the stairs.

  Laughing, John-Henry hugged her, stroked her hair, and let her go as she raced into the house, screaming, “Evie?”

  “She’s with her mom,” John-Henry called after her, but Lana was gone by then.

  Auggie and Theo were carrying covered glass dishes as they came onto the porch.

  “Did we miss a text?” John-Henry asked. “Did somebody send up the Bat Signal?”

  Theo smiled. “I told them they should ask.”

  “To be fair, Tean thought we should ask too,” Auggie said. “But we decided we wanted it to be a surprise. Mashed potatoes.” He nodded at the dish in Theo’s hands and then to his own. “Green bean casserole.”

  “Auggie’s family recipes.”

  For some reason, Auggie blushed and shrugged.

  At that moment, an old Dodge Durango with an illuminated China Village sign on its roof pulled up next to the Audi.

  “Takeout on Christmas?” Auggie said in a disapproving voice.

  “We were tired,” John-Henry said with a laugh.

  Theo kissed the side of Auggie’s head. “Let’s get these in the oven.”

  “Thanks, Mel,” John-Henry said as the girl waded through the snow, laden down with bags of takeout. Melanie Wong had delivered their food more times than he could count, and her younger sister was in Colt’s grade at school.

  She flashed him a grin, and the crystal on her tooth sparkled in the porch light. “Full house, Chief Somerset. You sure this is going to be enough?”

  “It’s more of potluck, it turns out.” He dug cash out of his wallet and handed it over. “Thanks again, happy holidays.”

  “Merry Christmas, Chief.”

  “It’s not chief, Mel.”

  The crystal sparkled again as snow crunched under her steps. “Sure, it is.”

  John-Henry carried the food inside, but he’d barely made it to the kitchen before the front door opened again. Familiar footsteps sprinted down the hall, and Evie appeared in the living room, cheeks red from the cold.

  “Hi, baby,” John-Henry said as he handed the bags to Emery, who was organizing the expanding spread on the counter, while North, at the same time, tried to tell him where to put everything. “Merry—”

  “Where’s Lana?” And then Evie turned and raced for the stairs. “Lana!”

  “—Christmas, baby.”

  “A little help?” Cora called from the front of the house.

  “Colt, do you—”

  “I’ll help!” Colt said, shooting a quick look at North before hurrying toward the front of the house.

  A huge smile slanted across Auggie’s face. Jem’s eyes were bright. Shaw made a soft, cooing noise.

  “One of you motherfuckers say something.” North’s face was red as he opened one of the takeout containers he and Shaw had brought, revealing a mound of nachos. “Go right ahead.”

  John-Henry was trying not to laugh as he went back to give Cora a hand.

  But apparently, his help wasn’t needed, because Colt was carrying two insulated bags and talking a mile a minute to Nico, who was holding a brown paper bag in his arms, his face politely interested as Colt began a rundown of “the dopest shit ever,” which apparently referred to the last couple of days.

  “Language,” John-Henry said.

  “Merry Christmas,” Nico said as he passed him. “And happy birthday. Hope you’re ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “And then Pops broke his neck with his bare hands,” Colt said.

  “No,” Emery called from the kitchen, “I didn’t.”

  John-Henry leaned out the storm door and saw Cora still at her car, passing more bags to, of all people, Noah and Rebeca. Their oldest daughter, Raquel, was toting another insulated cooler toward the house, while Robbie, the next oldest, screamed orders at Ricky and Roman, who were chasing each other through the snow. Rafe was helping Rocio up the steps, and Rocio, who was Evie’s age, was carrying a wrapped present.

  “It’s for Evie,” Rafe said, reaching to take the present from Rocio.

  Rocio screeched, “I’m carrying it!”

  So, John-Henry opened the door and got out of the way.

  By that point, Cora, Noah, and Rebeca were working their way toward the house. Noah barked a command, and the rest of the kids zipped inside.

  “Is there more?” John-Henry asked as he accepted a kiss on the cheek first from Cora and then from Rebeca.

  “This is it,” Cora said. “Happy birthday, merry Christmas. Also, we need to have a talk because Evie told my mom, ‘Merry fucking Christmas’.” And without missing a beat, she drifted inside.

  Noah had a huge grin on his face.

  “You realize that’s not my fault, right?” John-Henry said.

  “Happy birthday,” Rebeca said with a smile.

  “And merry fucking Christmas,” Noah said.

  John-Henry waved them inside. “Maybe this is what Emery’s always complaining about. Everyone wants to be a comedian.”

  He was about to shut the door when a truck came grumbling up the street, followed by a small, silver sedan. The truck parked first, and Ashley dropped out of the back of the cab, followed a moment later by his parents. Brendon and Anais Boone hadn’t always been thrilled with Ashley’s relationship to Colt, but they’d been supportive, and the fact that they were here said more than John-Henry could put into words. The silver sedan found a spot, and Emery’s mom got out and began to rummage around in the trunk.

  “We’ve officially got a full house,” Emery said as he joined John-Henry at the door. “What are you—hello, Ashley. Why are you inside my house?”

  John-Henry opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Ashley wrapped Emery in a hug and started to cry. Not big tears, but the boy was shaking as he tried, over and over again, to say, “Thank you.”

  The look on Emery’s face was priceless. After a moment, though, his eyes softened, and he rubbed Ashley’s back. “You don’t need to thank me,” he said quietly. “Everything’s ok.”

  John-Henry got a hug from Ash too—a noticeably damp one—and then Colt said from the opening to the living room, “Everybody’s hungry. Can we—Ash!”

  Emery responding to Ashley’s hug had been cute, John-Henry decided as he revised his opinion. Emery’s thundercloud of an expression when Colt kissed Ashley, however, was priceless.

  “All right,” Emery snapped. “Enough.”

  For whatever reason, that made both boys laugh, and when Colt said, “Bruh, they brought cheese fries,” it apparently made everything better. They darted toward the kitchen.

  Anais tapped lightly on the storm door as she opened it, and she and Brendon stepped inside. Unlike their son, Ash’s parents seemed to have difficulty meeting Emery and John-Henry’s gazes. Then Anais seemed to brace herself and offered a smile. “I can’t believe I’m saying this again, but thank you for saving our son’s life.”

  Brendon was getting teary-eyed, and John-Henry thought maybe he, like Ashley, was a crier.

  “I’m sorry,” John-Henry said. “We had no idea GLAM—”

  “Nobody did.” Brendon shook his head. “And we’re sorry, John-Henry. We knew those stories about you were lies. We should have—we should have done more.”

  For a moment, John-Henry didn’t know what to say.

  “There was nothing anyone could do,” Emery said gruffly.

  And John-Henry wondered if they knew how hard he was trying, for Colt’s sake.

  “We heard those men are trying to make a deal,” Anais said. “Everyone knows you were framed.”

  John-Henry managed a smile. “I’ll be happy when it’s all behind us.”

  If they heard what he didn’t say, they gave no sign of it. Brendon wanted to shake their hands, and then they moved toward the happy voices in the kitchen.

  Aileen Hazard came through the door. She set a big bag on the floor and was already smiling as she took Emery into a hug. “Merry Christmas, muffin.”

  “Merry Christmas. Why are you here?”

  “John-Henry, do you hear this?” she asked as she hugged John-Henry in turn. “He’s terrible to his mother.” She squeezed him extra tight, and John-Henry’s eyes stung. “You sweet, sweet boy,” she whispered. “Are you ok?”

  “He’s not particularly sweet,” Emery said. “Shall I remind you of the time he gutted my rock-collecting budget? His exact words were ‘But you don’t even do anything with them.’”

  Aileen’s gaze was fixed on John-Henry, though, and he managed a nod to her question. She squeezed his hands in hers and then looked at Emery and said, “Don’t be awful. I’m here because it’s Christmas.”

  “I think asking why you chose to drive over a hundred miles on icy roads in the dark without letting anyone know where you were or what you were doing—Mother, come back here.” As she moved into the living room, he called after her, “It’s a perfectly legitimate question.”

  John-Henry was wiping his eyes when Emery glanced over at him. He dredged up a smile, and it felt a little closer to real when Emery put an arm around him and pulled John-Henry against him. After a few moments, John-Henry said, “I’m good.”

  Emery kissed his hair.

  “And we’d better get in there before Colt, Ash, North, and Jem eat everything in sight.”

  It turned out, that wasn’t really a possibility. In addition to the range of takeout that everyone had contributed, Cora had brought all the food from John-Henry’s birthday meal. More importantly, she’d also brought champagne and prosecco. The options ran the gamut from Emery’s General Tso’s—which he was guarding from Jem—to the McDonald’s french fries—which Jem was guarding from everyone—to the birthday quiches. Auggie and Theo handled the drinks after Noah and Rebeca produced plastic champagne flutes, and Colt put some music on. Not the rap that sometimes threatened to shake the house down, but a Christmas playlist that hummed quietly in the background.

  John-Henry slipped into host mode without even really thinking about it; it was something he did, something he knew how to do without even needing to put it into words. Theo was still in the kitchen after the drinks had been served, John-Henry noticed, reading on his phone. North was also reading on his phone as he picked over the nachos.

  John-Henry got a glimpse of North’s phone and said, “We’d be doing better if Tarasenko hadn’t gotten injured.”

  North snorted. “We’d be doing better if we weren’t eating shit.”

  Grinning, John-Henry said, “Theo, want to weigh in on that?”

  “He’s not wrong,” Theo said, lowering his phone. “One player shouldn’t make or break a team like this.”

  “It’s still early in the season. We’re not doing that badly.”

  “Are you kidding me?” North said.

  At the same time, Theo said, “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “We’re the defending champs.”

  “We just won the Stanley Cup.”

  John-Henry smiled and held his hands up in surrender. “I expected you guys to say it was all Binnington’s fault.”

  North’s look was flat disbelief. “Do you have any fucking clue what you’re talking about? Theo, for fuck’s sake, help me out.”

  After they had both—thoroughly—told him how wrong he was, John-Henry found a way to slip out of the conversation and leave them to hash out every mistake the Blues had made so far this season.

  In the living room, Shaw and Auggie were on all fours, crawling around on top of blankets that had clearly been brought down from Evie’s room. Evie and Lana were giggling and throwing potato chips at the two men, while Tean was trying to make himself as small as possible in an armchair, his nose in a book.

  “What in the world—” John-Henry began with a laugh.

  “Daddy!” Evie screamed. “You’re ruining their house!”

  He dutifully straightened the blanket he’d messed up.

  “We’re playing magical zoo,” Shaw said.

  A grin streaked across Auggie’s face. “I’m a rhinocerwhompophant.”

  Biscuit sprinted into the room and chose that moment to bite Shaw’s elf leotard, or whatever it was called, and try to drag him down to the floor. The girls laughed even harder as Shaw said, “Oh no, it’s the vicious woolly fangtangler! Help! Help!”