Page 2 of Christmas with the Baby Daddy

“It’s more difficult to juggle work and parenting when he’s constantly sent home from school, though,” I replied, hating to sound like I was complaining. Life was tough, but I was grateful for all I had, nonetheless.

She huffed a derisive laugh as she followed me out of the pantry. “It’s more difficult when you have a bratty, self-righteous mother who allows her son to bully yours, you mean.”

“Oh, don’t get me started there,” I warned as I set my inventory list down to get my purse and coat.

“Well, I will get you started there,” she argued and crossed her arms. “I don’t care if the Francis family has practically owned this town forever. Reagan needs to stop her son from being a bully!”

I shot her a dubious look as I shoved my arm into my coat sleeve. “You should add that to your Christmas wishes and hope Santa hasn’t put you on the naughty list so he’ll grant it,” I teased. “Because in order for Reagan to stop her son from being a bully, she’d need to master that skill herself.”

“It would be a miracle.” She rolled her eyes, not hiding her annoyance with Reagan Francis or her son. “I swear, when Zach was dating her in high school, I couldn’t stand her. But she’s even worse now!”

Keeping my mouth shut at the mention of his name, I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Oh, by the way?—”

I grabbed my purse and hustled to the door. If she was gearing up to tell me anything about her grandson, I could really, really do without that drama. “Gotta go! Text me if you think of anything else we need.”

She waved me off. “Will do.”

I pushed open the double doors to the rear of the huge kitchen, calling back, “I’ll lock up after I bring everything in.”

Running out of there at the mention of that man wasn’t classy. Avoiding any mention of Zach was autopilot, but I had the excuse of hurrying to pick up George on my side.

I sighed as I got into the van Jenny loaned me. “Okay. Go get George. Run to the store—” The sight of the gas tank almost on E had me groaning. “Go get George. Gas station. Then run to the store…”

Driving and repeating my to-do list, I let the stressors of my life compile and cloud over me so thoroughly that I was in a real funk by the time I arrived at the school. I pushed the gear into park and rushed out of the van. Coming to this side of town to get him would double the time it’d take me to get back in the direction of the store. And if I got caught behind the traffic of the high schoolers getting dismissed, it’d take forever.

The one night I think I’ll have “off”…

I’d be lucky if George and I got home before seven now. I wasn’t sure why it was, but whenever I got home after dark on the nights I wasn’t catering a party with Jenny, I felt like I was losing so much of my life to enjoy or relax. With sunsets so early, that was a common occurrence.

Who needs seasonal depression when I’ve got to deal with all this?

Reagan Francis stood in the foyer of the principal’s office. One hand on her hips, her pantsuit immaculate and her hair still styled from this morning’s effort, she looked like she was suited for a power trip. Next to her as she scowled at Sara seated at her receptionist desk, Brent rolled his eyes.

“Oh, about time you showed up,” Reagan sassed upon my hurried arrival.

I tucked my hair behind my ear and tipped my chin up at George. “I don’t even want to know…” I mumbled. He was covered in brown and yellow paint. His shirt, slacks. All through his hair.

Reagan marched over, furious. “Your son?—”

Sara shot to her feet and stood between us, blocking my view of Brent, who sported a single splatter of orange paint on the top of his shoe. “Enough, Ms. Francis. Need I remind you to be civil?”

“You’re paying for this!” Reagan leaned around my best friend to sneer at me, pointing at me. “You think you can get away with ruining all of my child’s clothes like this?”

Cole stepped out of his office, also holding up his hands in a peace-making gesture like Sara was. “Ms. Francis, settle down.”

“He ruined his shoes!” Reagan screeched, pointing at them.

“Whereas…” I gestured at my son, doused in paint.

Reagan smirked, gleeful to rub in my misfortune. “Well, that’s his fault.”

“When it comes to fault,” I snapped at her as I held my hand out for George to take it, “your son is always irrevocably to blame.”

“How dare you talk to me like that?” She pushed to get around Sara and Cole now, but I’d surpassed my quota.

Sara always nagged me that I was too nice. Jenny insisted that I was too quiet and mild-mannered. And Amanda, when she came to babysit George, harped on me for being a pushover. Confrontations had never been my thing, which was why I didn’t linger. Walking toward the door with George, I refrained from looking over my shoulder as I said, “Cole, please email whatever documentation is necessary to report this incident. I don’t have time for this drama. I’m still working.”

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