Page 65 of Christmas with the Baby Daddy

It was way, way too soon to assume Zach couldloveGeorge, but he had to have cared a heck of a lot to care for him when he was ill, risk getting sick himself, and then also volunteer to stay later so I could get a much-needed good night’s sleep.

If that wasn’t love…

I wasn’t sure what it could be.

George loved me. I knew that. I was his mother and he was close to me, but later on, as he grew older, he would benefit from having a father too. He would need support from two parents eventually, particularly in ways I couldn’t be there for him. Boy stuff. Manly stuff. Guy things. And I had no male role models in my small circle. Once I moved, I would have no role models at all.

What do I do?

What can I do?

All I had control over was telling Zach and George about how they were related. That news could threaten the building bond they seemed to be growing, but I had no way to know whether it would, if they would get over it and be glad that they were family.

No matter which way I looked at it, it was a gamble and a guessing game.

My phone buzzed again, and I furrowed my brow as I looked at it. The warehouse interviewer was texting me, just to thank me for my time and that they’d reach out as soon as possible, which might be a bit delayed because of the holidays.

I had been trying to delay telling Zach about George until after the holidays, but that was no longer a good idea. I couldn’t take advantage of his generosity and abuse his trust.

The next time I see him, I’ve got to tell him.

And that’s final.

I exhaled a deep breath, bracing myself to pick up George and deal with that drama.

How many more days until break, again?

26

ZACH

Cole wasn’t lying when he said the work he needed me to do at the school was light duty. I hung up a few posters. I moved some small boxes from one office to another. When kids spilled some milk in the lunchroom, I mopped it up while they were at recess.

The job gave me what I was looking for—something to do. Autopilot tasks that required no real concentration and somewhere I wouldn’t be bothered by too many nosy people in town. The kids were nosy. No matter who it was, they would stop and ask me a question. Any question on mind, it seemed, but I didn’t care. I remembered that fascination with everything and wanting to learn as much as I could about the most random points of interest.

Even though I stayed busy with my hands and kept moving, I didn’t stop thinking about Blake. About George, even. And most of all, what would follow.

I couldn’t see myself working here with light-duty maintenance at the school for good, but I didn’t automatically cringe at the thought of staying in town. Places were familiar enough that they offered a sense of normalcy, not boredom. At Grandma Jenny’s house, I had privacy and space in that attached apartment. If I were to stay, I’d look for a house, and that was where I caught myself from following all the runaway ideas popping up. A house? That was a lot of maintenance. A lasting tie to a place that I couldn’t give up on. I wouldn’t be able to change my mind once I signed into a mortgage agreement.

Yet, as I thought back to hanging out with George, spotting small odds and ends around Blake’s family house that needed fixing, I knew I could take care of many of the chores and needs. I was handy. I had experience with tools and was able to do the grunt work of manual labor on a project.

It would be the most serious message that I was settling down, claiming land or a house, and I worried that I wasn’t there yet. That it would be too big of a step to take now.

I walked down the hall, spotting a teacher bringing someone out of her classroom.

“I don’t care what you say,” Brent said, scowling and jerking out of the teacher’s reach. He shoved at her, but she sidestepped his hand. Following out behind her was another boy.

George.

“Don’t be mean to Ms. Erin,” he told Brent.

“I’m not listening to you, bastard boy.”

Ms. Erin gasped. “Brent! I said that is enough! To the principal now. Both of you.”

“Bastard boy. Bastard boy,” Brent taunted as he strode down the hall like a five-year-old punk.

My fury grew and boiled over. I was about to snap, and I knew I had no authority here.

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