Christmas with the Baby Daddy (Midnight Holiday Affairs)

1. Blake

1

BLAKE

A bag of Yukon gold potatoes in each hand, Jenny West grimaced at me from across the kitchen. “I’m not sure we’ve got enough.”

I sighed, recounting the bags on the table between us. Three, five… Calculating the recipe that all customers voted as a West Catering favorite, I shook my head. “Nope. I don’t think we’ve got enough.”

“Not enough for the Parkers’ party tomorrow night.” She set the bags down with the others and huffed a breath to blow her graying blonde hair out of her face. It was cute, but that red and green Christmas headband wasn’t cutting it for her wavy curls. Since it was only inventory day, before Jenny and I would prepare the food tomorrow morning, we were a little more lax with the hairnets.

“The Parkers’ party and the Henrick gathering this weekend,” I reminded my boss.

Boss was an understatement for all this seventy-year-old meant to me. Jenny was more like the grandmother I never had. Maybe a fairy godmother. But right now, as we were the only two people in the kitchen of her family’s former restaurant, it felt like we were almost like partners. She beamed. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Blake. You don’t forget anything.”

I smiled, wishing it would never have to come to that. Working without her would be horrible, but I had to do something drastic come the new year. Simply put, I needed to find more work. It was insane to consider adding more hours to my life as a working single mom, but I had to get more money somewhere, somehow.

“Since you’re going to the store, you may as well get a couple extras,” Jenny said as she perused the contents of the larger-than-average pantry.

Grocery shopping was stressful on most days—particularly this time of the year. It seemed that once Thanksgiving dinner prep hit, everyone was buying too much to leave anything else on the shelves for others. But shopping for West Catering wasn’t the same. I was in work mode as I purchased supplies and ingredients, but shopping in any fashion was a headache.

“Okay.” I nodded at the inventory list we’d collaborated on. “If I hustle and leave now, I’ll be able to be done before?—”

My phone rang, cutting me off. A glance at the screen showed that it was a call from a number that was becoming far too frequent on my call log. “Not again…” I muttered with a slight whine.

“Don’t tell me it’s the school again,” Jenny quipped as she rotated the spice container on the shelves.

I brought the phone to my face as she raised one thin brow. “Okay. I won’t tell you it’s the school again.”

She shook her head, letting me answer.

“Hey, Cole,” I greeted. That was how familiar I was with the principal of Vernford Elementary—a first-name basis. Cole Ameena wasn’t a stranger. He couldn’t be when I was best friends with his sister, Sara, but the man did find reasons to call me more than I imagined any other parent in the district.

He chuckled at my tired, exasperated greeting. “Hi, Blake. Sorry to call, but?—”

“What is it this time?” I asked, keeping my voice polite but letting him hear the hurry in my tone. Shock didn’t register. This same old song and dance was becoming such a routine that I could no longer fake the slightest surprise. So long as my son and Brent Francis attended the same preschool-aged class, I would have to brace myself for these calls.

“Brent and George?—”

“Enough said.” It was rude to cut him off, but it really was all I needed to know. That boy would never stop harassing my son, and I lost hope that anyone would convince Reagan Francis to give a damn. As long as it wasn’t a call from the nurse, I could handle this.

“Could you please pick him up?” Cole asked, his apologetic tone clear. “Reagan’s on her way, and since their uniforms are wet from the paint, we can’t let them return to the classroom like this.”

“Paint?” I grimaced. Jenny looked back at me and winced.

“Washable,” he added. “They had a disagreement in the art room and, well, like you mentioned, enough said.”

“Fine.” It wasn’t fine. I should’ve been able to drop off my son and count on him to be there until dismissal so I could function as a working parent.

“At least it’s near the end of the day,” he added.

“That’s not exactly helping me,” I groaned. Once I said I’d come to pick him up, we ended the call.

“I guess I’ll just have to take George with me to the store,” I told Jenny. Even though we were close and she’d always been there for me as a boss and friend, I hated to seem this unreliable.

She frowned, peering at me closely. “That’s fine.” Her gentle expression suggested that she heard the discomfort in my voice. “And don’t worry, Blake. Being a parent is unpredictable. That’s life. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I know. I’m trying not to be.” But I’ll never feel like I can catch up like this.

“Being a single parent is rough,” she added. She’d know. She raised her son on her own after her husband ran off. And when her son and daughter-in-law passed away from a car accident, she’d practically raised her granddaughter, Amanda, on her own too.

“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.”

Leaving Reagan’s complaints behind me, I hurried George out of the office. Only once we were outside did I talk. “Do I even want to know?” I asked my five-year-old.

“I did exactly what you told me to do. What Jenny told me.”

I took his backpack, looking down into his blue eyes. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. When he started making fun of me, I stood up for myself.”

“Good.” I nodded and smiled, opening the passenger door for him.

“Are you mad?” he asked in a cautious tone.

“Not at you.” I waited for him to buckle in before handing him his backpack.

“But you sound mad.”

I closed the door and rounded the van to get in the front. “I am mad,” I said, never wanting to lie to him like this. “But not at you. I’m mad that Brent is a bully. I’m mad that his mother doesn’t care if he’s a bully.”

“Jenny says he learns from the best.”

I laughed once wryly. “Oh, in that regard, he sure does.” I had no doubt at all that Brent learned how to be a jerk from his mother.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“For standing up for yourself?” I glanced at his reflection in the mirror as I drove off. “Never, ever be sorry to stand up for yourself.”

“For making you have to come get me. For getting in trouble.”

“You’re not in trouble.” Cole’s hands were tied, but he wouldn’t let George suffer any more than he did by being in Brent’s class.

Nothing would ever change, though. Reagan Francis was good friends with or related to every member on the school board. Despite that, Cole was on my side. So was the teacher. There would never be a solution to how the Francis family had power in town, but I wasn’t alone in this fight. Other parents complained about Brent too. Multiple teachers documented what a terror Brent was in the classroom.

“It just stinks that I’m missing out on work.”

“I thought you’d be done early today.” George sulked with clear disappointment, breaking my heart. “I was hoping we could make pizza tonight, like you promised, and play Uno before bedtime.”

I nodded. “Well, that was the plan. I still need to go to the store for the party we’re catering tomorrow. How about we stop at home so I can throw your uniform in the washer? You shower to get that paint out of your hair, and then you can come to the store with me.”

He brightened. “Okay, Mama. I’ll help you.”

“Thanks, buddy.” He always wanted to help, even at West Catering. My love for this boy would never fade. “I love it when you help me, but I would much rather you be at school where you can learn and have fun.”

He shrugged. “I’m not sad to be missing this afternoon.”

“Oh, yeah?” That’s weird. He loved school—other than putting up with Brent. “What were you working on today?” I turned down the faint sounds of Rocking Around the Christmas Tree on the radio to make sure he knew he had all my attention.

I was grateful that he was so smart and applied himself no matter what. Sooner or later, he’d be of a testing age so that they could put him in a gifted class and avoid Brent. Creativity was George’s strong suit. He was a skilled artist, drawing better than any adult I knew, but he had plenty of book smarts. He was so smart that I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep up with him if I were to homeschool him.

“We’re working on that one project today.”

I frowned as he stared out the window, dejected. He loved having a challenge. “Which project?”

Another glance in the mirror showed me his deeper frown. It was just the two of us, me and George against the world. He never avoided making eye contact with me like this.

“Which project, honey?”

“The family tree,” he replied in a tiny voice. Still, he didn’t face forward, and it broke my heart.

“That’s why Brent was bothering me. He made fun of me for not having a dad.”

I breathed through the pain of that one and only lie I’d ever told him. It wasn’t a lie, technically. I hadn’t seen his father in years and doubted I ever would again. Of course, George had a father. Soon, he’d know that every person came from a mom and dad, from a sperm and egg, and with that, he’d know his dad just wasn’t there.

“He said his mom calls me a bastard. What’s that mean?”

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. Reagan, I hope you rot in hell . “Nothing, honey.”

He furrowed his brow. “I’ll ask Jenny.”

“No!” She wouldn’t hold her tongue. “Um, it’s just a mean name to call someone.”

“Oh. I know how mean Brent is.”

Don’t we all. “Ignore him,” I said, desperate to get off the topic of bastards and fathers. “We’ll go to the store and you can be my big helper. Then how about we get one of the fancy pizzas on the way home so we can still have time to play Uno?”

“Okay, Mama.”

I sighed, gazing at him while stopped at a red light. He was such a sweetheart, eager to please and so chill. I’d never regret how he’d come into my life.

Managing my work hours was a headache. The guilt of never being the present mom I wanted to be for George was a never-ending struggle. But the worry about my son feeling lousy about not having a father in his life?

I couldn’t bear it.

I’d have to tell him and explain. I hated myself a little more each time I kept quiet about the fact that I was too intimidated to tell his father about him. That was the truth, but all these years of lying and hedging the topic worsened this pit of dread in my stomach.

One day, I would need to reveal who his father was, but not now. Not any time soon. There was no point in ruining the holiday spirit like that.

Besides, it wasn’t like we’d ever see him again. He’d made sure of that.