Page 6 of Naughty-ish

“Hey, guys.” My voice is a little too loud. “Having fun?”

I don’t address my ex because I don’t care if he’s enjoying himself. These are his children, and it’s Christmastime.

“We could use some more coffee,” Mitch states.

And I’d love to pour the hot liquid right over his head. Who is we? Our children don’t drink such a thing. Ignoring him, I address Eloise. “Have you been up to see Santa yet?”

“Daddy says we need to wait. The line is too long.”

While the line is long, people need to get in it to see the man. There’s no special treatment here.

“It will go down in a little bit,” Mitch says to our daughter. “We’ll get up when there are fewer people.”

I sigh.

“What?” he snaps at me.

His privilege is showing, but I’m not eager to argue with him, especially not in front of the church community. My parents belong here, and everyone knows my story. When Mitch and I split, my mom and dad wanted me to move in with them, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t go home at forty years old with two children and an unused college degree that my father had said was a waste of money in the first place.

“What can you do with an English major?”

I’d quickly learned—not much. Instead, I’d worked in a bank as a teller for years before meeting Mitch. He’d convinced me to stay at home once we had children. After being out of the workforce for nearly a decade, my return to a bank hadn’t been a smooth transition. I hated my job.

Mitch is still staring at me, but I ignore him and address Nash. “What are you going to ask Santa for, buddy?”

“A Zlot 720.”

Mitch and I have put off the purchase of the gaming system. I argued Nash was still too young for video games. Mitch disagreed. Eventually, he bulldozed my opinion and promised Nash that Santa will bring it.

Only, who was Santa this year? Mitch never did the Christmas shopping. I did. I also wrapped all the presents, set them underneath the tree, took holiday pictures, sent out Christmas cards, and made both the morning breakfast and a holiday feast.

I blow out a breath at the reminder of all the things I used to do.

This year, Mitch and I agreed that Santa would bring presents to my new house, and Mitch could come over in the morning to witness the kids seeing their gifts. He’s made no attempt to find the gaming system, though, and he hasn’t offered to share the expense of the nearly four-hundred-dollar item.

“Be extra good, and Santa will bring it, pal,” Mitch states again to our five-year-old, ruffling his hair.

Nash beams at Mitch like he’s a hero, and I curse the devil who is my ex because he’s making promises that can’t be kept. I’m having trouble finding the gaming system. The highly sought-after present is back-ordered online, and every store sells out as soon as they get a shipment in.

“Mitch,” I grumble.

“What?” he says, like he’s innocent.

What? It was only once. Why are you overreacting? It was a mistake.

Only, that mistake was now living with him in my old house.

“Nothing,” I grit out, turning away from him, ignoring Santa Nick as well, and crossing the crowded community room for the kitchen. Slamming the swivel doors open a little too aggressively, I stop short once I enter and two other mothers look up at me.

“Exes,” I huff. One nods to agree. The other gives me a sympathetic smile.

“Ask Santa for a new man,” the first says.

“I don’t need a new man,” I whisper as I close my eyes and fist my fingers.

“That’s too bad,” a deep voice brushes the hairs on the back of my neck. My lids pop open, but I don’t turn to face him. Instead, my gaze lands on the two women on the other side of the kitchen.

“I needed a break,” he offers to the women over my shoulder. “Would you mind giving us a minute?”