Page 26 of All in for Christmas

“Wait, what?” I ask as we climb out of the jeep, and I lock the doors.

“Paige,” he explains gently, “today I host the Science Club after school.”

“The Science Club, yes!” I say like I’m remembering.

He leans toward me. “You’re not still having regrets?”

“What?”

“Trying to mentally scrub our life?”

I hate it when he puts it like that. I force a cheery grin.

“Of course not!” What I’m trying to do is figure out how to tell you what I’m going through, and have you believe me.

If there’s a magical way to explain my dual realities to Dean without hurting his feelings or making him think I’m trying to “scrub” our relationship, I haven’t found it yet.

“So you’re happy with where you are?” Dean asks, putting me on the spot. Chilly winds blow around us, stinging my cheeks and eyes.

I squirm as we walk toward the building, but not in a way he’d notice. “Um, sure!” Missy’s assistant. Gah. But the rest of it’s okay. I peer over at Dean and my heart twirls. Better than okay. Fantastic.

“Not wishing you had a different life?” he presses. “One without me and the kids?”

My forehead grows really, really hot. “No, Dean. No.” I mean, what else can I say? Every time I’ve brought it up he seems to get more worried. He has a right to worry, honestly, because if I leave here somehow—even without meaning to—then this whole world goes poof . This is so messed up.

“So what do you have going on today?” I ask, trying to be chatty. Acting like I’m not torn to shreds over what might happen to this life if I’m suddenly wrenched away.

Dean’s eyes gleam as we stride toward the building. His arms are loaded down with his teacher bag, his computer satchel, and the telescope. “Today, we’ve got our Christmas party in Science Club,” he says, sounding upbeat. “The kids are bringing snacks.”

I’m glad he’s over his temporary annoyance with me. Dean was never the sort to hold grudges. “That sounds like fun.”

“Should be!” He goes a bit melancholy. “Although I know everyone will be just as disappointed as we were about our missed opportunity with that comet on Friday night.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” Before we reach the front entrance, he pauses by the flagpole.

“Paige?” he asks seriously. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He looks a little wounded. Okay, so maybe he didn’t come back from thinking I wanted to scrub our life as easily as I thought. “Are you sure we’re okay?”

My nose twitches anxiously and I rub it. “Yes, Dean. Sure.”

He smiles softly and gives me a kiss. “That’s good.” He kisses me one more time for good measure. “Have a great day.”

It’s impossible not to be buoyed by his support. “Thanks, you too!”

He’s such a terrific husband, and I’m very lucky to have him—for as long as I have him.

That’s what I need to focus on, the here and now.

Not all those nail-biting what-ifs about switching back to my other reality.

Enjoy , Mary Christmas said. Take each lovely moment as it comes.

And it’s all been amazing. Okay, except for maybe the ironing.

My euphoria lasts, ohhh , about five minutes, until I reach the principal’s office.

I find my desk sitting in an anteroom in front of it, and it’s piled with so much paperwork, I can’t count the stacks. Mounds and mounds of manila folders teeter in high towers. I thought everything was automated these days. Done on computers!

What happened?

I can tell this desk is mine by the name plaque positioned near the front of it beside one precarious stack of files. It says, “Paige Burton.” My heart jolts. Burton? Oh gosh, of course. I must have changed my last name to Dean’s. I guess I haven’t thought all the details out.

Missy emerges from her office with a coffee mug in her hand. Its logo says “Boss Lady.” “Morning, Paige.”

“Er. Good morning.” Do I call her Missy here, or Principal Peabody? I opt for neither just in case.

“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you again.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You were very smart to think of verifying our student records after Thanksgiving.”

“Verifying? What?”

“You were spot on in thinking we should double-check each student’s paper file to make sure nothing got lost in the transfer from their old schools to Walton’s electronic system.

” She nods and continues, “And we’re grateful for the oversights you’ve found so far, like some of the students’ updated medical information not being included in their electronic files.

I don’t think I have to tell you how catastrophic things would have been had we not known about Billy Conway’s peanut allergies, or the Epi Pen Myra Welch needs access to in the event of a bee sting.

” She folds her arms across her chest. “It’s one thing for the nurse to have the information, but it’s critical for the entire school to be aware of students’ special needs. Emergencies happen.”

“Yes, yes, they do.”

“You’re an excellent administrative assistant.

Walton’s lucky to have you.” She smiles broadly.

“So am I.” She holds a clutch of colorful sticky notes with handwritten scrawl on them.

I take the handwriting to be hers. “These are my appointments for today. I know you set my calendar, but I had to make a few changes. I’m sure you won’t mind. ”

My head throbs.

“I can’t see the Wilcots at two. I’ll be in a specialist meeting then with our ESL teacher and one of her families.

So we’ll have to reschedule the Wilcots for afterward or earlier today, or tomorrow morning, but not tomorrow afternoon, since tomorrow’s a half day.

Please, no appointments after lunch. Things will be hairy enough with that being our last day of school before winter break. ”

My eyes glaze over as she hands me a yellow sticky note.

“I need you to call this list of parents first. The top pair wants to preview the school as they’re looking at homes in the area, but if you could put them off until after the break that would be ideal.

If not, then have them come tomorrow morning first thing.

” She goes on to explain the rest of her itinerary.

“So, ah. This isn’t entered on an electronic calendar?”

She furrows her brow and says suddenly, “You’ve never complained about my sticky notes before.”

I keep my eyes open extra wide so I don’t blink. “Sticky notes, right! How clever!”

“Yes, that.” I peer into her office and see sticky notes overpopulating nearly every piece of furniture, including the metal filing cabinets.

She nods. “Makes it so much easier when things need to be moved around. So! Here you go! These are the rest of your tasks in priority order.” She lays one sticky note in my hand, then squints and picks it up.

“No. Wait. That one goes second.” She fishes for another sticky note. This one is pink. “Pink goes first,” she informs me. “Which means last! Least important. That’s why I’ve labeled it with a number four.”

My temples pound.

“Then blue. Which is number three. Third in importance. Green. Two.” She lays those sticky notes down on top of the others in my hand.

“And finally!” She looks up, wielding a yellow sticky note in the air.

“There’s this one! Yellow, like the first one I gave you!

So obviously”—she rolls her eyes—“these are my number one priorities for today!”

“Great.” I grin tightly. “Thanks.”