The Holiday Switch(3)

“Yeah. Luckily these are the only victims.” He lifts the posters.

“Hi, you two.” Ms. Velasco sticks her head out from her office. “Lila, can we chat for a moment?”

“Sure.”

When Ms. Velasco ducks away, KC’s eyebrows lift. “What’s that about?”

“I don’t know. I did ask her the other day if I could work full-time hours during break,” I whisper, wiping my hands on my jeans. My winter break lasts from the twenty-second of December until the fifth of January. Every dollar in my bank account brings me one hundred cents closer to Syracuse, and I need to earn as much as I can before I graduate.

    “Eeeks, good luck. I actually asked for the same thing too.” He winces.

My heart sinks. I didn’t think the other seniors in our part-time crew would ask for more hours. “Well, as long as one of us gets it.” I lie, because I have worked one more year than KC, so shouldn’t I get seniority? Then guilt runs up my spine. If there’s any other part-timer who works as hard as I do at the gift shop, it’s him. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck.”

I straighten my clothes as I enter the office. Ms. Velasco is at her desk, typing at the computer—the reservations dashboard is up. This office is central command. It manages all the aspects of the Bookworm Inn Inc., from the gift shop, the inn, and the community at large. When her mother, Lola Mae, as she was known fondly, passed away, Ms. Velasco inherited the Inn and undertook a full rebranding. Not only did she level up our uniforms, change out the gift shop’s new floors, and build quaint rental cabins, she also tapped into the movie’s fandom. From online private groups to short reels on TikTok, she’s on top of the social media game, touting the Inn as one of the most romantic places to visit. And it has paid off; last year, over two hundred thousand people visited the Bookworm Inn.

Watching her is like a masterclass: she’s Filipino American like me, fiercely independent, and doing what she loves.

“Come on in and take a seat.” She doesn’t look my way, though she’s grinning while her fingers fly over the mechanical keyboard, with each switch backlit in red. Each stroke makes a satisfying clack like an old-fashioned typewriter. “Were you bringing in another donation?”

    “Yes. Mr. Nadal decided to donate his coveted travel books.”

“That’s generous of him.”

“I know. He’s changing tactics.”

Ms. Velasco sighs.

“I’m just saying, Ms. V.”

Mr. Nadal, the proprietor of Holly’s only flower shop, Festive Flowers, has a thing for Ms. Velasco. He repeatedly appears at the Inn for no reason whatsoever. He’s sent flowers from “Anonymous” (I mean, c’mon) and even fills our donation jar with dollars instead of pennies to get her attention.

I pass the wall of framed family pictures to my right and take a seat in one of the cushioned chairs. Since Ms. Velasco mentioned her nephew earlier, I scour the photos for a possible shot of him. Sure enough, in one, I spot a young boy in between two women, one who looks to be a young Ms. Velasco.

When I look up, Ms. Velasco’s grin has given way to her all-business, deadpan expression. “With your mention of college earlier, I realized I owe you an answer about your request to work full-time. I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to get back with you earlier—there’s a lot going on.”

Score. My back straightens. “Yes. Now that I’m eighteen, I can work full-time until school starts back up after New Year, and then increase my weekly hours. My last semester classes aren’t so bad, and I have a couple of extra free periods, so I could leave school early.”

Ms. Velasco follows the required labor laws for her under-eighteen hires and insists that schoolwork is priority, so all Bookworm Inn high schoolers are considered the super-part-timers, working no more than twelve hours a week. I worked most of these hours on the weekend, so it didn’t affect school at all. Ms. Velasco also encourages us to study during our breaks.

    “I want to thank you for your enthusiasm and hard work, Lila. You’re such an asset to the gift shop.” She entwines her fingers; I don’t remember the last time she did that—at my first interview, maybe?

My heart hammers in my chest. The silence is ominous. Me and silence, unless I’m writing, is abnormal and suspicious. At home, it usually means one of my three younger siblings is up to no good. At my babysitting jobs, it was a great indication that a child has gone rogue.

My mind jumps back to the last time I got bad news and the silence that preceded it.

“I’ve got family coming to stay with me for the holiday season,” Ms. Velasco says.

“Oh yeah?” I blurt out, somewhat relieved at the innocuous news. “That’s great. I thought your family is all the way in California?”

“They are. My older sister has a son. Teddy—that’s my nephew I mentioned—is a freshman at Syracuse University. It’s a long story, but Teddy’s in a predicament and is staying with me until mid-January.”

“Okay.” What I’m waiting for is how this has anything to do with me. This arrangement sounds like drama. Ms. Velasco has mentioned her family only a handful of times before.

“So I’m in this position—” The jingle bells of the back door ring, snatching her attention.