For Olivia & Will
I should realize it’s a bad sign when I trip hard over the entry to Winslow’s Bookshop.
“Whaaaaa!” I yelp as I give the typically sticky front door my customary push…and unexpectedly go flying into the store, the shop’s brass bell announcing my unceremonious entrance.
“Carl finally put a little oil on that door so we don’t have to work so hard to get in here,” Victoria, the owner of Winslow’s, says, looking up at me with a bemused smile. Nothing ruffles her. She’s on her knees, putting a stack of books on a wooden shelf. “Hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”
My eyes dart around. Luckily the only people to witness my epic fall are Victoria, who has the decency not to laugh in my face; a mom preoccupied on her phone while pushing a baby stroller; and Victoria’s basset hound, Fred. He gazes balefully at me, a pair of reindeer antlers perched on his large head.
“Nope, I’m fine.” I take in a deep breath. “Ahhh, my favorite smell: peppermint, pine cones, and new books.” I’d started working at Winslow’s last summer, and despite what my friends who lifeguarded, camp-counseled, and taught dance thought, bookselling was the best summer job ever. I’ve actually been lucky enough to stay on part-time during the school year. Victoria and her husband, Carl, own the bookshop and they are supercool. Everyone who works here loves to read and talk about books. Winslow’s is a popular place in our town for people to come and spend time. It is, as Victoria likes to say, a community.
Victoria is always encouraging us to take books home to read. “Read more, sell more,” she’ll say, handing me copies of the latest romances (my favorite). The store also runs a mystery book club and an award-winner book club, and it has tons of events for kids. There are strands of twinkly lights, comfy chairs filled with pillows, old wooden bookshelves worn smooth from years of use, and a café in the back that sells the most delicious panini and acai bowls and gives us a 20 percent employee discount.
If I could live here, I would.
Victoria stands up, a pair of pink tassel earrings swinging from her ears. “You’re not scheduled to work tonight, are you?” she asks, her brow puckering.
I shake my head. “Wrapping.” I’ve been averaging around ten hours a week at the store this fall, but tonight I am here strictly in a volunteer capacity. Each holiday season, Victoria and Carl invite students from my school, Bedford High, to staff the wrapping station and accept donations. All the money goes to support the arts at our school, and I’d signed up for a weekly shift.
“Ahhh, right.” Victoria clasps her hands together. “Okay, off to special-order The Atlas of Amazing Birds for a young naturalist before I forget. Coffee’s made in the back if you want a cup.” She walks off. “French hazelnut,” she calls over her shoulder before I can ask.
In the staff room in the back, I shrug out of my blue parka and pink scarf and pull out my light-up Christmas bulb necklace from my GOT BOOKS? tote bag.
“Ah, there she is, Miss Bailey Briggs, a cup of Christmas cheer.” My coworker Bill bustles past me, a pencil behind his ear and a coffee mug in his hand, his standard white cotton shirt rumpled as usual. Originally from Ireland, and about the same age as my grandpa, Bill is as much a fixture in the store as the comfy sofas in the Fiction section and Fred at the cash register. And with his heavy Irish brogue, he is one of the most popular readers at Saturday Storytime.
“Hi, Bill,” I greet him. “Did you finish that mystery you were reading last week? The one about a murder in Dublin?”
He chuckles. “I did, I did. Already on to the next in the series. I’m addicted, I am, Bailey. Tana French. You should give her a read.”
I pull on my plush Santa hat and arrange my hair. “Not my thing, Bill. Sorry.”
“I know, I know. You want what all the young girls want. A loooooove story.” He gives me a dismissive wave.
Even though I find his attitude slightly patronizing, I have to admit he’s right—at least when it comes to me. I do want a love story. Specifically, a Christmas one. A sweet one, filled with snuggles under blankets and hot chocolate and text messages filled with red and green hearts and Santa emojis. I’ve watched more than my fair share of Hallmark Christmas movies, and even though I’m not a big-city lawyer who has moved back to my hometown to save the family business or a world-weary writer who falls in love with a recently widowed baker, I still believe in the power of Christmas Magic.
A holiday romance is in my future.
At least a girl can dream.
And it isn’t like I don’t have something to back my dream up. I meet two of the main criteria for a cheesy Christmas romance:
I work in a bookshop.
I was dumped, although not that recently.
I dated Oliver Moreno for four months before I found out that he wanted to just “be friends” because he had kissed Kate Collins, a sophomore in the marching band. The kiss took place after the winter concert, and apparently it was life-changing.
Whatever. Oliver isn’t that great a kisser, if I’m being honest. Kate can have him.
But see, that isn’t the point. I don’t just want someone to kiss. I want someone to experience Christmas Magic with me. Christmas Magic begins the moment Santa appears at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. That’s when the holiday season always starts—the season of cookie baking and tree trimming, sledding and snowfalls, Secret Santas and eggnog and Christmas songs on every radio station. It really is the most wonderful time of the year.
And what I really want for Christmas is something I probably would never admit to anyone. Not to my friends, and definitely not to my sister. It’s honestly hard to even swallow my pride and admit it to myself.
But here it is: I want to be kissed underneath the mistletoe by someone who really thinks I’m amazing.
That’s it. That’s my Christmas wish.
I don’t think it’s too much to ask for.
But will it ever come true?
* * *
• • •
“Snowmen or snowflakes?” I smile up at the college-aged guy standing in front of my gift-wrap station.
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he drops a heap of books on the table with a loud thunk. I pick up the top one. It’s a cookie cookbook. “OMG, this looks delicious,” I say, flipping to a recipe for salted chocolate chunk cookies. “Or should I say…doughlicious?”