The Holiday Switch(39)

But Carm’s not going to like it. Our tickets are for 8:30 p.m. I send a new text message:

Lila: Gotta play big sis tonight and take twins to a birthday party. I can meet you at WH? Party is at 630, so I should still be able to make it after.





Carm: :(

Can you really make it?





I put my backward planning to work, and wince.

Lila: It will be tight, but I think I can.





While I wait for a response—and the mere fact that the text bubbles haven’t appeared means that Carm is ticked—I ask, “Where’s the party at, Mom?”

“Oh geez, honestly I’m not sure.” Mom fills up tiny plastic containers with leftover food for her lunch break, which loosely means at about two in the morning. “Something about a climbing gym?”

“Climb Holly?” My heart thrums.

“Yep, that’s it.”

And as if I manifest him, a text buzzes in from Teddy:

No recommendation from a book blogger? You’re not doing your job.





Lila: Don’t you have work to do?





Teddy: Work? What’s work?





Dots show on his side of the screen.

Teddy: Actually yes, I’m working. I’ll be here awhile.





Which means he won’t be at Climb Holly when I’m there for the party.

“Lila?” Mom is at the door, jacket on, with her purse and lunch bag at the ready. “Everything good?”

“Yep. Taken care of.”

But a small part of me is disappointed that Teddy won’t be there.





An hour and twenty-five minutes later, in Climb Holly’s parking lot, Grant yells from the backseat, “Hurry, hurry, Ate Lila. We’re going to be late!”

“We should have left earlier,” Graham fusses. “They probably already have their gear on. We’re never going to get to climb.”

“Shhh. I can’t focus.” I scan the parking lot for an empty space. It is a jungle of vehicles, of cars trailing after pedestrians to grab their spots. While there are more spaces down the long road to the gym, the packed snow is a bear to trudge through.

“There’s one!” Graham yells. His arm is like an arrow that appears next to my head. I swivel my car into the space, but there’s a compact car in the tiny slot.

“Sh—” I begin, but press my lips together. The last thing I need is for one of my brothers to let it slip that I cursed.

We left much later than expected. I started on a Christmas romance that I couldn’t set down and lost track of time. Now there’s no easy parking.

“How many people did your friend invite?” I grumble.

    “The whole class,” they say in unison.

“Geez.” I round the parking lot once more. “It’s not looking good, guys. We might have to park a little farther down.”

“That’s okay, we have boots!”

My seat jolts forward as Grant stomps against the back of my chair.

In the distance, the taillights of a car flash. I speed up just in time; another car had rolled into the parking lot. With my brothers cheering in my ear, I slide into the space.

As we climb out of the car and I sling my backpack onto my shoulder, I say, “Hey, listen up. There are rules.”

Both grumble, but I ignore it. The first thing one learns in babysitting is that rules and boundaries must be clear. And unlike a certain person I know, I actually believe that rules create a more ordered life.

Quit thinking about him.

And yet, I do, especially now that I’m back on his turf.

“I’m going to try and find a table inside to do my homework.” I cringe at the lie. What I plan to do is write a draft of my next blog post, since I’m just a few chapters away from finishing this Christmas romance.

“Homework? But there’s no school until January!” Graham says.

“Yes, but I’d rather get it done so I don’t have to think about it. Don’t you want to go into Christmas and the New Year knowing that your schedule is clear?”

“No. I just forget about it.” Grant stomps ahead.

Graham throws open the metal door and a roar of noise greets us, interspersed with the occasional shriek. A group of elementary schoolers huddle near the entrance, and by the way my brothers throw themselves in the middle of the group, this must be their class.

    I spot a mom with a pointed party hat, chatting up other parents and thumbing her phone. Standard pre-party chat. That must be Mrs. Pruitt, the birthday boy’s mother.

I wait my turn as, one by one, the parents walk past, leaving me as the last (technical) adult with the kids, who have started to crash into one another like the beginnings of a mosh pit.

“Hi. I’m Grant and Graham’s sister.” I point them out. “My mom already signed the waiver, and it should be in the gym’s system.”

“Okay…okay,” Mrs. Pruitt says through gritted teeth. The kids have shed their jackets, and they are swinging them around like nunchucks.

“Um…” I hesitate. I’ve got things to do, but my brothers are in the middle of this faux martial arts performance. So I rush toward them and lay a hand on each of my brother’s shoulders. At the contact, their faces turn up at me.