Match Cut: A Standalone Small Town Romance (Foxe Hill Book 1) Page 4

  “Violet! You’re in, right?” Kayla croons. “Ever the working woman, but even working women need some time off.”

  I open my mouth to say Oh my god no I definitely do not want to be in the wild. When my brother and I were kids, Asher always told me bears would kill us if we went camping. Not sneaking around, not simply present—no, a sure-fire death right on sight. Let’s just say it ruined it for a lifetime. Sure, I may not be five anymore, but who knows what lions, tigers, and bears lurk out there? Unfortunately, Asher answers for me before I get the chance to say No thank you, I will not be having a bear maul me.

  “Well, of course she is!” He throws an arm around me, followed by a grin.

  You bastard.

  “Speaking of working woman, any ideas for the next movie?” Joey asks, taking the pre-cracked beer from his wife and gulping it. “We loved your first, you know.”

  The topic change does nothing to ease my worry. If I get one more question about the progress of my nonexistent movie, I think I might be sick.

  “Still thinking on it,” I say, bringing my drink to my lips to end the conversation.

  “What better way to brainstorm than on a camping trip?” Joey says. “Let me check our calendar…oh!” He snaps his fingers after glancing at his phone. “We’re free in two weeks. Honey, we can get the grandparents to take the kids.”

  Asher lifts his drink. “Well I’m in!”

  The plans are being made so fast and Asher seems so excited that it’s hard for me to say anything other than: “Sure. Could be good for clearing my mind, generating some ideas.”

  Oh god, what have I done.

  “There we go! There we go!” Joey says, punching the air. “Keat? You in?”

  My stomach flips.

  “I’m not gonna turn down a camping trip,” he says with a smile.

  Cue second stomach churn.

  “I’m gonna get another drink,” I say, needing to leave this situation before I’m sick. “Anyone want anything else?”

  They all shake their heads, and I walk over to their backyard bar. It’s the only thing on the patio that’s stone and dark wood, heavily contrasting all the stark white. I reach the wine cooler and hear footsteps behind me. Boots, a whiff of strong cinnamon.

  “Camping, huh?” Keaton asks. I quickly rise up, very self-conscious of the fact that I was completely bent over and likely putting my ass on full display.

  “I can do the outdoorsy thing.”

  “Liar,” he says with a chuckle.

  “I don’t appreciate the accusation.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lily making her way over to the bar as well. Her long brown hair swishes behind her, perfectly smooth and unfrazzled by the night air. I wonder how she does it. My bun is practically exploding at the seams.

  “What are you two gossiping about?” she asks playfully, reaching into the cooler to grab another fizzy water.

  “Oh, just about how Violet is being such a team player,” Keaton says.

  Lily laughs, shaking her head and placing a hand on me. “Camping is fun, I swear. None of us bite.”

  Keaton chuckles to himself before glancing over at me. “We don’t bite hard, anyway.”

  His words seep into me, sending chills down my spine. I wonder if Lily can feel the goose bumps erupt on my arm.

  “Oh, get out of here,” Lily says, shoving his shoulder with her other hand. The gesture barely moves his arm, let alone the man himself.

  I notice just how large his hands are as he gets himself another beer, see how his wrists are so prominent, his forearms flexing under his rolled-up flannel sleeves…just like I remember, but stronger. Bulkier. Then he leaves as quietly as he came.

  From here, it’s hard to hear the other group’s conversation, but I take in the sounds around me. Foxe Hill is so distinct in its ambiance. You don’t hear cars horns or music from a local venue, none of the general hum of being in the city. There’s only the crackle of the bonfire and the cicadas.

  “I gotta say, I’m surprised you’re back,” Lily says from beside me. I hadn’t realized she was still here. She’s almost quieter than Keaton.

  “You and me both.” I smile, and she clinks her water with my beer.

  “There aren’t a lot of people left here, y’know?” she says.

  “Seemed like all of your graduating class to me,” I say, sipping on my new drink.

  She laughs a little before it trails off. “Yes…and no.”

  I try to remember anything about Lily other than her status as center cheerleader. What classes did she take? What clubs was she in? I never saw her as anything more than another passing soul, one I’d most likely never speak to again once I left.

  “It’s weird being back,” I say.

  “And let me guess: You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

  I want to disagree. I want to pull back, offended, and refer to my big notebook full of future award-winning ideas. That notebook doesn’t exist, though, so I just laugh.

  “It’s alright,” Lily says. “Take your time here. I think Asher really likes you being in town.” She rolls her eyes with a playful smile. “Such a softie.”

  I wonder what Asher has said about me in my absence. I wonder if I’ve been the kind of sister he’s proud to have.

  I smile. “He’s a good brother.”

  We stand there together for a minute without exchanging words. It’s weirdly comforting. However, the longer I stand, the more I realize I’m also too tired, too boozed up, and much too distracted by both my lack of a movie idea and how attractive Keaton looks standing next to that fire to carry on any meaningful conversation.

  Lily seems to realize this as well, because she lets my head fall on her shoulder and pats the top of my bun.

  “Let’s get you home, sweet girl.”

  Four

  Keaton

  On Saturday morning, Meredith and I host the local book & movie club. We started it about two years ago when the theater’s owner started struggling with profits. The membership fees and an all-month screening of the movie version of the book of the month has only been a small drop in the bucket of the increased revenue needed, but at this point, it’s just habit for Meredith and me to spend one Saturday a month at the theater.

  Each month, we read a book that’s been made into a feature film, then we screen the movie the morning after a small book discussion. This month we chose Pride & Prejudice. Meredith thought we should placate the increasing number of older women joining the group recently who were practically rioting for more romance novels. Mrs. White even made a PowerPoint—I swear she has nothing else to do during retirement. So, we’re giving them Mr. Darcy.

  All morning, I wonder if Violet will show up. There’s no reason she would, but it’s that weird anxiety that comes with knowing she’s here in our small town of Foxe Hill; you can run into anyone at any time.

  I’m holding the door open to Viewing Room 2 and letting book club members scoot through when I almost have to do a double take at the sight before me: Lily walking into the theater, right next to Violet.

  Lily is wearing her usual dress, tights, and cardigan trifecta, like she’s yelling to the world that she’s a pre-K teacher. In stark contrast is Violet, blonde hair in a loose bun and a black sweater tucked into black jeans with black slip-ons.

  “Sorry we missed the book discussion,” Lily says after opening the door. “I’m honestly just here for part one of some Colin Firth action.”

  “In my defense,” Violet says, holding up an index finger, “I didn’t know this club existed.”

  “Welcome, welcome. Come on in,” I say, waving my hand through the doorway.

  Lily enters first, tiptoeing through the already dark theater. “Kayla is definitely missing out.”

  Violet goes to follow but stops when I don’t enter with them.

  “You’re not coming?” she asks.

  I throw a thumb toward the gray door a couple feet to the l
eft of us. “I’m the projector guy, remember?”

  Violet looks back into the theater. Her profile is entrancing…soft jawline, elegant, pink full lips just barely open. God, she’s stunning, and I simply can’t help myself.

  “Do you want to join me?” I ask. “Like old times?” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, but I don’t care. Even if I had given myself time to consider, I would have said them all the same. I want to spend more time with her. It’s not a crime to just hang out, right?

  She narrows her eyes at me, considering for a moment, then pokes her head back through the door, motioning something to Lily before closing the door back.

  “Only for the first five minutes,” she says, hands on her hips and her head cocked to the side. “Just for nostalgia’s sake.”

  Score.

  “I’ll lead the way,” I say, but she lightly shoulder-checks me when walking past, turning to flash a playful smile.

  “I think I know the way, thanks.”

  Minx. She’s a damn minx.

  I open the door for her as she takes the stairs to the projection room two at a time. I do the same, all the while avoiding staring at how nice she looks in those tight jeans. It’s like an old habit, trying to be the respectful shift supervisor and good best friend to Asher—maybe a habit I would be wise not to break.

  The higher we climb, the stuffier it gets, until we reach the top-most landing, where we wrench open the door and are engulfed by more heat. The projection booth is always overcrowded with old computers, theater servers, and abandoned monitors. It seems to double as a junk room, and that only adds to the stifling heat.

  “Is it the same as you remember?” I ask, grabbing a remote from the shelving unit. It’s situated in front of the glass window where one can look out over the heads of the audience. Our two rows of attendees are chattering with each other in the dark.

  “I think it was cleaner at one point,” she says. “But, geez, it’s just as hot.” She grabs the loose collar of her shirt and fans it back and forth, the blonde hairs framing her face catching the breeze.

  “I’ll give your notes to management,” I say.

  She quirks an eyebrow, a sly grin spreading across her face. “Who does own this place now?”

  “Remember the Hoffmans?”

  Violet’s mouth gapes. She knows the Hoffmans. They were old as dirt ten years ago, and now they’re still old as dirt but refusing to retire. “They’re still alive?” She instantly shakes her head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “We’re all thinking the same thing,” I say. “No need to feel bad.”

  “How do they run”—her hand waves in front of her as if encompassing the entirety of the room and the rest of the rickety building—“this?” I can tell what she’s thinking. There’s no way those old birds would climb that spiral staircase day in and out.

  “Well, how do I run the sandwich shop?” I ask. I unlock the laptop next to the projector and grin. “Minimum-wage-earning teens.”

  She sits on the floor, cross-legged and leaning back on her palms, a smile on her face. In that position, she looks just as she always did, except with a bit more confidence. She isn’t hunched over her legs, tracing circles in the carpet. She’s open, grinning, and welcoming conversation.

  I boot up the file, letting it flash white to configure, then the movie appears on the screen, met with applause from the very small audience below. I turn off the light to our room so it doesn’t shine below and switch on the small floor lamp we set up years ago for these types of occasions.

  Sitting on the ground across from her, I bend my legs at the knees and rest my forearms on them.

  “Just like old times,” I say, and she laughs. I lift an eyebrow. “How was that funny?”

  She purses her lips. “You mean the times when you would sneak girls up here after hours?”

  “I don’t deny it,” I say. “What happens in the booth stays in the booth.”

  My comment makes her face flush red.

  “Come on—like you didn’t do anything in here?” I say quickly, trying to lighten the mood, but she averts her eyes with a crooked, uneasy smile.

  “Nope,” she says, popping the P.

  I think about all the time I spent here after hours. Hands fumbling around blindly, lips seeking any surface of skin, mouths covered to stifle excited laughs, trying to hide the dirty secret. I never did any of that with Violet. She was too young, not even in my sights until later—but I consider it now. I consider how things would be different. There would be no awkward limbs or amateur foreplay.

  “Well, it was reckless, anyway,” I say.

  “I’ve been reckless before.”

  “Oh really—when?”

  “Well I’m up here with you so…” Her voice trails off.

  “How is that reckless?” I ask.

  She inhales sharply, as if I caught her off guard, like maybe she didn’t mean to say that.

  “Just, you know, alone in a dark room with an old supervisor…taboo.” It’s a terrible save and she knows it, but that’s not the point. I’m wondering why she’s even trying to walk back that comment in the first place.

  “It’s been ten years,” I say. “I think we’re good.”

  Ten years ago, we were just people sharing aspirations. So many things have changed, but that connection between us—the sense that maybe we shouldn’t be hanging out alone—it’s still alive and well.

  “Well…” She exhales. “This was fun, but I should get going.” She lifts herself up in one swift movement from crossed legs to standing. “Can’t leave Lily down there to enjoy Mr. Darcy by herself.”

  “I didn’t know you guys were friends,” I say.

  “Me neither. My hometown is turning out to be full of surprises.”

  “Good ones?”

  She shrugs, reaching for the door handle, a slight smirk forming. “We’ll see.”

  Five

  Violet

  It’s Wednesday before I venture out of the house again. Admittedly, I’m enjoying time at home. Mom and I drink coffee together in the morning, garden in the back yard before lunch, and take brisk walks down the street, all before settling back on the front porch with a book for the afternoon. I am totally not running away from my problems.

  Okay, yes, my serious lack of a movie plot is driving me insane, and this mental exhaustion is only further exacerbated by my dreams involving Keaton Marks. I would say they’re PG, filled with memories of our past life as co-workers, but that would be a lie.

  After daydreaming about the dream from last night, I exit dreamland entirely once I hear my dad getting ready for work. I must be awake earlier than I thought. I may as well take advantage of the situation.

  I grab my notebook, make a strong pot of coffee, and sit in the rocking chair on the front porch, barely catching my dad racing out the door in his helmet.

  “Stay safe,” he says, lightly plunking his helmet against my forehead to mimic a kiss.

  “Bye, Dad,” I say, and off he zooms on his motorcycle.

  I’m pleased to be up one hour earlier than my mom usually rises, coveting the time alone to try to brainstorm and not imagine Keaton sitting in the projection booth only a foot or two away from me.

  I rock the chair back and forth, tucking one of my legs under me and propping my notebook open, trying to focus on why I’m in town in the first place. It’s not to flirt with a man I imagine impossibilities with; it’s to start my next project.

  I flip past pages of brain-dumped ideas I’ve scribbled down over the last few years, but each one seems frivolous now, amateur in comparison to my last film.

  The last movie practically coalesced without my consent, just an idea sparked from hours on the road and dozens of interviews. What started as one concept transformed into another during the editing process, cutting together clips until a lightbulb lit in my mind. I spent a week hunched over my computer, barely showering and sleeping no more than four hours a night. When I finished, I
collapsed in bed for two days and emerged with a film that would win six awards and generate enough revenue that I am now able to remain unemployed for another year as long as I stay on a budget.

  I turn to a blank page, but the pen hovers over it and nothing emerges.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  My head leans back against the slats of the chair, but when I close my eyes, I only see Keaton.

  Not now, Mr. Marks.

  I leave midmorning to try a different technique. I park in the free lot on Main Street, notebook in hand and pep in my step to make it to the most relaxing-looking bench available. It’s then that I notice just how much things have changed in Foxe Hill.

  Up to this point, I’d thought maybe Main Street was empty each morning because it was a slow day, thought maybe people were at work or it was too early, but I’m starting to notice that this place isn’t what it used to be. The town used to be busy at lunchtime, but I only pass a few people here and there, nothing like the groups that used to walk around in the middle of the week. I find a bench outside the theater, staring at nothing in particular and trying not to feel the parallels between this city and my quickly-fading career.

  Cue the terribly sad violin music.

  Eventually, I find myself traipsing back to my car, kicking the dust underneath my boots in defeat like some kid from an 80s movie completely beaten down by life. A wind rushes by and wow, it’s even cold too. Could this get any more miserable? With it, though, comes a scent that can only be described as warm, reminiscent of a holiday meal or butter.

  I look up, and across the street is Keaton’s sandwich shop. With all my daydreaming about him, how could I forget his store is smack dab in the middle of town? The smell rushes me once more. I inhale it. He must be baking bread for the day, and the smell is absolutely intoxicating.

  The shop has floor-to-ceiling windows like some old-fashioned diner, and heck, it might have been one at some point given the age of our town. Inside is a younger guy walking from booth to booth, half-heartedly wiping each table with a rag, and behind him is Keaton, writing on the chalkboard in front of the register, completely distracted. That is, until he looks up in my direction.