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

by Julie Olivia

  “I see you haven’t broken the habit,” he says.

  “What habit?” I ask, trying to focus on the movie in front of me. I can’t seem to place it, but then again, I never really got into the black and white films. They were always Keaton’s forte.

  “You still fidget during a movie,” he says.

  “Hey now. Watch it, mister.”

  He laughs again. “Will you just sit still?” His tone is teasing and playful, dancing around me.

  If this were any other situation, I would imagine he’s flirting with me—but he’s not, because he’s Keaton.

  “Is it weird seeing movies up on the screen after seeing your own up there?” Keaton asks, breaking me from my thoughts.

  I shrug, but I’m unsure if he sees it in the dark.

  “We screened it here, you know,” he continues.

  I bark out an involuntary, nervous laugh. It’s hard to contain the anxiety bubbling in me at that thought. “Oh, god, you didn’t.”

  “Yeahhh,” he says, dragging out the word a bit as if trying to decide what his next sentence should be. “I think some people may have fallen asleep, but you should know that everyone is really proud of you.”

  “That’s about as good as I could hope for,” I say, sliding down and propping my booties up on the seat in front of me. I know the people in Foxe Hill well enough to guess they probably couldn’t care less about the movie itself, but there’s something to be said about a small town’s support.

  He glances away from the screen to look over at me. I meet his gaze, half of his face silhouetted in black. It’s hard to make out too many of his features, but the tiny dimple on his left cheek still swallows up enough darkness to be visible.

  “For the record,” he says, “I thought it was brilliant.”

  My chest constricts and I feel like melting into the seat more than I already have. Instead of accepting the compliment like any normal person, I clear my throat and look toward the screen once more.

  “So, what do you do now?” I ask, crossing one foot over the other so almost the entire screen in front of me is obscured.

  He props his feet on the head of the seat in front of him, work boots tied all the way up with blue jeans tucked in. “I actually work at my grandpa’s sandwich shop. Well, my sandwich shop now.”

  “You took over?” I gasp. “That’s great, Keaton!”

  “Yeah,” he says, letting the word taper off. “I like the fast pace. Plus, I get to set my own hours.”

  I look down at my watch, tilting it toward the light of the screen to see each tick. “It’s nearing eight—shouldn’t you be there now?”

  “Nah, I let my employees open.”

  I think back to when Keaton and I would open the theater. Popcorn was never prepared on time, and I’m sure teenage responsibility hasn’t changed much over the years. “And you trust teenagers to do that?”

  “God no.” He laughs with his head falling back against the seat once more. “But what’s the worst they can do?”

  I shrug, remembering those same mornings when Keaton would lean over the register, counting cash back into it to start the day. That was about the time when his stubble began coming in, covering his sharp jawline. He started grooming his unruly hair, running his hands through it while it was still wet from his shower and smelling of shampoo. His forearms flexed every time he flicked a dollar from one hand into the other. I would Windex the counters, staring at the veins that had begun roping up his arms, trailing to his fingers.

  “I don’t know…they could be having sex in the back of the store,” I say.

  His head swivels over to me. His thick eyebrows are raised high on his forehead, and I can see the glint in his eyes as he takes me in. A small smile spreads across his lips, deepening his one dimple as his soft smile changes to a sly, knowing grin.

  “Noted.” We’re silent for a moment before he speaks up again. “What’s your next big thing?”

  Good question is what I want to say, but the best I can do is breathe in then exhale the thought out.

  “Something.”

  He chuckles. “I’m sure whatever you make will be great.”

  I can feel him looking at me, but I don’t look back. Why is it that everyone seems to have more faith in my skills than I do?

  “What movie is this?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I can barely make out the woman on screen through my feet, so I lower them back down to the ground.

  Keaton stretches his arms to the ceiling before letting them fall back down to his lap. “No Man of Her Own. It’s a romantic comedy.”

  “What is it with you and romantic comedies?” I laugh, crossing my arms. He always liked the sappy ones, the old-school ones. Don’t even get him started on Sabrina.

  “I like a good love story,” he says, shrugging.

  The woman is now walking down library aisles, turning off lights, and for some reason, my heart races. Maybe it’s because she’s all alone and this can only mean danger for our heroine…or maybe because I have a sinking sensation that we’re about to see something more intimate. Why? Because it’s a romance, of course.

  It’s that feeling in your gut when you’re watching a drama with your parents and the character’s clothes start coming off. You’re thinking, No, no, no, I do not want to watch these two people say dirty things while my crocheting mother is sitting right next to me, but you’re ultimately subjected to an awkward love scene—except now I’m sitting next to Keaton with my fist clenched at my side as our male hero, a handsome Clark Gable, appears on screen.

  He descends upon the librarian and does exactly what I didn’t want to see: he kisses her in what can only be described as a more intimate act than any sex scene I’ve ever watched. The heroine pulls away, trying to catch her breath, and for some reason I feel the same sense of desperation…of longing. My fist unclenches once the scene is over, and I can’t help but glance sideways at Keaton to see if maybe he felt just as awkward as I did. Maybe we can laugh it off together—but his eyes are still locked on the screen, arms crossed, as if entranced.

  The thing is, I don’t usually feel awkward watching sex scenes. The magic fades after you’ve been on a movie set for a few manufactured takes. You know the woman is wearing pasties or the man’s junk is wrapped in a nude banana hammock and all sense of passion is eradicated from that point onward. Even so, it’s odd how one visit home—one morning waking up in your rainbow-wallpapered bedroom, one car ride in your dad’s rickety van to your old part-time job, one simple on-screen kiss next to your teenage crush—can bring back all sorts of awkward feelings.

  “Are you going to Kayla’s bonfire later?” Keaton asks.

  “Okay, what is it with Kayla and her bonfires?” I ask, throwing my hands up. “I gotta know.”

  He throws his head back with a laugh. “She just kept hosting them after we graduated, even after having kids.”

  “Are they still fun?”

  “Honestly, I think she just likes still being the social chair.”

  “Well then I guess I’m going.”

  “Good.”

  Before I can ask why going to a silly bonfire is a good thing, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see Asher’s name on the screen in front of a picture of him. He’s posing next to a wax figure of The Rock, both of their eyebrows raised identically.

  Keaton suddenly shifts in his seat, standing up.

  “You’re not going to finish the movie?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Nah. I should probably go check on those pesky teens, and you should get that.” He nods down to my vibrating phone, where Asher’s goofy picture is still on display. “I’m sure he wants to get lunch or something.”

  “But it’s breakfast time.”

  “Right,” he says, shuffling his feet and shaking his head. “Well, you can do that too.” Keaton clears his throat, stepping his leg high over mine so he can get past and shimmying down the aisle to the end of the theater until he goes out the door.

&
nbsp; I wish he hadn’t run off so quickly, but my wishes can’t linger for long as I take a second glance downward and answer the phone.

  “Hey, Asher.” I turn up the volume to hear him over the movie.

  “Hey!” he calls, loud and upbeat. All of the Ellis family are morning people. “I have a break between classes at eleven. You wanna get lunch?”

  “Classes? Oh, never mind, sorry.” I know Asher is a professor at the local community college, but the sentence still catches me off guard.

  We took very different paths in our careers, but I’d venture to say Asher was the more studious one. I always wanted to travel, but he wanted to stay in Foxe Hill. He loves this town, has a connection with the people. He was the prom king his senior year, the guy awarded the Most Likely to Succeed superlative. He was featured in our yearbook no less than ten times, always right next to Keaton Marks—the two so-called “heartthrobs” of our high school.

  “Sure, I can do that,” I say.

  “Also, I don’t know if you remember, but Kayla has a bonfire most Fridays and—”

  “So I’ve heard.” I laugh. Geez, at this rate, this bonfire better be the party of the year.

  “I’m sure she’d like it if you went,” he says.

  I don’t know about that. Kayla and I were never close. She was Asher’s friend and I was the little sister who tagged along, as per usual, but what the heck? Let’s visit some high school friends. When in Foxe Hill…

  “Count me in,” I say.

  “Cool. Hey listen, you should really try Keaton’s shop. He’s made a lot of changes to it since his grandpa passed.”

  I pause. “Wait, what?”

  I can practically feel Asher’s embarrassment over the phone. “Oh, I didn’t tell you? Yeah, a couple years ago now.”

  I glance up at the ceiling, where a light from the back of the theater shines. I turn around to see Keaton in the booth, adjusting the projector. The movie stops, the room goes dark, and the overhead lights turn on.

  I knew Keaton’s grandfather. Everyone did. He was as much a part of Foxe Hill as the theater, not to mention he was Keaton’s only family when he moved here.

  I’ve sure missed a lot.

  “I don’t know if I’m feeling sandwiches, actually,” I say. “More of a solid brunch mood. How about waffles?”

  Asher agrees and talks a bit more about how we should visit the sandwich shop soon, but I don’t mention that I’ve already seen Keaton today.

  My brother isn’t an angry person. In fact, under any normal circumstances, he’s probably the nicest person I’ve ever met, but maybe I’m biased given that I’m his sister. However, the thing is, being the little sister of Asher Ellis comes with its issues. When I was fifteen and just starting to figure out that boys could like me, I had a small crush on this guy named Peter. He was in Asher’s grade and way too cool for me. Why he had his sights on me, I don’t know, but I liked it when he walked me to class, so I didn’t question it too much.

  Peter offered to drive me home one day, but once my brother found out, he completely lost his shit, totally walloped on the guy. I was supposed to meet him at his car that day but instead found Peter with a bloody nose and Asher surrounded by Keaton and a few teachers trying to calm him down. Peter didn’t talk to me again, and Asher and I never talked about it either. Let’s just say my Foxe Hill dating life was nonexistent after that, stopped before it could even start.

  I can’t imagine what Asher would do if I said I liked Keaton, of all people. There’s no way Keaton would like me back anyway, but what if? It’s not worth risking.

  I came back home to make a movie, not to cause trouble.

  Three

  Violet

  I wouldn’t have had waffles for brunch if I knew my mom would be making brinner.

  Breakfast for dinner has always been me and my dad’s favorite. The second he rides in from work, parking his motorcycle in the garage, Mom starts up the eggs. He kisses her on the forehead then pulls me in for a tight hug.

  “How’s it going, pumpkin?”

  My face is still smashed against his chest when I answer with a simple “Can’t complain.”

  “Well good,” he says. “We don’t like complainers in this house. Right, honey?”

  My mom lifts a spatula in response with a faint “Mhmm.”

  I get many questions during dinner, but most are standard operating procedure: When did you get in last night? Did you enjoy your flight? How was your day?

  I tell them I walked through town with my notebook, stopping to jot down various ideas. In truth, I didn’t write down anything. I couldn’t. My mind feels blurry, like I’m working through fog to try to make sense of things.

  What did I expect? I kind of hoped I would roll back home and then some magic carpet would carry me out to the magical land where writer’s block doesn’t exist.

  No magic carpet. No weirdly attractive cartoon Aladdin. (Seriously, what is that?) No genie. Nothing.

  The sound of rumbling gravel underneath wheels signals Asher’s arrival to pick me up for Kayla’s. The headlights from his black truck shine through the window as he crunches across the driveway and up the porch stairs.

  “Bacon me,” he says when he opens the door. Mom already has a to-go plate made, making it easy for us to quickly pile into his truck with the smell of cured meat overwhelming the car.

  Kayla lives on a cul-de-sac one neighborhood down. Asher tells me she bought her parents’ old house after they moved down to the beach for retirement. Before we were old enough to drive, it was only a fifteen-minute bike ride away, and I guess now that we’re nearing thirty, bikes have been replaced with cars.

  It’s odd how it’s simply…unchanged. There’s a fresh coat of paint and a new garden, but other than that, it’s still the same place we visited every Friday night after football games. The house looks empty with how dark it is, but there’s a pool of light coming from the back yard. Asher and I head straight for the wooden fence. He opens it for me, and I walk through.

  Although the face of the house is basically the same, Kayla’s back yard is very different from how I remember. She’s transformed it into a Pinterest girl’s dream. The patio is pristine, adorned by hanging Edison lights and papier-mâché balls. The white couch and wooden furniture look like they came straight out of an Ikea room display, and she even has that faux turf under a lone lawn chair as if the perfect grass around her raised patio wasn’t enough.

  The yard is filled with at least twenty people. I know all of them, even if some take me a minute or two to remember. Asher helps me with those unfamiliar faces. I barely recognize my bible school first kiss, Joey, with his hair loss and beer gut. Turns out he’s married to Kayla, who practically tackles me on sight, tugging me close. She’s one of the few attendees who looks exactly the same as she did ten years ago. Apparently, her consistent workout schedule—just the same since high school—has paid off, because she tells me she’s still very tight, even after having the twins.

  She grabs my arm and drags me around her back yard. After two cheap beers and deciphering a few more faces from the past, I’m almost—dare I say it—comfortable.

  Hours pass with more beers, more fizzy drinks, more of Kayla telling me about her Kegel exercises, which I really, really, wish she would stop talking about please God right now. It grows later, and I wonder if Keaton will even show up. Then the fence creaks open once more and, through the exiting crowd, patting some people on shoulders and giving a good-natured “Sorry I’m late”, comes Keaton.

  I grip my Solo cup tighter.

  Let me be clear: It’s not like I’ve been pining over him for ten years. I’ve dated around, had one or two long-term relationships. When I moved away from Foxe Hill, most of the details and people were left behind. Occasionally, Asher would mention Keaton on phone calls, and that would inevitably send the familiar spark through me once more, like greeting an old friend.

  Two, five, seven…it doesn’t matter how many years pass
; the flipping in my stomach at the mention of Keaton’s name has never faltered.

  Keaton got a girlfriend; We hate Keaton’s girlfriend; We love Keaton’s girlfriend; Keaton broke up with said girlfriend…it’s the same relationship story over and over (just like it might be with anyone floating through their twenties), and it always triggered the same dread within me. Now the source of that dread is standing right in front of me in a red flannel with a dimpled grin.

  I’m still trying to look distracted by talking to Joey. He’s going on about his love of camping, and I am barely listening.

  “It’s just not the same,” he groans. “May as well do a B&B and call it a day. These kids…”

  “Glamping again?” Keaton’s voice calls from behind me. He appears on the other side of Asher with a Solo cup in hand, much faster than I anticipated he would. He doesn’t make eye contact with me.

  “Listen, I haven’t been real camping in forever,” Joey says, pointing a finger in Keaton’s direction. “The twins will only do that fake, hotel-type thing.”

  “How rude.” It comes from Lily, another girl from our graduating class—well, Asher and Keaton’s. She’s been lingering nearby all night. Considering she’s one of the last few remaining at this get-together, I assume she’s close with Joey and Kayla. I remember seeing her in the halls and at pep rallies. Lily fell into the cheerleading crowd, but she never was quite as popular. If I recall correctly, she was only around for their basket tosses. Like Kayla, she has also maintained her figure since high school, but unlike Kayla, she’s significantly quieter, only speaking in little quips here and there. I decide I like her.

  “Oh my god, camping trip!” Kayla yells from the makeshift bar on the patio, her arms raised in the air with one hand holding a glass of white wine and the other her husband’s next beer. “Let’s go out to the woods. Just us adults!”

  Kayla is just as I remember: loud, bubbly, and prone to yelling ideas out at random.

  Joey points to his wife, moving the hand back and forth and biting his lower lip. “Yes, yes!”