by Julie Olivia
“My third pick may have been a romance, sure,” she says.
“But?” I ask. “Where did I go wrong?”
She averts her eyes, glancing at the books in her own lap, placing them on the table and shuffling them. “I prefer men with beards, I guess.”
Men with beards.
I pause, choking out a laugh and stroking my facial hair with a smirk.
“My turn,” she says hurriedly, spreading out the books in front of me. I keep looking at her before she finally meets my eyes once more. It’s enough to pull my chest in every direction, a fist gripping my heart and giving it a small twist.
I dart my eyes down to the books—all are romance novels. There are images of muscular men, women with vampire fangs and massive cleavage, and one with handcuffs.
I laugh. “This was supposed to be a serious game!”
“It’s not my fault you stole my idea,” she says, pointing to the joke romance novel I included in her stack.
“All three, though?” I say. “Fine, fine, you win.”
“Wow, who knew Keaton Marks was a closet freak.”
“Hey, the world doesn’t need to know how I get my kicks, woman.”
She pumps a fist in the air to celebrate her small victory. “Whatever. It’s story time, baby.”
I oblige because, if anything, I’m a man of my word—even if her books weren’t correct and we both know it.
“Fine,” I say, moseying over to the nearest shelf and picking up some book with a bug-eyed kitten on the cover.
“Oh no, no, no.” Violet says. She picks up the romance novel with the well-endowed female vampire and shoves it toward me. “This is the one you’ll read from.”
I laugh. “Come on, no.”
She shifts it closer to me, and I narrow my eyes at her. She narrows hers back.
“I dare you,” she says.
I take the book from her, walk up to the stage with a tiny chair in hand, and sit down. My knees are pressed to my chest due to how close to the ground the chair is. This is definitely not for adults. I look both ways, ensuring nobody is around before cracking the spine open and reading the first sentence.
The words instantly make my face grow hot.
“Oh my god, go go go,” Violet says. She sits on the ground in front of the stage, legs crossed and prepared.
“I don’t know if this is appropriate.”
“Of course it’s not. I was always told it’s good erotica if you can open to a random page and see a sentence that makes you blush,” she says.
I bark out a nervous laugh. “Well, mission accomplished.”
“Go on then,” she says, and the plea makes my face get even hotter.
I scan the children’s area again, confirming there are no eavesdroppers nearby, and clear my throat. “My bosom swelled at the sight of him: naked, cock erect…” Violet’s cheeks fill with pink, but she nods for me to continue. I lower my voice to a whisper. “…ready to pound into me with the force of a thousand bulls.”
“Ew, oh my god, that is not what it says!” She squeals, quickly covering her mouth.
“See for yourself!” I say, flashing the page to her but pulling it back just as quickly because, yeah, that’s not at all what it says. The words in this book are much more sensual and elegant, but I’m having too much fun. “Do you want me to read more? The size of his ancient immortal schlong…”
“I’m done,” she says, snatching the book from my hands and gathering the rest. “I’m done.” She’s smiling but still trying to turn her face away from me.
“I’ve never seen your face this red,” I say.
She shakes her head, grin still spreading as she tries to curl her lip in to hide it.
“I was really starting to like that book—how much is it?” I lean over her shoulder to try to peek at the price, but she puts it at the bottom of the stack of books in her arms. “How will I know what happens to his schlong!”
Her hand covers my mouth as she very politely starts to escort me away from the stage.
We hit up a few more stores afterward—a craft store, a board game hobby shop, and a pizza joint to grab a couple slices—before finally arriving at the obscenely massive superstore for camping and general outdoor goods. By the time we get there, we’re only one hour out from their early weekend closing hours.
“In and out,” she says, grimacing at the spectacle around her.
“Oh, come on,” I say, stretching back with my hands behind my head. “Relax and take in the scenery.”
“Of the store?” she says flatly.
“Yeah,” I deadpan. “I mean, there’s a fish tank wall.”
“Wait, there’s a fish tank?” Her jaw drops, and I know I have her attention now. She rushes through the store, finding the wall of water and studying it with wide eyes. The only other people with the same expressions are children who have their hands pressed against the glass, oohing and aahing over the bass. Violet does the same.
“Have you never been here before?” I ask.
“Why would I come here?”
“I don’t know—you’re Asher’s sister?” I laugh. “We go camping all the time.”
The comment makes her smile falter for just a moment. I wonder if the change was only in my imagination because she switches back to a playful expression within seconds.
“I never joined you guys on your outdoor adventures,” she says with a shrug. “So, show me around, oh wise one.”
I drag her all around the store, showing her fishing rods (“No thanks,” she says), canoes (“I’ll die”), and even picking up a thick camouflage coat, which she practically drowns in. At this point, I think she feels bad about saying no to everything else, because she throws it over her arm, says, “I love it,” and continues on.
We finally make it to the tents, and she crosses her arms. The selection is vast, each option set up one after the other. They come in varying shapes, sizes, and colors, and they offer different functionalities. It’s overwhelming even for me.
“How the heck am I supposed to pick one?” She holds her palms out, spanning the entire row.
“Try ’em out.”
With a shrug, she gets on her hands and knees, crawling into the smallest one. Trying not to admire her ass from behind, I crawl in afterward. I zip it closed and we both lie down, shoulders touching and feet pulled in so we fit fully inside. Her perfume drifts around the small space and we’re quiet for the first time in the past hour as we look up at the orange mesh ceiling. Our breathing warms the tent quickly and she shifts next to me, the waterproof fabric making a swishing noise.
She opens her mouth to speak then closes it again.
“Tell me something,” I say.
“You keep saying that,” she whispers.
“Yeah, and?”
“It’s nosy.”
“You can tell me whatever you want, though, even if it’s just that you want donuts.”
She pauses for a moment before exhaling. It sounds distressed—tired. “I’m thinking about my project.”
“Any ideas yet?” I ask.
She waits another moment. “No.”
“It’ll come to you.”
“What if it doesn’t, though?” Her tone wavers, riddled with unease. I turn to look at her. Her eyebrows are pulled inward. “What if I can’t make a good second film, y’know? What if, I dunno…what if I’m a one-trick pony?”
“Impossible.” I say it without skipping a beat because I truly believe it. Violet has always been a go-getter. She doesn’t take no for an answer, and she tries and tries until she gets it right. She may not believe in her skills, but I do.
“I’m having writer’s block or something,” she continues. She bites her bottom lip. I try not to think about how beautifully tragic she looks right now, like a classic movie star lost in her own world of internal strife.
“You’ll figure it out,” I say. “I believe in you.”
She turns her head to me, her eyes the now familiar brown. “Y
ou’ve always said stuff like that.”
“That I believe in you?”
“Yeah, just comforting things.”
“Well, you’ve never proven me wrong so far,” I whisper.
She blinks her eyes closed, breathing out a small exhalation. Her chest rises and falls, and I wonder if she’s just taking in the moment, letting the reassurance flow over her.
“Asher told me about your grandpa,” she says, and my stomach drops. Not a sentence I expected, yet there it is.
“Yeah, he passed a few years ago,” I say.
“I’m sorry.”
“It was time.” I don’t want to talk about it, probably just as much as she doesn’t want to discuss her writing. “I miss him.”
“He was a great man,” she says.
He was the only parental figure I had. My parents didn’t have the means to raise me, though I’ve never known why. I never asked because when he took me in, I didn’t have time to ask. Grandpa was too busy making me work in his shop and showing me how to be a proper man. I can’t blame the heart attack for taking him from me. He would laugh at me for even trying, would say things always happen for a reason, but I miss his guidance. I imagine he’s up there somewhere, drinking sweet tea on the edge of a cloud, looking down at me and moaning about how stupid I am sitting in a tiny tent with my best friend’s sister.
Violet’s arm and mine are flush with each other, hands barely touching. I flex my fingers, letting them graze the back of hers. They’re so small compared to mine, so soft as opposed to my rough ones, calloused from days and nights of constantly working in the shop.
I wait for her to shy away, wait for this to turn into a different situation entirely—my best friend’s sister offended by my touch—but her fingers stretch into mine and then we’re holding hands, very loosely but fingertips entwined. Her eyes remain closed but her breathing quickens, stilted and released with a shudder.
We say nothing, but I’m so close. Just a few inches and our lips would touch…but what would happen then?
I can imagine Grandpa slowly shaking his head.
What are you doing, son? he’d say, and I can’t say I’d disagree with the sentiment.
The store’s intercom interrupts our silence and she instantly pulls her hand away.
“The store will be closing in five minutes,” the voice says. “Please make your final purchases.”
Come on, random employee.
But maybe that’s the sign I needed. Violet is already sitting up and stretching. She has a small smile on her face as she looks down at me, but it’s not anything more than friendly.
“Ready to head out?” she asks.
She’s nonchalant. It’s nothing. Nothing is happening. We didn’t just hold hands. I didn’t just want her lips against mine.
I mirror her smile and unzip the tent.
It’s probably for the best anyway.
Eight
Violet
I bought the exact model of that tent. I tell myself it’s because it was the most affordable option, but every time I glance over at the box in the corner of my room, memories come rushing back along with anxiety and too many questions.
Keaton’s touch…his large fingers slightly curled around mine… Even as I tried to work on my movie ideas, my brain instead decided to take the first half of the week to consider whether he touched me on purpose. Every morning I would stroll down Main Street with my notebook, wondering if I would run into him. I built up the courage to sneak into the theater on Tuesday, but Keaton wasn’t there. When I made my way back to the van after screening half a movie, unsettled and unable to concentrate, I peeked at his sandwich shop. Through the large glass windows, I saw him in there, beard hairnet and all, pointing to various things while talking to Matt, the very exhausted-looking teen.
The scent of freshly baked bread wafted out of the store. I considered stopping by, but he seemed busy. Also, I was too much of a coward.
By the time the end of the week rolled around—almost five days with no texts or interaction with Keaton, even with the camping trip coming up—I firmly convinced myself the whole thing meant nothing. The tent was small, and we were too close. That’s all it was. I barely had room to move around, let alone avoid the hand of the person right next to me.
Still, I dream of Keaton’s hands dancing over every inch of me. It sometimes keeps me up at night, and when these thoughts come back to me, I can’t help but let my hands travel down below the waistband of my pajamas in the middle of the night.
The mornings after sleepless nights are crowded with increasing anxiety over my growing obsessed with Keaton and my severe lack of a plan and no ideas.
Dean and Sean sent an email last night asking how it was going. I said it was going great and I should have something in a week, which was a bald-faced lie. They just replied with “good.” Not sure if that’s L.A. mafia speak for You better have something good, but I felt the pressure nevertheless.
I go through my usual routine: taking a pen, my notebook, and a blank mind to the front porch for brainstorming. My dad waves as he leaves for work, and my coffee soon sits abandoned on the table next to me as I shift back and forth in the chair. I can’t think of a darn thing. Not a single idea. I push the coffee farther away. I don’t deserve the comfort of vanilla-flavored creamer anymore.
I hear a distant rumble on the main road and see a car turn onto our gravel driveway, dust billowing behind it. My heart jolts.
Could it be him?
But as it draws closer, I recognize the black of Asher’s pickup truck and the wave of his hand when he spots me as well. I return the gesture and instantly feel guilty.
Does he know? What is there to know? Nothing happened between me and Keaton. We accidentally touched in a small tent. Where else were we supposed to go in such a small space? And why would Asher suspect his best friend and sister anyway? What a silly thought.
I’m overthinking it. I’m driving myself insane.
Asher parks and steps out, boots hitting the ground and crunching the gravel until they hit the stone path leading to the porch.
“What are you doing here so early?” I ask him, closing my notebook.
“Came to eat breakfast with Momma,” he says, taking the three stairs to the raised porch. “My class doesn’t start until nine.”
“I’m starting to think you don’t even teach,” I say.
“Funny.”
“I don’t think she’s awake yet.”
“Yeah, I know. I get here early to start coffee,” he responds.
“I already made some,” I say.
“I knew I liked having you home.” He grins at me then points at the chair before swinging the screen door open. “You’re in my seat, by the way.”
“Bite me.”
He emerges from the house a few minutes later with one hand in his pocket and the other clutched around a coffee cup. He glances down at me, eyes scanning over my new coat.
“You’re really embracing the country life, huh?” he asks, more as a statement of fact than a question.
I pull the camouflage jacket closer to me. Keaton may have been joking when he handed it to me in the camping store, but I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge. I bought the overpriced item with nothing more than a smug grin and only a tiny bit of regret that night when I realized I’d purchased something I was likely to wear only a handful of times. The cost-benefit ratio didn’t really add up.
“It’s for the camping trip,” I say. “Plus, it’s cold out here.” I pick up my own cup with both hands, letting the sides of it warm my hands.
“You’re just used to the California sun,” he says.
Admittedly, I do miss the warmth. It’s amazing how the west coast is incapable of having undesirable weather. I got used to waking up early, taking three-mile runs on the beach, and dropping by the local café to pick up a banana and a cup of coffee on the way back to my apartment.
It’s nothing like Foxe Hill, where a beach is
hundreds of miles away and April mornings still have a bite to them. Not ideal running weather, and I’ve admittedly been slacking.
“How was your trip to the big city?” he asks.
“Fun,” I answer, taking a sip of coffee.
“Was Keaton nice?” he asks. Before I can answer, he lets out an exhalation that creates a puff of cool air in front of his mouth. “I told him to be nice to you.”
“He was fine,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “What do you mean you told him to be nice?” I find myself rocking the chair a bit faster and try to steady my pace.
Yes, I’m cool. Cool as a cucumber. Definitely didn’t think about him in a dirty, compromising way last night.
“I asked him to be nice…that’s all. I don’t know. I know you guys worked together and stuff, but that was ten years ago. It wasn’t awkward or anything, right?”
“No,” I say—much too quickly, but Asher doesn’t seem to notice. “No, it was fine.”
“Hmm, ‘It was fine,’” he mocks with a laugh.
“He’s fine,” I repeat. “I got a tent and this swanky jacket.”
“Very swanky,” he says. “So, he was okay?”
Asher doesn’t seem to be letting it go, so I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Well, he was always your friend, y’know?” I lie. “We were never really close.” We were, but to what extent, really? We were co-workers. We shared things, but what were we? What are we now?
“Yeah, I get that,” Asher says.
Glad one of us does.
“But he’s fine, yeah,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”
There’s a pause then it’s broken by the sound of the screen door opening and Mom emerging. She’s wrapped in a long red coat, pajama pants peeking out from underneath and Ugg boots reaching mid-calf. I wish I had thought of that. My feet are popsicles.
“My two kids on one porch,” she says. “What a day.” She gives each of us a pat on the shoulder before taking her seat and letting out a large sigh, tipping her coffee to her lips.
Asher leans on the porch railing, looking like the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Both of them have their hands clutched around their coffees, holding it close to their chests and looking out into the yard as if contemplating the future in all its glory.
