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

by Julie Olivia

  “Good.”

  Then my phone buzzes, and speak of the devil…

  Violet: Projector room tomorrow? If you’re not still mad?

  She has no idea.

  Twenty-One

  Violet

  Nothing worth doing or having is ever easy. That’s not an original statement; those are the wise words of Lily, but I’m claiming them as my own. In that spirit, here I am, standing in the humid projection room of the empty theater, pacing back and forth with my laptop propped open, trying to will myself not to sweat out all my anxiety. My anticipation is enough to get the job done; I really don’t need the surrounding technology spurring it on further.

  Distantly, I hear footsteps, the opening of the door, and the squeaking of the spiral staircase being climbed. Cresting the stairs is the man I’ve been waiting for—not just for the past day, but for most of my life. His brows are drawn inward even though he’s attempting a lopsided smile.

  “I have something to show you,” I say, not wanting to waste any more time. If I talk fast enough, he may not go running for the hills just yet.

  I rush to my laptop, clicking on a file and letting it open. As I’m turned, I hear him clear his throat and chuckle.

  “I’d actually like to say something while that’s loading if that’s alright.”

  “No, wait, just real quick…” He’s going to say he’s done with this. I’ve gone too far. I’ve gotten too wrapped up in my work. I’m just not the same person he knew before, and not in a way he’s liked up to this point. I just can’t bear to hear him say that. He needs to know what I’ve done—the decision I’ve made and feel more confident about making than I ever have.

  His hand reaches out for my arm, ghosting up and over my shoulder, lightly turning me to face him.

  “Please,” he pleads.

  It only takes a small touch, a twitch at the edge of his lips, and a tick of his jaw to silence me instantly. I guess this is it. This is the end. I’ll still show him what I brought him here to see, but will it matter?

  I nod to allow him to speak, and he nods back, removing his hand.

  He inhales sharply, preparing to let me down, and though I want nothing more than to not look into his eyes as he rips my heart to shreds, I hold steady. If I’ve learned anything in the past twenty-four hours, it’s that I’m stronger than I think, and I can endure this with dignity at minimum. I’ll let the Oreo-filled coma of depression take me later when I’m alone on my parents’ couch.

  “I’m an asshole,” he says on a sigh.

  “You’re a…what?” I ask, blinking. Did I hear him correctly?

  “I’m such an asshole,” he repeats, placing his hands on his hips, laughing at the ground then looking back up at me. “I shouldn’t have gotten upset. Who am I to say what you should and shouldn’t make? This is your dream. Yours. And, wow, you’ve done so much. You’ve achieved so much. I’m amazed by you every single day. You know what you need to do. You always have. I trust you, and I believe in this film. I believe in you.”

  “Uhh…” Truly elegant sounds leave my mouth like the breath of an angel. I am graceful, a rare gift to this world.

  “Also, I love you,” he says, a small laugh following.

  The laugh isn’t enough to soothe my instant anxiety, the pulse pounding in my ears, the tingles running from my head to my heart and down to my toes…my mouth hangs open against my will. It’s like I want to talk but am incapable of actually forming words.

  “What did you just say?” I ask, forcing the question out with as much class as my previous utterance.

  “I love you,” he repeats, and it seems surreal to hear it a second time. I lean against the shelving behind me, gripping it hard, but the pressure in my hand doesn’t wake me. This isn’t a dream. This is reality, my reality—one where this man loves me.

  “You make the best damn movie you can,” he says. “And I’ll be in the front row, cheering you on.”

  “Keaton—”

  “You don’t have to say it back. I know it’s a lot, and if you want me to just leave, I can.”

  “No, I… You need to see something,” I say. “Just stay. Stay and watch this.”

  I pick up the laptop, hands shaking, and shove it into his arms. I didn’t plan for him to hold it, was going to leave it on the shelf for him to watch from a distance like a proper viewing, but my head is simply too jumbled to do anything as intended right now.

  “Press the spacebar,” I say, pointing. He presses it, and the video starts.

  Sean and Dean weren’t exactly happy when I told them over video chat that I was going to take this movie in a different direction. They pulled a ‘We’re not angry, just disappointed’ line, but if I’ve learned anything in the past ten years, it’s that I don’t deserve to be guilted like a child. I told them I respected their opinion, but they’d either do things my way or not at all. I got the answer I pretty much expected.

  Kayla and Lily were right about my parents’ reaction when I asked if I could crash there for another year while I made my movie. I offered to pay rent, saying I wouldn’t feel right getting a free ride, but my mom was already hugging me so tight the words barely saw the light of day. The small noise that came out was heard by my dad, who gave me a quick thumbs-up.

  Restarting the edit and reworking the pitch was the hardest part. If I wasn’t going to have backers, it actually wasn’t even necessary to make a new trailer edit, apart from how I intended to use it. I scratched every sequence, putting the old file on some hard drive and tucking it in a drawer to hopefully never be seen again. I then went out to shoot some additional video. I drove my van out to the secret cliff. The poor thing barely made it there and back without the four-wheel drive it badly needed to traverse the path, but ultimately, I got the footage I needed.

  Keaton sets the laptop down as the video finishes, and when we meet eyes again, he’s smiling so big his ever-faithful dimple shines through.

  “Well?” I ask, wringing my hands, resisting the urge to pull at my dress or tuck my hair behind my ears in a nervous giveaway.

  “Why did you change it?”

  “Because Foxe Hill isn’t dead. It’s not on its way out. I think it has potential, and I want that to be what the world gets from this. I want people to see what you see, because if more people saw the town like you do, this would be a very busy place.”

  “The cliff shot was really pretty.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And they let you change it?”

  “Well, no,” I admit. “I’m on my own with this one, but that’s okay. I prefer it that way. I’ll figure out the costs, and now I can make the movie I want to make. I can tell the story the way it needs to be told.”

  “You’re not on your own,” he says, taking a step toward me. His hand reaches out, and I take it. “I’ll be with you the whole way.”

  I rub my thumb over his, walking into his arms and resting my head on his shoulder.

  “I love you. Also, I’ll need a pretty good tour guide,” I say.

  His whole body moves as he laughs, and the sound makes me close my eyes, nestling more into his chest as I soak up every single second of this.

  “I’m up for the challenge.”

  Epilogue

  Keaton

  We rented a small RV and spent six months on the road gathering footage and creating her masterpiece. Sometimes we tried to search the internet for kitschy small-town-America landmarks, but the truly special places—the ones where we camped for a week interviewing locals—were the ones we stumbled upon by accident. I hadn’t journeyed more than sixty miles outside of Foxe Hill in years, and I don’t think I really knew how much of the world there is.

  As for the sandwich shop, I left it in very capable hands for those few months. Matt had an aptitude for business after graduating, as it turns out—at least I think he did. When we came back from our cross-country adventure, the shop hadn’t gone up in flames, so overall, it was a success in my book.

 
The thing is, I couldn’t cling to the shop forever. It’s my business, but it became my chains. Grandpa would have wanted me to experience adventure, to eat authentic food native to other towns, to feel what the world can be outside the limits of Foxe Hill, and—most of all—what it’s like to love.

  While Violet spent weeks and weeks editing the film to completion, we gradually moved her stuff into my house. First, it was a t-shirt here, some equipment there. Then I redesigned the office to be her editing studio, and the next thing we knew, there was her old dresser in the guest room and a new bookshelf we bought together to house our combined movie collection.

  I won’t say it’s all roses all the time. During the time leading up to release—while she was still pulling the final product together—we marketed the shit out of the movie, and there were some tense nights. It wasn’t anything we couldn’t handle, though. There’s nothing we can’t conquer with a simple conversation and some morning omelets.

  Her recognition from the previous documentary was enough to garner a decent amount of hype, and the release went off without a hitch. We had a midnight premiere party at the theater, and both the viewing rooms were packed—something I hadn’t seen in years.

  She’s currently working on her third film. Every morning, she sketches on the porch with her brainstorming book, just waiting for that next car-horn moment, but I haven’t seen her struggle with an idea since those first few weeks last spring.

  We’ll soon be absent for a couple months to travel up north—the far north. Her plan is for us to see the northern lights. She has an idea, and maybe it’ll work out, maybe it won’t, but it’s the adventure that matters.

  We’ll always come back in the end, back home to Foxe Hill.

  THE END

  Nice to See You!

  Hi there! Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed hanging out in Foxe Hill with Keaton and Violet! If you liked this novel, please share with others by leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads!

  The Foxe Hill Series continues with Violet’s brother, Asher, in Present Perfect. Coming early 2021! Preorder today!

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  Keep reading for a free preview from In Too Deep, the first book in the romantic comedy series! In Too Deep is now available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited HERE.

  About “In Too Deep”

  In Too Deep is a full-length, standalone romantic comedy! It is the first book in the Into You Series.

  They say not to stick your pen in company ink. Does that apply to graphic designers as well?

  This year, I decided to check off a couple life-altering items: Ditch the cheating ex, move into my own apartment, and finally pursue my dream career. When I land a graphic design job at Treasuries Inc., the start-up darling of the marketing world, I think I have it all figured out.

  Oh, naïve little me.

  I, Grace Holmes, am not related to the great detective, Sherlock. If I were, maybe I could solve the mysterious case of why the universe gave me my dream job, but then paired it with my new boss, Cameron Kaufman.

  Cameron Kaufman is a man with a plan--if that plan is attempting to stilt my career. He's arrogant, cynical, and ready to spit sarcasm any chance he can. But, most of all, he is swoon-worthy to a degree of unfairness. Seriously--dimples and a winning ass? Give me a break here!

  So, of course, we're hit with a big project on my first week. Of course, now my boss and I have to spend late nights together. And, of course, I'm getting more attracted to his snarky comments as each day passes.

  We both have mouths that could kill. My only problem is that I can't stop picturing what else he can do with his, or whether my job is worth risking to find out.

  1. Grace

  Does love even exist beyond dogs?

  In my case, definitely not.

  I hear that golden retrievers are one of the smartest breeds. If that fact is true, then maybe my dog Hank would have had the common sense to leave Joe earlier than I did.

  Even now, mere feet away from me with his graying fur and wise old age, I bet he’s wondering if I’ll ever learn.

  Master Yoda’s got nothing on this pup.

  He walks over and plops himself beside me, laying his head inches from mine so I can scratch behind his ear.

  I roll over on my stomach and reach out to swipe at the laptop laying inches from my fingertips. With a groan and all the strength I can muster, I curl my toes and push myself just the one extra inch I need to snatch the computer, slide it in front of me, and pop it open.

  Hank army crawls closer to me as I go straight for my email, whining softly as if he doesn’t think I should look at them, either. Told you: Smart as a whip.

  “I know I shouldn’t,” I say, reaching down to poke his nose. “But I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  I open the inbox and find exactly what I thought I would find: Another email from Joe. Ten, to be exact. He’s deteriorated the formal structure of emails into that of a three-year-old. I can commend his effort, at least.

  “Grace, answer my calls,” “I’m a huge douche,” and the coveted: “I miss you.”

  “Yep, definitely punished myself with that one,” I mutter with a half-hearted smile, reaching over and ruffling Hank’s ears until he wags his tail. The old boy leans over and lays his paw over my hand, adding in a lick on my cheek for good measure. He doesn’t gloat about the fact that he was right because he’s a gentleman, damn it.

  The worst thing about being a relationship in your late-twenties is the inevitable process of moving out once you and your once fabulous beau break-up. It gets even trickier if you’ve bought a house together. It’s kind of dumb to buy a house with your unwed significant other, but I am just that brand of stupid.

  The custody battle between the ex and I for my loyal golden retriever wasn’t even a discussion. Hank was my high school graduation gift and I’d throw Joe off a cliff before I’d give up Hank. But who wouldn’t want an excuse to throw their ex-boyfriend off a cliff anyway?

  But here I am now: A lonely, twenty-seven-year-old woman lying on the floor of a mostly empty apartment. I’m waiting on my friend Ramona to arrive in a moving truck with some hand-me-down furniture to fill this place, but as of right now I only have a suitcase full of clothes, my old laptop, various art supplies shoved into a box, and my trusty dog, Hank.

  I look to my watch and see that I have a bit of time to sketch, and there’s no time like the present to focus on something much more enjoyable. I whip out my trusty tablet and pen and begin sketching anything and everything. Lines, dots, swirls… What do they make? What’s my heart telling me?

  That’s a bunch of hippie nonsense, I think with a roll of my eyes. This line tells me, “Grace, be better,” and this one says, “You’re talking to yourself again; stop it.”

  That’s an “aggressive line,” as my former art professors would say.

  I’m still getting back into the groove of it all, to be honest. I’ve been in a relationship for the past two years. It was happy until it wasn’t. For the record, a woman not being happy due to a man is just her telling the world that it has successfully beaten her down, and I will not have that.

  I bite the end of my drawing pen, trying to brainstorm something new; something original. I sketch out a couple things—mostly drawings of my lazy dog—when I hear the squeak of wheels coming from a heavy vehicle that most likely hasn’t been oiled in a year. I get up, pace to the front door, and open it to find Ramona and her husband Wes hopping out from each side of the moving truck.

  Ramona looks up, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her shorts are mega-short, accentuating thighs muscled from years of running. She’s almost never caught dead without a crop top with self-printed text saying something pseudo-clever. Today’s winning outfit has a cow with text below saying: Moo-ve it or lose it. I have no doubt in my mind she made this shirt specific
ally for moving day.

  “There’s my sunshine!” she yells up at me, waving her hand around wildly.

  “My day did not breathe life until I saw you!” I call down, and she laughs.

  Wes throws me a quick wave, then comes up behind her and picks her up, walking both of them to the back of the truck, pulling the handle down, and releasing it back up to reveal the packed trunk. He is inarguably a very good-looking man: high cheekbones, brilliant green eyes, and toned arms covered in tattoo sleeves that could never be misconstrued as anything other than pieces of art.

  Ramona and Wes met during their freshman year of college, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. They shared everything together: They started as undeclared majors, ended up going through the same psychology degree, and now they own a practice together with Ramona conducting behavioral therapy in children and Wes handling couples’ counseling. They’re a powerhouse couple if I’ve ever seen one, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of their perfect little life.

  I close Hank up in the kitchen so he can’t run off and then trot down to the parking lot.

  “You didn’t take anything?” Ramona asks, pulling me into a hug before I even finish stepping off the last stair.

  “Nah,” I say, falling into her embrace. There’s nothing more reassuring than the hug of a close friend—especially one taller than you with larger tits. I don’t care who you are; they’re like pillows just waiting to provide comfort. “The furniture didn’t really mean much to me. But can I have the house itself back?”