Match Cut

Julie Olivia

Copyright © 2020 by Julie Olivia

julieoliviaauthor@gmail.com

www.julieoliviaauthor.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Editing by C. Marie

Cover Photo from iStock

Cover Design by Julie Olivia

Contents

About “Match Cut”

Playlist

Match Cut (n)

1. Keaton

2. Violet

3. Violet

4. Keaton

5. Violet

6. Keaton

7. Keaton

8. Violet

9. Violet

10. Keaton

11. Violet

12. Keaton

13. Violet

14. Keaton

15. Violet

16. Violet

17. Violet

18. Keaton

19. Violet

20. Keaton

21. Violet

Epilogue

Nice to See You!

About “In Too Deep”

1. Grace

2. Grace

3. Grace

Acknowledgments

Also by Julie Olivia

About the Author

About “Match Cut”

Match Cut is a full-length, standalone contemporary small town romance!

* * *

When I moved back to my hometown of Foxe Hill, I knew a few things for certain:

First, I needed to overcome the world’s worst case of writer’s block. My first documentary film might have won some big awards, but that doesn’t cement a career. Second, this move must remain temporary. After ten years away, I don’t plan on staying. Third, and most importantly, I cannot, under any circumstances, fall back in love with my brother’s best friend, Keaton Marks.

Easier said than done in Foxe Hill.

When I’m around Keaton, I feel less like an award-winning filmmaker and more like the teenager I was when I first fell for him.  He’s still the gorgeous, quiet, and way out-of-my-league man, now complete with biceps and a beard—have mercy on my soul—and I’m still his best friend’s little sister.

Keaton wouldn’t notice me even if I wanted him to, so it’s just business as usual when I keep running into him—completely innocent up until the day he pulls me into the most earth-shattering, world-changing, is-this-really-happening kiss.

With my film career on the line, I can’t afford any distractions. But the way he’s looking at me now, with his eyes wandering as far as I’d always hoped they would? It’s the biggest distraction I can think of.

Welcome home, Violet.

Playlist

“Sun It Rises” - Fleet Foxes

“Thirteen” - Elliott Smith

“If I Didn’t Care” - The Ink Spots

“One Of These Things First” - Nick Drake

“Only For You” - Heartless Bastards

“It’s a Ball” - Black Taxi

“I Had Me a Girl” - The Civil Wars

“County Line” - Dr. Dog

“Gimme All Your Love” - Alabama Shakes

“Sea of Love” - Cat Power

“First Day Of My Life” - Bright Eyes

Match Cut (n)

A visual edit used in filmmaking to display a deep sense of connection between two separate individuals, objects, or events.

One

Keaton

It’s funny the things we remember. If you told me one of my favorite memories of Violet Marie Ellis was the way she sat in a movie theater, I’d tell you, Yeah, that sounds weird but about right. It’s also interesting how that particular quirk of hers keeps flashing in my mind over and over. I think about it often, though admittedly more in the past two weeks.

I met Violet Marie Ellis when we were both kids; she was eleven and I was thirteen. At that age, I was too distracted by mind-numbing algebra, working at my grandpa’s sandwich shop, and general prepubescent unease to view her as anything other than a little girl. But, when we grew older, ‘little girl’ became less of an applicable term.

I realized it was an issue around the age of eighteen when I somehow always had some excuse to avoid her gymnastics recitals. I have to pick up another shift at work, too much homework, I’m sick… I’d fake the flu if it meant I didn’t have to hide an embarrassing boner at the sight of my best friend’s sixteen-year-old sister in a fitted leotard.

Yeah, my best friend’s sister.

I know.

“Keepin’ me company tonight, Keaton?”

The raspy voice of First Stop’s owner and main bartender, Todd, gives me a start, and I lift my pint to him in response as if toasting this fine Thursday night—this Thursday night that surely isn’t different from any other. No sir. It’s the same as always, mostly quiet save for the radio playing over the speakers and a few barely legal kids scooting along the dance floor.

In reality, I’d be lying to myself if I truly insisted this was just another Thursday. It’s different because Violet Ellis is moving back to town.

The teens flounce about on the dance floor with their too-short shorts—which are completely unnecessary in early spring. Todd’s wife, Meredith, is out there as well, trying to lead the careless crowd as best she can.

If you want to judge the profitability and success of a small town, I recommend visiting the local bar on a Thursday night. Do not judge by Saturday night attendance. The numbers are inflated; that’s too easy, and the first thing you need to know about my small town is that we don’t like anything easy. We’re realists, and we know Foxe Hill is dying.

Actually, no, my grandfather taught me to be nicer than that: We’re in a steady decline.

In most bars, you’ll see cowboy boots hitting the floor every few beats—people making up their own line dances while a rising country star belts out songs that get a whoop and holler from the crowd. Women in heeled boots run across the dance floor with a man in tow. His smile is wide because although his belt buckle is big, his woman’s personality is likely much bigger. Strong cologne and stronger convictions, a lot of cheap beer, harsh whiskey, collared polos, scuffed jeans, camouflage overalls…are you getting the picture yet? Visit a town on a bustling Thursday night and you will see all this—but not in Foxe Hill.

“Your better half looks like she’s doing alright on her own,” I say to Todd as he pours me another beer. Meredith wasn’t born in Foxe Hill. She and First Stop’s owner, Todd, met online, and she’s a Foxe Hill transplant. A former librarian, she is now spending five days a week line dancing with the youth and the other two co-leading a book & movie club with me at the local theater. She may not be native, but she’s a natural.

“And where’s your better half?” Todd asks. My stomach jolts, and I laugh again. It accidentally comes out shaky, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Todd is referring to my best friend, Asher.

“He’s picking up Violet,” I say.

“Violet?” Todd says with wide eyes and a grin. “Now what’s draggin’ her back here?”

“She’s here to make another movie,” I say.

“Good for her!” His statement is genuine, and I can see the slight sparkle in his old eyes. “We sure miss her!” Yeah, who doesn’t? Violet was the quiet girl, and it’s hard not to like the shy, pretty girl. Well, shy until you get to know her, anyway.

Todd lets out a small chuckle to himself.

“What?” I ask.

“Odd she’s coming back, though.” His tone shifts. It’s the same sound I hear from anyone when old locals move back. It’s like a small betrayal when people leave. Unfortunately, it seems to be happening more and more as the older crowd gets even older and better schools pop up a city over. “I’m glad, but it’s odd. She’s a hotshot now, right?”

“She hasn’t changed.” I attempt to soothe the unspoken worry I know he has, and maybe I have it as well. Because who knows? Maybe California warped her. Maybe she drinks celery juice and eats kale salads exclusively. Or maybe she’s still the same.

“She won an award for that last movie, y’know,” I say, changing the subject. “Made it all on her own. I think it’s pretty neat.”

“Sure, it’s neat,” Todd replies with a small shrug.

That’s quite an understatement. Violet’s breakout documentary on the value of education in America was a hit among both audiences and critics. Unfortunately, Todd’s neutral reaction to it is about the norm in this town. We had a screening at the local theater on Main Street, but the turnout was scarce, to say the least. That said, I was amazed.

“Well, we’re happy to have her back either way,” he says, wiping another small area of the bar. There is no stain. This bar is spick and span and has been since five o’clock yesterday when the only visitors were a few locals. “Never thought I’d see the day…thought she’d stay here just like her brother.”

I return the smile and look back into my beer. I knew she’d make it.

My leg jitters underneath the bar. When I look up, Todd’s mustache twitches like he’s deep in thought, but he’s not looking at me and my obvious anxiety. He’s staring at Meredith dancing on the open floor alone, crossing here, swinging there… The teens are tittering at a long table near the dance floor, but their attention is no longer on the retired librarian enjoying life to the beat of her own cowgirl boot.

“I’ll keep her company,” I say, downing the rest of my beer and sliding it back to Todd, who tosses me a wink of appreciation.

I walk over to Meredith, easily falling in line beside her. I don’t even need to find which step she’s on; it’s just natural at this point. Just another Thursday night. She smiles, dark red lipstick shining back at me and wisps of her bangs breezing back and forth with each turn of her heel.

“Nice of you to join me, Keaton.”

“Yeah, well, I need the distraction.”

I dip my thumbs into my belt loops, sliding a leg to the left, dragging the right to follow suit. We both turn and a couple girls from the long table join us, attempting to fall in step just as seamlessly as I did.

“Rough week?” Meredith asks before grinning over to the flannel-clad girls and their boots that were certainly made more for walking rather than farm work.

“Shop doesn’t run itself,” I say. My sandwich shop is the least of my worries. I keep glancing at the door, waiting for that familiar blonde to walk across the threshold.

The small group of us clink our heels in front and in back then turn to the side.

Meredith delays the turn for a bit, watching as the small group of teen girls join us, and she leans toward me, mumbling, “Nothing like a cute man draggin’ all the young girls out here.”

“Nah,” I say.

“When’re you gonna settle down, Keaton Marks?”

“I guess when I meet the right person.”

With one more turn and a glance toward the entrance doors swinging closed, my words disappear in my throat.

Violet Marie Ellis stands there wearing a short dress, the color funeral black. She’s always veered toward blacks rather than the bright red flannels and brown boots of the local Town & Country couture. Whether the black is a rebellious statement or just a fashion preference, I’m not sure. It could be a sign of long-term mourning, like the death of her former ties to this hometown.

She stands there, eyes squinting as she scans the bar.

When she spots me, she jumps, no doubt shocked to see a familiar face so suddenly. She smiles, slightly raising her small hand in greeting, and my heart sinks down to the creaky hardwood floor. She’s more beautiful than I remember. Her legs are lean and strong, and I can see the deep red lipstick she’s wearing. She would have never worn red lipstick in high school, but it suits her.

Her little black dress looks like it’s meant to be casual based on how she’s paired it with crisp white sneakers, but for a casual outfit, that dress is shorter than it has any right to be. Although I’m not particularly disappointed in how it looks, there’s still a small part of me that wants to tug it down to a more modest length. No man should be staring at her the way I am now.

As if on cue, the door swings open once more and there stands her brother, Asher. He towers over her in height. His resting face is brooding with a quizzical brow and a slight frown—not at all reminiscent of his true, boyish personality. At the moment, he looks like a mountain man ready to destroy the next person who looks at him the wrong way.

Asher hasn’t noticed the way I look at his sister. I try to keep it that way. Around the time Violet was fifteen, he punched a guy who had a crush on her. Punched the guy. I only saw the tail end of the fight as I was dragging Asher away. At the time, Violet was still just a little sister to me as well and I could see why he would hit someone, but it’s a bit different being on the other side now.

I walk over, stretching out my hand, working out the nerves.

“How was the airport?” I ask, stopping short of the pair of siblings.

“Hell,” Asher says through a laugh, his resting face transforming from intense hunter to his usual jovial expression, like night and day. “I’m not leaving this town again if I can help it. Vi can catch a ride next time.”

“Rude,” Violet says. Hearing her voice for the first time in years is almost alarming, yet so familiar all the same. The tone is sharp with sarcasm toward her brother but still has that lilt of softness to it, the kindness of a woman raised right but not afraid to put a man in his place.

She’s more confident, and I like it.

No. No, I can’t.

“Got any plans tonight?” I ask. They both shake their heads, mirroring one another.

“I guess just settling her in for now,” Asher says, putting his hands in his pockets, swinging back on his heels. “But I definitely need a drink or something before I stop by Mom’s house. She’ll want to talk until midnight, I guarantee it.”

“Drink it is,” I say, tossing a wave over to Tom, who is already waving back, a beer on display and waiting for Asher.

“What a saint,” Asher murmurs, more to himself than anyone else, before making his way to the bar, leaving me alone with the beautiful woman in front of me.

Violet also has her hands in the pockets of her dress, mimicking her brother and swinging back on the heels of her white sneakers. She glances left to right before meeting my gaze. She lets out a laugh, and it’s forced. I wonder if it’s weird for her to be back here. The dilapidated ceiling, the walls decorated in all types of old memorabilia from World War II all the way to the framed photos of any celebrity who might have floated through this town. The wall of pictures is small, each one framed in a dark wood that’s faded over the years.

“Well, come here, you big lug,” she finally says, holding out her arms in a welcoming gesture. My heart pounds as I accept her offer, wrapping her in a hug. She smells like lavender, but in the second I take to realize this, I’m already pulling away before the hug goes on a bit too long.

“You survived the plane,” I say.

“Define surviving. Children kicking the back of my seat, turbulence, a bad in-flight movie…” she says, trailing off with a grin. Her petite shoulders rise in a shrug.

“The works, huh?” I say.

“Let’s just say I’m happy to be back on the ground.”

“And back in Foxe Hill?”

She tilts her head side to side as if considering her answer. “I’ve been on the road so long that a friendly face isn’t exactly unwelcome.”

“Wow, ‘not exactly unwelcome’—so kind of you.”

She rolls her eyes in a joking gesture, smiling wide. “Leave your attitude at the door.”

We’re tossing banter back and forth, and it’s different. She’s bolder, more experienced in life. She’s not afraid to bite back.

I didn’t think I could be more attracted to Violet, but it seems I was very much wrong.

“So, how long has it been?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

“Oh, we’re doing small talk now?” she asks, laughing again, light and airy.

“You leave your attitude at the door,” I respond. “We excel at small talk here.”

“That’s good,” she says. “I’m about to get a whole lot more of it soon.”

“Violet!” Todd yells from the bar, throwing a hand in the air in a wave. “Beer?”

“Whiskey,” she calls back. I didn’t expect that from her, but then again what do I know about her now? Since we last spoke, she’s turned of age, she’s had life experiences…is she even the same girl?

“So, how long are you staying?” I ask her. “And what brings you back here?”

She laughs. “You know why I’m here.”

“And I’m just making small talk, remember?” I say with a grin, internally hating all the repetition. Am I incapable of carrying on a conversation?

“I’m hoping to make my second movie,” she says. “I don’t know how long it’ll take, maybe the whole summer.”

“Lucky us.”

This whole thing feels both nostalgic and new all at once. I spent a lot of time with her over summers when we were younger. Once she turned sixteen, Asher convinced me to get her a job at the movie theater. At the time, I was a shift supervisor, and of course I would hire my best friend’s sister. When we worked together, we talked.

I might have been the only person who truly knew she had dreams of making documentaries. I might have been the only soul she told, all while we sat above the theater, just the two of us and the whirring projector.

It’s the same, yet not at all.

“Does everyone know?” she asks, and I sense a bit of unease at the thought, a faltering in her confidence, which has been solid thus far. There’s a crack in the facade, just a glimpse of the eighteen-year-old girl I once knew.

“You know this town—you’re the latest gossip.”

When I look back at her, she’s narrowing her eyes, staring at me. She makes it seem so natural while I know my stares would seem too…well, too something.

“You’re different,” she comments.

“Is that right?” I respond.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, so are you,” I say.

The more she stares at me, the more I realize that, while she may be here all summer, I can’t hang out with her—not if I’m going to feel like this.

Asher is my best friend. Violet is his sister. The last thing any of us needs is for the boat to get rocked after ten years.

“Hopefully I see you around,” she says. With a small smile, she moves toward the bar, and I steal a glance at her ass.

Goddammit.

Violet has no idea she’s about to drag my heart through the mud and the mess.

Two

Violet

Keaton is both identical and completely different from how I remember him, and I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing…though I think it’s safe to say it’s leaning toward being a very, very bad thing.

When I was eleven, just two days into my sixth-grade year, my brother brought home a quiet lanky boy he met in class. In our small town, you rarely see any new faces. The classmates in your kindergarten class are the same kids in sixth grade and eighth grade and twelfth, so when there’s a newcomer, they’re bound to be bombarded with questions and, most of all, nobody is exempt from my brother’s eager personality.

I remember Asher presenting this boy to our parents with pride, like he was a puppy slated for adoption. The boy simply smiled at my brother’s overenthusiasm, only speaking when spoken to and saying “Yes ma’am” or “No ma’am” to my mom whenever she asked him a question. She beamed at that while I, on the other hand, took one look at him and fled from the kitchen without a peep.

Even then, I knew Keaton wasn’t just some boy.

I took to sitting at the top of our staircase, wiping my thick-lensed glasses on my t-shirt, trying to take in the sight of Asher and Keaton sitting cross-legged on the living room floor. They were tapping on their game controllers with enough fervor to break the things. I never cared much about video games, but I did understand that something was different between how Asher played this game and how this new boy played.

Keaton was the calm presence to my brother’s wild energy. I’d hear Asher exclaim that he’d beaten him at the racing game for the third time, but Keaton would still remain quiet, nodding in agreement with a small smile, one small dimple on his left cheek deepening.

Up to that point, I’d had crushes before. One time at vacation bible school, I kissed Joey Nolan underneath the stairwell, but the butterflies were nothing—nothing like the weird flutters running through me looking at my brother’s new best friend. Keaton was unique, and I soaked him up like I’d never seen another boy in my life.

While my dad and brother kept their hair short and trimmed, Keaton’s wild brown hair curled at the nape of his neck. He tended to have a few Band-Aids on his elbows, knees, and ankles. I wore neat white Skechers; he wore untied Converses with laces brown from mud.

I watched my brother and Keaton every Saturday morning when they played video games, saying nothing. Silent as a mouse but sneaky like a fox, watching from afar. One Saturday, I leaned forward a bit too far on the top step and, in doing so, fell down the stairs, tumbling until I caught myself on the last stair, my knobby knees skinned with carpet burn and my face hot from embarrassment.

“Are you okay?” Keaton asked. After a month of coming by our house, those were the first words he said to me. I did not respond. Not only was I sprawled out in an embarrassing position, I had also lost my glasses in the fall and was left hopelessly blind. I was too scared to move, let alone pass my hand over the ground in front of me in some pathetic gesture reminiscent of Velma from Scooby-Doo.

I remember Keaton handing me my glasses, my hands fumbling to take them from him, and the first thing I saw clearly once my vision returned was his legs in front of me. They were strong, the legs of a kid who spent a lot of time outdoors.

Based on what I saw at First Stop last night, his legs are still just as strong. And, unfortunately, my stomach still flips at the sight of him. Though everything seems the same, it’s all so different as well. Keaton is more muscular than I remember. His biceps now look like mountains atop his arms, pulling his black shirt taut at every peak and letting the material settle in every valley. He’s traded his long brown hair for short locks and a rugged beard. He’s aged well, a walking cover model masquerading as your average Joe.

And I’m still just Asher’s little sister.

This is made even more apparent when I wake up in my old bedroom, startled awake by the sound of my mom rummaging around in her bathroom. Every single sound can be heard through the old home’s thin walls, but it’s always been this way. Let’s just say I didn’t sneak many guys into my bedroom in high school.

I roll over, resting my arm under my head and glancing around the room. Stuffed toys from my childhood are lumped together pyramid-style courtesy of my mom’s organization. There’s my ancient writing desk stacked with a mess of papers, no doubt used as a makeshift junk landing zone during my absence. The bookcase is filled with crochet tutorial magazines; those are not mine either.

The walls are the only areas unclaimed by my mom since I graduated and moved across the country. They serve as an archival collage of my life journey thus far. The wallpaper, barely visible behind papers and posters, is a pastel rainbow I pasted on at the age of seven when I was sure without a doubt that the Lisa Frank trend would never die. On top of that are doodles based off of Disney classics, likely traced over VHS covers, but those are covered with the top-most layer of promotional movie posters from documentary directors like Scorsese and Kopple.

These directors are prolific, and I’ve created one smash hit.

That’s it.

The name ‘Violet Ellis’ in big letters…on one poster about education reform.

I roll away from the posters only to be greeted by more on the other wall. The faces on them taunt me. Why haven’t you made more awesome movies like me, Violet?

I bury my head in the pillows, attempting to hide from my shame.

One idea. That’s all I got.

I came home to find something, anything, to inspire a new movie. Plus, my parents offered to house me while I live off the royalties from my first film.

Let’s call it a sabbatical. A working sabbatical.

While I produced the first movie on a budget, I now have more involvement and interest—interest that comes in the form of deadlines that are not self-imposed.

The buzzing of my phone next to me reminds me of exactly this.

I pick it up, seeing an email from my new backers, Sean Townsie and Dean Fratesi. Yes, those are their real names.

I quickly learned after attempting to get in touch with the two of them that Sean and Dean do not text. Their only method of communication is email. Always email. But, there’s never a greeting or signature. It’s just the message as abbreviated as possible—almost like a text, if you can imagine it.

The email reads: time 4 a call?

It’s early here, which means it could still qualify as a ‘late night’ from their time zone. Funnily enough, I’m not surprised. They once asked me to join them on a morning jog at four a.m. And, yes, I reluctantly went, because when in L.A., you run at four a.m. for work meetings.

I sit up, corralling my hair into a halfway presentable bun before dialing one of their numbers and calling. It doesn’t matter who it is; they will be together.

When the monotone ringing stops, I’m greeted by two men sitting on a couch, as expected. They’re shoulder to shoulder, which is not uncommon, seemingly stuck together as if they’re conjoined twins. They’re not even related.

Fact number two about Sean and Dean: They do not chat. They video-call. There are no exceptions.

“Vi!” Dean calls out. I only know it’s him from the side-swept bangs.

“Ellis!” Sean yells. He prefers the shaved head and backward ballcap look, as well as the backward way of addressing anyone. I don’t think he’s ever called me by my first name.

“Hi, guys,” I say, giving a small wave into the camera.

“How are you settling in out there?” Sean asks.

“Experiencing the small-town life?” Dean follows up.

“How’re the chickens?”

“Or cows?”

Sean and Dean are like the personification of when someone asks if you’ve actually ever seen two specific people in the same room, as if to imply they might be the same person—except I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sean and Dean more than three or four feet apart at any given time, and I still struggle to think they’re not from the same egg.

They go back and forth with guessing at the intricacies of “small-town life” until there’s enough of a pause for me to pop in.

“I’m settling in fine,” I say. “Just getting things unpacked.”

“Great, we have news,” they continue on, breezing past any other niceties. “We’re still talking to a few others, but I think we’re gonna have a really good crew for you.”

“Oh, wow, that’s great!” A crew. I can’t even imagine having my own crew. That was the first thing they hooked me with when they proposed backing with me funds for my next documentary. It was a one-man project the first time around, and I have no desire to go through that again.

“We’ll keep you posted,” Sean says.

Dean shifts into frame. “How’s another meeting in two weeks or so, huh? Maybe get the creative juices flowing and send us what you have.”

My heart sinks. “Sure thing.”

“We trust you,” Sean says.

Dean nods. “Yeah, get that brain pumping, and we’ll talk to you later.”

“Sounds great.”

No, it doesn’t.

I flop back on my bed and wish for nothing more than to melt into it. It takes a bit more rolling around, kicking the covers, and eventually losing them to the floor before I grab my laptop and open a new document.

My fingers hover over the keys for what might be five, ten, or thirty minutes.

Nothing. I got nothing.

I hop out of bed and decide to go to the one place that might give me some inspiration. After tossing on some high-waisted jeans and a black crop top, throwing my blonde hair in a slightly neater top knot, and grabbing a light jacket, I head down the stairs, stopping to see a scribbled note on the foyer table.

Vi,

Left you the van. Have fun, and remember: You’re an Ellis. The Ellis family are winners.

Love,

Daddy

Well at least he has faith in my directorial skills.

Next to the note is a car key. I loop it on my fob and walk out the front door onto the porch, where my mom sits in her Adirondack chair. Her coffee cup rests on the chair’s arm, and her glasses are slid to the end of her nose so she can concentrate on the phone only a couple inches from her face.

“Look at you! Up and at ’em even on your first day back,” she says, putting the phone in her lap and picking up the coffee cup adorned with mums, which I truly believe she bought with an intended pun in mind. “I thought you would sleep in.”

“Have I ever been one to sleep much past when the birds wake up?” I ask, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “This movie isn’t gonna make itself.”

I internally cringe at myself.

“That’s my girl. Dad left you the van,” she says, motioning her cup toward the side driveway where my dad’s old navy blue van is parked. “Washed it and filled up the tank for you. He’s riding his Harley today.”

“Is he hitting his midlife crisis?”

“Hit, hitting, about to hit…it’s all blending together at this point,” she says with a wave of her hand.

I hold up the key with a smile. “Well, I’ll thank him when he gets home.”

“What’s on the agenda today?”

“Research,” I say.

“Do you think you could be home in time for dinner?” she asks. “I think Asher wants to take you to the bonfire tonight.”

“The bonfire?” I ask.

“Over at Kayla’s?” she says, blinking. “I thought Asher would have told you. That boy…”

Asher did not tell me, but I don’t need to have Kayla’s Friday night bonfire explained—I’m sure it’s the same as it ever was. Bonfire and beers at Kayla’s was a post-football-game tradition where Asher and his friends—and me tagging along—would sneak alcoholic drinks and we’d all get a small buzz. I think what I do need explained is why every person I went to high school with is still out here making bonfires on a Friday night when we don’t go to football games anymore.

“Kayla still does those?” I ask.

“Oh, you know that girl,” she says, as if that’s all that needs to be said on the subject. I don’t press further.

“Well, sure, I’ll be back for dinner.” What else would I be doing? I just woke up in my childhood bedroom and I’m talking about a high school football party.

“Good. Have a nice day, dear.” With a nod, Mom pulls her phone back up and her glasses dip down to the edge of her button nose once more. I imagine Sheryl Ellis is two cups of coffee away from tending to her garden in the back and relocating to the kitchen for morning dishes. This is my mom’s usual schedule, and I bet it hasn’t changed in the past decade. She likes her routine, and she likes it completed early.

I drive down the road in my dad’s old van, flipping through the radio stations. It’s the same car I drove in high school, and it still doesn’t have a Bluetooth connector or an auxiliary cord, just local radio playing Top 40 hits. It’s the same music that blares in every department store, and I recognize some of the pop songs from my tenure in retail. Even four years later, they are the same songs that pounded in my head as I plotted out my first movie on receipts between ringing up customers.

The van rumbles into the empty public parking lot on Main Street ten minutes later, scarce traffic to be seen and stoplights still blinking red with no residents around to abide by them. It’s too early for even the intersections to function, though it does seem emptier than I remember. It’s a bit eerie.

I step out into the cool morning air, rubbing my arms and walking down the familiar alley behind the shops toward the local movie theater. I reach the back door, turn the rusted handle, and smile when it still clicks without any resistance, creaking outward as I pull the door toward me.

The lock has been broken for this long, and I’m somehow not surprised.

Sliding in, I let the door close behind me. The lights are off, but I hear sounds coming down the hallway from Viewing Room 1—one of two, to be exact. I had expected to load up a movie on my own, but when I pull the door open, there’s already a black and white film on the big screen, and illuminated in the crowd is another person.

My stomach drops, and for a second I consider turning and leaving. I wonder if this is considered trespassing. I’ve always seen the local theater as my home away from home, but it’s been ten years since I left. Who is the owner now? Are they the kind of small-town hero to instantly call the cops, or are they forgiving?

I slowly shift my foot backward, but before I can turn, the door behind me shuts and the silhouetted person gives a shudder before twisting in my direction. My heart pounds and I will it to stop, but once I realize exactly who it is watching movies at close to eight in the morning, my heart only beats harder. The projector light shines on the familiar jawline and newly muscular arms that are even more enticing when cast in such a harsh shadow.

“I should have known,” Keaton calls. “One day here and you’re already breaking in.”

His voice carries across the theater like an echo. It’s not louder than the voices on screen, but the sound still rumbles in my chest more than the classic score coming through the speakers.

“You never fixed the lock.”

He chuckles in response as I walk down the aisle toward the chair next to him and then he pats the seat in a welcoming gesture. “If I fixed the lock, how would I watch movies first thing in the morning?”

“Fair,” I say, sitting down. Being so close to him is odd, but also a welcome sensation. Keaton always smelled like the outdoors with tones of bark and sweat, but now the scent seems more artificial, as if he finally found a cologne that took all the comforting flavors of nature and eliminated the boyish notes of childhood adventure.

He’s the same boy and yet…now a man. I shift in my seat, trying to find some form of comfort. He glances at me, a smile tugging at the side of his mouth.

“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.

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!”

“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 left 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.

I bolt behind a streetlamp, hoping this will be enough cover to hide me and my voyeuristic ways, but he’s already grinning mid-laugh. Oh right—this isn’t a cartoon and I can’t hide because I’m not the size of a lamppost. He gives me the biggest dimpled smile behind a hairnet for his beard—oh my god what in the world—and a wave.

I can’t pretend I don’t see him, so I return the wave. Could I run back to the van without it being weird? Maybe slink underneath the bench? Probably not.

I cross the street, walking in with the small bell dinging above me. The sound mirrors Keaton’s bright and sunny demeanor.

“Welcome in,” the teen says beside me. It’s dull, and I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t want to be spending my mornings working food service either. He looks younger; he must be in a work-study program, which almost makes it worse. The poor kid probably knows he could be at school with his friends instead.

“What’s a lady like you doing in a place like this?” Keaton asks, snapping me back to reality. He’s moving around with such finesse—taking the bread out of the oven, replacing containers of vegetables, and walking through the lobby to pour some sugar in the sweet tea dispenser. It’s like some elegant dance, and I can’t help but notice every one of his muscles performing it as he travels throughout the store.

His hair is shoved under a backward cap, winging out beside his ears, which is adorable. However, his beard is also in an upside-down hairnet, so maybe a bit less sexy on that front.

“It looks like your beard has a hat on.”

“Don’t make it feel bad,” he says. “So what are you up to?”

“Moseying around,” I respond, shrugging.

“Working on things?”

“Waiting on my car-horn moment, I think.” He stops his work rhythm to raise an eyebrow. I laugh. “You know how when a car honks at you if you’re driving real slow, you suddenly just—” I stiffen my limbs like a deer in headlights.

“What does that mean?”

“That moment when you’re shocked back to reality,” I say, palms up in a ‘you know what I mean’ gesture. I toss a hand at him when he doesn’t react. “Anyway, I think I’ll know when the idea hits me.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Nah,” I ask, leaning on the counter next to the register. “Looks good, though.”

He winks. “Just let me make you something.”

May as well call me a patty melt because I am oozing to the ground in a pile of nerves and adoration. Who winks anymore? Keaton does, and I’m unsure why no other man in the world is following suit. What a perfect, underused gesture.

Keaton whips up something simple with bacon, explaining his recipe aloud along the way and making me promise not to repeat it because it is top secret.

“I made Matt here sign a non-disclosure agreement, didn’t I?”

Matt, the bored kid, gives the first smile I’ve seen since walking in. Keaton has that effect on people.

I take a seat at an empty booth and Keaton joins me, telling his employee he can take a break if he likes. Matt grabs his phone from under the register shelf faster than Keaton can even finish his sentence, exiting out the back door.

I look around. Everything is clean, just as his grandpa always kept it, but this is very clean—almost to the point where it seems untouched.

“The shop is a bit emptier than I remember,” I comment, glancing around once more.

He exhales. “Yeah, Foxe Hill has been getting a bit worse each year.”

“Why’s that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Dunno. People leave, the appeal isn’t as good… Heck, maybe small towns just aren’t where people wanna be.”

“Not progressive enough?”

He laughs. “We’re definitely not some thriving city. We don’t have cool hangout spots with dog parks or VR bars.”

“Big mistake.”

He laughs. “We’re trying, but…not touristy enough, I guess.”

“It does have something about it,” I muse, glancing out the window. “There’s a reason people stay. I mean, you love it, right?”

“Well, of course I love it,” he says, a smile pulling at his mouth, and I can tell he means it. He’s always had some type of connection to this place. The people, his grandpa’s shop, the tight-knit social circle—he thrives here. “Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of town people want to stay in.”

I see the longing in Keaton’s eyes as he looks out the window. In his pensive thoughts, his jaw ticks slightly, as if the subject makes him uncomfortable, possibly mournful. He’s this weird mix of sadness and beauty, and I can’t turn away. When he catches me staring at him, a slow smile spreads across his face, starting with just his lips then extending out to a dimple. I can’t help but mirror the expression.

“How’s the sandwich?” he asks, pointing at it on the plate in front of me.

I shake my head. I hadn’t even realized he set it down.

“Oh, right,” I say, picking it up and eating it and, holy moly it’s like heaven in between slices of soft, butter-doused bread.

“It’s wonderful,” I say. “Seriously. This is talent.”

He grins. “Glad you like it.”

Keaton throws his arm over the back of the chair. His biceps are on full, bulked-out display, tightening against his black work tee. Are muscles like that even fair?

“Your first night back, you said I’d changed,” he says. “In what way?”

I swear the thermostat in the store must currently read well above one hundred degrees with that type of talk.

“I could ask the same question,” I respond, remembering his automatic response at the time.

“You first.”

I don’t want to say. I don’t want him to know that while he’s still the same boy who made silly jokes, reveled in movies with me in an empty theater, and gave me chill bumps, I now feel something much more than a teenage crush.

So, I don’t respond, instead opening my mouth and shutting it again, unable to form adequate words without completely embarrassing myself. He lets out a chuckle.

Suddenly the front doorbell chimes behind me, and when I turn to look, startled by the sudden interruption, I see my brother and his horrible timing.

“Fancy seeing you here!” Asher calls, boyish grin spread wide, waltzing over to our table and sliding into the booth beside me. I feel guilty, like he caught us doing something. But, doing what? Having a conversation?

“I forgot about your Wednesday breaks,” Keaton says, getting up from his seat and wiping his hands on his black jeans before running a quick hand through his hair. “Turkey as usual?”

“Nah, don’t work. Hang out with us!” Asher calls.

But Keaton shakes his head, moving back behind the counter and pulling out some bread. “I’ve got you covered, bud.”

It is such an instantaneous move—so much so that I wonder if he’s avoiding Asher.

“What were you two talking about?” Asher asks, twisting to look at me. His eyes are narrowed, and the suspicion makes me uneasy.

Suspicious of what, though? There’s nothing to warrant suspicion. It’s not like we were eye-fucking each other across the table. That’s only in my dreams, apparently.

“The town,” I say quickly.

“Oh right, yeah,” Asher says. That answer must be satisfactory because he glances out the large window. “Poor Foxe Hill.”

I cross my arms and look outside once more. No people. Barely any cars. The stoplights are blinking red, which now makes me think they might be broken instead of just operating at a time with lower traffic, but it’s probably just because the town is so vacant.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“On Wednesdays, I have a long break between classes, so I hang out with Keaton. Speaking of which, I overheard those girls talking about you again,” Asher says, nodding to Keaton and reaching to take a cup from behind the counter to help himself to some water.

“What girls?” I ask, probably a bit too eager. I glance over at Keaton, who continues to focus on the sandwich, not looking up.

“He stopped by my class a month ago, and this group of girls won’t stop talking about him,” Asher continues, plopping back into the booth.

“You probably shouldn’t be prying into their lives,” I say, a slight tinge of green flowing through me.

“They’re like chickens with their heads cut off.” My brother’s hands wave in the air as if this topic has exhausted him already. “You try ignoring those conversations when they’re front and center in the lecture hall. God, I can’t imagine what they’d sound like if you actually asked one of them out.”

“Maybe a high-pitched dog whistle,” I supply.

Keaton laughs, closing the finished sandwich and putting it on a tray before sliding it across the counter. “I’m not really into college freshmen.”

Asher leans out of his seat to grab the tray with a thanks. He takes a large bite before he even sits back down, talking with his mouth full. “Hey, ahm jus’ puttin’ it out there.”

“Geez, Asher,” I say, cringing at his full mouth but also trying to distract myself from the image of Keaton with a woman more than a decade his junior. Young, beautiful, and probably very limber.

Shudder.

Asher shrugs. “He’s gotta put himself out there at some point.”

“Okay, well, what about you?” I ask. “Hypocrite.”

“Where am I supposed to meet people? School? Yeah right.”

“Date a hot teaching assistant.”

“Violet, come on.”

Keaton leans against the closed industrial toaster oven, his arms crossed and something bordering on the edge of a playful smile pointed right in my direction. “Things will happen when they happen.”

It’s difficult to look at him and not wonder if he’s thinking something sly. Does that look mean something more, or am I just hopeful?

“So, how’s the movie coming along, Vi?” Asher asks, mouth still crowded with more bread, turkey, and tomato than necessary.

The dreaded question. I shift in my seat, but Keaton answers for me. “She’s waiting on her car-horn moment.”

Asher laughs. “What?”

I feel my face burn slightly red, but it’s not from the phrase. It’s something else—maybe the fact that Keaton was listening to me, like maybe he repeated the wacky phrase because he understands my crazy.

“It’s nothing,” I say.

“Right,” Asher says, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m just…uninspired, I guess.” I shrug.

“Well hey, let’s go out, huh?” Asher asks. “We’ll get some drinks, clear your head for a bit.”

I take a second to answer, but Keaton chimes in before I can. “Could be fun.”

I consider the idea. Some solid brother-sister time would be nice to take my mind off of things, and maybe letting loose will unscramble my thoughts some. Maybe it’s the clarity I need to get over this writer’s block…and his best friend.

“Why not?” I say.

“Awesome.” Asher twists around, and my heart sinks because I instantly know what’s coming next. “Keaton, you in?”

How stupid am I? Of course Keaton is invited. He’s my brother’s best friend, his partner in crime.

“Sure,” he says.

Finding a way to destress tonight? Not likely.

Six

Keaton

I keep telling myself I am capable of bottling my attraction to Violet, but it’s difficult to maintain my resolve when Asher insists on going to a bar with Violet the next night—and not just the local bar with the friendly faces of Todd the bartender and his wife Meredith. He wants to go to the one just outside of town that is actually busy on Thursdays and borderline encourages rowdy behavior.

I didn’t say no. In fact, I willed the entire event to happen. I suggested it then happily agreed to tag along as well. I want to spend more time with Violet. I can’t stop myself. I’m like a car driving full speed, careening toward a brick wall but just too stubborn to stop. I’m a masochist.

When I roll up in my Jeep, I have to tighten my grip on the wheel to keep from staring at Violet. She’s wearing pants that are tight enough to show every crest and valley of her hips and a dark maroon shirt tied in the middle and cropped—just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her flat stomach.

This was my idea. I can spend time with her in that outfit with no flirting. I am fully capable, right?

She shifts in the back seat, twisting to look out the window. A rush of lavender-scented body wash drifts past, carried up to the front by the wind blowing through the vehicle.

Hell, I’m a strong man, but I’m not that strong.

We arrive and meet up with Kayla and Joey, who are proud to say they got a babysitter for the night and are, in their words, “letting loose like two raccoons in a trashcan full of fresh leftovers.” This isn’t my first night out with those two and, true to form, they scatter to the bar for their first round.

I join, taking whatever Joey has already ordered for me, and with one final look at Violet’s tight pants, I decide to discreetly separate from the group, ascending the staircase to the second level. I need to get some air—at least as much as you can get in a smoky bar. This might have been my idea, but I’m starting to regret it.

From the railing, I look down at the dance floor below, bustling with individuals and couples line dancing, swinging each other around…a general happy chaos set to the honky-tonk tunes blasting over the speakers. I like this place, but coming here feels like a betrayal of First Stop, like I should be line dancing with Meredith on a nearly empty dance floor. Instead, I’m buying overpriced alcohol and watching everyone and their mother bombard this dance floor. I would like it if I didn’t feel so guilty.

Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly see Violet leaning on the railing beside me. I jump.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

She laughs as we observe the dance floor together. We’re close enough for conversation, which, given the volume of the music, means she’s only inches from my face.

“I’ve never been here,” she says. “I don’t even know how to line dance.”

“Wow, what idiot brought you here?” I ask, grinning.

“You did.”

“Oh, right.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s not all bad. I like the company, even if you did abandon us.”

She places a hand on my forearm, shaking it slightly as if to exaggerate her point. My arm flexes in response, immediately sending my blood flow downward and creating pressure against my zipper.

“I just like people watching,” I say. “Didn’t mean to leave.”

I look around for Asher, hoping he isn’t watching, and see he’s too busy with a busty brunette wearing studded cowgirl boots and hoop earrings. He’s whispering in her ear, and she’s laughing. I could probably be kissing Violet’s neck and he would never notice. The thought spurs my erection more.

Dammit.

I clear my throat. “So, tell me something.”

She quirks up an eyebrow. “Tell you what?”

“What’s on your mind?” I ask.

She laughs. “Movie stuff.”

“Go on.”

She looks at me for a moment with a slight tilt to her head. Her hand is still on my arm, and I wonder if she’s even aware of it. As I look at her, taking every bit of her in, glancing from her eyes down to her lips, her smile suddenly fades away. She removes her hand.

“Just…stuff. I don’t know. Maybe I should start looking around town for inspiration, film random footage—anything,” she says, letting out a large exhalation. “Maybe then something will come to me.”

“Need a tour guide?” I ask.

“Nah, you have a job.” She says it almost too fast for my own comfort.

I shake my head. “I can make time.”

“Sure,” she says, pursing her lips. “Show me around the town I grew up in.”

“Do I sense sarcasm?”

“Never.” A grin curves her lips, showing off her high cheekbones and the small blush adorning them.

The longer we stand there, taking in our surroundings, the more she shifts from foot to foot and the closer we get without even realizing it. The outsides of our arms touch, her small shoulder pressed midway up my arm. It means nothing to her, I’m sure, but as I stand there, I wish more of my body was pressed against her.

I shoot a quick glance over at Asher. He’s still distracted by the brunette, not even looking over at us. He trusts me with his sister. He trusts that I can be a stand-in brother figure. I would never let anything happen to her…right?

But I wonder if he would notice. I wonder if he would ultimately care. I wonder if it would be better to have me with his sister than some random guy.

Or maybe he’d just hunt me down and kill me.

But something inside me—the part that’s still arm to arm with Violet—suddenly doesn’t care.

Fuck it.

“Do you want to dance?” I ask.

Violet laughs without hesitation, but the tail end is stilted like she suddenly comprehends the sincerity in my voice. Her smile turns downward until it’s transformed from humor to almost concern.

“Oh, you’re serious.” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“Absolutely,” I say, holding out my hand, waiting for her to take it.

“Keaton, I will look like a fish out of water—flopping around, mouth open, getting the remnants of the sea everywhere with no concern for others.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

Her eyes dart from the dance floor below back to me. In fact, it’s done several times, to the point that I wonder if maybe she’s considering jumping off the balcony instead, anything to reject my offer.

But then she sighs. “Fine, but I’m doing my own thing. Those line dances aren’t for me.”

“Whatever you want.” I shift my hand closer to her, slightly tossing it back and forth as if rolling dice. In a sense, I guess I am. My eyes dart over to Asher: still lost in the neck of the beautiful stranger. We’re not doing anything wrong, I tell myself. This is fine.

When I look back to Violet, the side of her mouth has twitched up in a half-smile, and I know I’m in. Her hand slowly slides into mine. It’s so soft, so small, and my fingers practically swallow it as I close my hand around hers and walk her down the stairs to the ground floor that’s filled with shuffling people and perfectly coordinated efforts.

We jump toward the back and I try to find my footing in line with the rest. It’s a simple line dance, but when I find Violet once more, she’s lost herself in something else. It’s out of sync with the music, but she’s stepping around in some type of pattern and casting a glance at me, cringing.

“I’m doing the Electric Slide,” she says, and I laugh. “That’s good enough, right?” There’s enough room between us and the rest of the crowd that I mimic her movements and join in.

“The Electric Slide goes with anything.”

She may not be able to line dance, but once she gets past the initial embarrassment, she moves with so much energy and optimism that it’s hard not to let it infect you. She’s the giggling, bubbly outlier trying to fit herself in however she can—even if it’s not at all.

I almost forgot how Violet makes me feel. It’s not just her beauty or how smart she is; it’s the hidden depth of personality only the lucky few get to see. She was always quiet, burying herself in schoolwork and the part-time job at the theater. But when it was just the two of us, when you could really pin her down with a one-on-one conversation, that’s when she would shine.

This isn’t the same Violet from ten years ago; it’s all the parts of her I liked, except now everyone can see it. They—whoever the general ‘they’ are, the people writing in a yearbook or hugging after some emotional moment—always say to “Never change.” I disagree with that. This is a change I can’t help but support.

The music stops, and I can’t remember what the song was. I don’t even know how fast it was or what the line dance should have been, but a much more slow-paced tune now plays from the speakers and suddenly her giddy grin shifts. Her eyes meet mine and I can sense something unsure, maybe even nervous about how we act next.

I’ve made up my mind already, though.

I walk toward her, grabbing the hand by her side and placing my other on her hip. She wordlessly lets me.

Her waist is so tiny. I’m not sure when my hand drifted there, but our eyes haven’t shifted away from each other’s since the start of the song. Are there flecks of green in hers or is that just the lightshow behind us, drifting across the dance floor, illuminating our movements as if we’re the only couple in the room?

Couple. I like the sound of it, even if it is just in my head.

“I didn’t know you slow danced,” she says, looking down at my boots.

“What guy in Foxe Hill doesn’t slow dance?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I’ve never slow danced with anyone.”

“And how is it?” I ask.

She smirks. “Could be worse.”

I roll my eyes, nodding and biting the inside of my cheek. “Wow, thanks.”

She barks out a quick laugh. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re ruthless right now, you know that?” I say.

“Most guys like that.”

Her statement stops me. I’m still growing accustomed to Violet’s inappropriate jokes, her hints at a lack of innocence. Who has she dated? What lucky men have gotten to see that side of her? I may never be those men, but I am the one dancing with her.

“Most guys do,” I say.

When the spotlight flashes over us, I notice that her face is flushed.

Violet’s slow smile spreads once more, something sly as if we’re sharing a secret just between the two of us. “Are you like most guys?”

It’s an odd feeling to hear her say that, but not unwelcome. We shared a lot of things in our high school days, but we didn’t share this. We didn’t flirt. We didn’t even entertain the idea of banter with an eyebrow lifted in curiosity and a smirk I can’t contain.

And then the damn song ends. The slow dancing is no longer appropriate as guitars pick up once again and more people rush the floor with yet another established dance routine I don’t give two shits about mirroring.

My hand is still on her waist. Her palm is still rested in mine.

I want to kiss her. I want to know what her lips taste like.

Hooked together by their hands, a couple brushes past us to rush the dance floor, and it’s enough to yank us back to reality. We both step away from each other simultaneously. She runs a hand through her hair, looking away then back. I keep an eye on her and the moment passes between us, fleeting before it’s gone once more.

She leaves the dance floor, and I follow. We’re at the bar, she’s ordering a rum and Coke, and I call for another beer.

When she twists to meet my gaze again, I can feel the electricity. There are no words, just our eyes dancing over one another. I don’t know what’s changed, and I don’t know what even needs to be said between us. What I do know is that Asher pops up at the most inopportune moment, the brunette on his arm and car keys dangling from her ring finger.

Asher, goddammit.

“Hey Keaton, we’re heading out. Would you mind dropping Violet off at home?”

One hit after the other.

“No problem,” I say, holding back anything that might give us away. Give what away, I’m unsure. Nothing happened and nothing is going to happen…right?

But my stomach drops and guilt floods me when he says, “Thanks. You’re such a good friend.”

Go me.

Asher pats me on the shoulder, waves a heavy hand at his sister, and then walks off with the brunette in tow.

I turn back to Violet, and she’s already putting down a credit card and throwing back her drink.

“I’m ready when you are,” she says.

I push her card back to her and pull mine out instead, handing it off to the bartender before she can protest. It’s hard to say anything anyway with the music getting more obnoxiously loud as the next song comes on. I get my card back, down my glass, and we head outside to the Jeep.

Kayla and Joey are out front. He has her pressed against the wall with one arm to the left of her head, and he’s flirting with her like they’re teenagers again—the only difference being his slight beer belly pressing against her, which wouldn’t have happened ten years ago.

“Take it easy,” I say, giving him a pat on the shoulder. I don’t think he notices.

It’s hard to think of anything else the entire ride back to her parents’ house. I wish we could have kept dancing. I wish I could have answered her simple question on the dance floor.

Are you like most guys?

Even now I can’t think of some clever response to that quip. I wish I had been quicker to the draw. Most of all, I wish she would stop leaning out the window because her top is riding up and I can just barely see the underside of her lacy bra.

“I don’t have a tent,” she suddenly says, letting out a large exhalation and rolling her window up. The car is suddenly very quiet with the lack of wind noise.

“What?” I ask, gripping the wheel when she tosses her hair over her shoulder. The fact that she still emits the strong scent of lavender after a night of dancing is baffling but not unwelcome.

“We’re going camping next weekend and I don’t have a tent. Want to go get one with me?”

“Are we taking a big city trip?” I let out a chuckle.

“Oh, I forgot it’s the ‘big city’ for you folk.”

I laugh. “Well aren’t you the queen of insults tonight.”

“Doesn’t seem to be a problem with you.” She smiles but quickly looks away.

I would give my left arm to have any form of a problem with this woman. Maybe then I could stay away.

She shifts in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs before settling in, and I’m trying whatever I can to hide the blood rushing down south and stop my head from swimming with thoughts of the most inappropriate nature.

“Sure, we can go get you a tent,” I say. “How’s Sunday?”

“I can do Sunday.”

“Perfect.”

I’m starting to believe digging my own grave is my special talent.

Seven

Keaton

I pick Violet up bright and early on Sunday morning. Even though the sun is shining outside, there’s still a cool breeze and I can see my breath with each exhalation. I feel like a teenager again, picking up a girl at her parents’ house. I even called her house last night, landline and all. It was weird; I always used to ask for Asher as a kid, but this time, when I requested his sister instead, it felt all too real to me. I could hear the sound of her mom calling to her and then the fumbling of the cord on the phone when she picked up.

“Hello?”

Her voice was soft and apprehensive, like she couldn’t imagine who would be calling for her. In her defense, who would call the landline asking for her? She only got here one week ago.

“It’s Keaton,” I said.

There was a beat of silence before she said, “Oh! Right, Keaton! Hi.”

I laughed. “Hey stranger.”

She may as well have been a stranger. The previous few days had felt like they lasted forty years. It was all I could do to not imagine every bit of her completely naked on my bed, maybe in the back of the shop, or even in the projector room.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice muffled, likely pulling the phone closer to her mouth. “It’s weird getting a call here. Do you not have my cell number?”

“No. Never needed it, I guess.”

“I can give it to you if you want,” she said. “So you don’t have to call here.”

“Sure,” I said.

“So, why the call?”

“Just checking when you want me to pick you up tomorrow.”

“I’m a morning person, so the earlier the better. We can roam the city beforehand or something,” she suggested.

“Yeah, I don’t see why not.”

There was yet another pause, and I wondered if maybe this call was awkward for her. It felt oddly intimate, like a house call is a thing only couples do. I suppose for the most part, with a guy and girl, it is.

“I can come by around eight,” I said, breaking the silence.

She agreed.

Twelve hours later, I’m rubbing my hands together to keep warm as I blow hot breath into them. The spring mornings haven’t seemed to catch up with the hot, humid days.

I text her cell phone number—which she gave me prior to hanging up—so I don’t potentially wake her family.

The door opens not even a minute later, the screen door swinging open as well, and it whines a bit as it shuts behind her.

Unsurprisingly, she’s stunning. Tall black boots, black skinny jeans, and a fitted leather jacket with a gray hood. Her hair lies in loose waves down her shoulders.

She opens the door, sliding into the passenger seat. “Let’s get this show on the road!” Violet is already adjusting the radio station.

“Hey now, didn’t anyone teach you not to mess with the music when you’re not the driver?” I ask, playfully pushing her hand off the radio dial.

“If I’m gonna be in here for almost an hour, I’m playing good music,” she says defiantly, pushing my hand away as well. The touch itself is enough to make me back down. It only takes me five more minutes to realize she changes the station every minute or so.

“Can you not keep it on one song?” I ask with a laugh, shaking my head as she glances over at me, eyebrow lifted.

“I like variety,” she says.

“You can never just be still, can you?”

“And why should I?” she asks.

“Maybe to enjoy peace?”

She shuffles her feet, pulling her knees up to her chin.

I shake my head. “Nope. Feet down. I’ve seen those horrible pictures online. If we get in a wreck, your knees will shatter.” She tilts her head side to side as if considering the pros and cons of comfort versus danger—and possibly listening versus being stubborn—and eventually lowers them back to the floorboard.

When she stretches her legs out once more, she crosses her arms then uncrosses them before putting them on either side of her body.

“Do you even want to be here?” I ask.

Violet’s head jerks over to me instantly, as if offended I would even suggest such a thing. “I do. I’m just…fidgety.”

“No shit.” I chuckle.

“Well, let’s talk,” she says, twisting her torso toward me. “Tell me what you’ve been up to these past ten years.”

I hum as I think. There’s everything yet nothing to tell her. I work in my grandfather’s sandwich shop, and the most excited I’ve been in years was when Asher told me she was coming back home.

“This and that,” I say noncommittally. “Mostly working. Been getting more involved in the community.”

“Wow, so specific.”

“What can I say? I excel at details.”

“But really,” she presses. “What’s new?”

I smile, more to myself than her.

“Just been here,” I answer. “Home.”

She pauses, looking back out at the long road ahead of us.

I sigh. “The truth is, there hasn’t been much. I work, sometimes hang out with Asher and Kayla’s crew, sometimes drop by First Stop to see Meredith and Todd…” I trail off. “It’s easy going. I like it.”

“I’ll accept that answer, I guess,” she says, smiling.

“Your turn. Tell me something.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. What are you thinking?” I ask.

She smiles. “I’m just looking outside. Nothing, really.”

“Come on, you’ve got be thinking about something.”

She rolls her head on the seat to tilt her gaze back toward me. “Why can’t you ask simple questions like ‘What’s your favorite color?’ or ‘If you could have any superpower, what would it be?’”

“Those are boring topics,” I say, shaking my head and leaning my elbow on the center console. “I bet your thoughts are more interesting.”

“I’m just thinking about nothing,” she says with a smile.

“Brainstorming?” I ask.

She pauses for a second, her smile fading slightly, before exhaling and saying, “Trying to.”

“Sorry—”

“It’s alright. Just got a bit of writer’s block.”

I don’t push the subject further, and the ride is considerably quieter for the next twenty minutes.

But she still switches stations every song or two.

We pay an obscene amount for parking once we arrive and walk the streets. Some places are open, but not many as it’s a Sunday morning.

We stop by a bookstore and stroll through the stacks. The place has two floors, which seems excessive to me. The bottom floor houses best-sellers, stationery, and kitschy items like a bobblehead Shakespeare and a mini Jane Austen. When we venture to the top floor, I notice that’s where most of the general fiction genres are, including the children’s section, brightly colored and decorated with cardboard trees.

We aimlessly walk from aisle to aisle, and I see how she peruses each section, her hand ghosting over the spines, occasionally walking slower to admire a cover on display. It’s like she’s imagining each possibility of a new story—a new narrative.

“Let’s play a game,” I say.

Violet twists on her heel, lifting an eyebrow as she does. She didn’t have that habit ten years ago. It’s new, reflecting her newfound confidence, and it’s attractive, like she’s presenting a challenge. I don’t think she knows the effect it has on me, how seductive it seems.

“A game?” she asks.

“I pick out three books from three different genres I think might be your favorite, and you tell me if I’m right.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “Fun way to get to know each other.”

“Shouldn’t you already know me?” she asks. Yet another challenge.

“Indulge me.”

She looks around the store, head tilted to the side in curiosity. “Fine, then I’ll do the same.”

“Five minutes on the clock.”

Not even one more second passes before she bolts off to an entirely different section. Whether or not she feels strongly about which genres are my preferred ones, I’m not sure, but I suddenly feel the weight of competition.

We eventually reconvene in the empty children’s section, where we find seats much too small for us at a table in the shape of a frog. The rug beneath us is a map of a small city complete with roads and littered with tiny toy cars. A stage is behind us, raised on a platform maybe half a foot off the ground. The backdrop is a mural of beloved characters from children’s books.

“Okay,” I start. “Loser has to read a book of my choice on the story-time stage.”

“Your choice?” she asks.

“Trust me, I’m going to win.”

“Very cocky,” she says, leaning forward with her forearms on the small table. “Let’s see how cocky you are after this, though. Show your books, compadre.”

I reveal my selections: a behind-the-scenes production book, a literary fiction novel on travel, and a romance novel complete with a long-haired shirtless man holding the distraught woman, swooning, hand against her forehead.

Violet laughs. “Two out of three.” She slides the romance book to the side with a sly grin. “Nice try.”

“I didn’t know if Fabio was for you.”

“Long hair isn’t my style,” she says.

“What would have been your third pick then?” I lean back in the tiny chair, one side rising up off the ground for a moment before I quickly catch myself.

She barks out a laugh. I bring a finger to my lips, glancing around the section to check for onlookers and playfully shushing her.

Her expression changes slightly at this, a tug at the side of her mouth, her eyes softening, a tilt of her head.

“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. “You’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.

What would have been different had I never left town? Would I be participating in these family morning coffee sessions? Would I know the unspoken Ellis way of holding coffee on a rickety front porch in the early morning? And would I have had the guts to make my move on Keaton during that time?

“Camping this weekend,” Asher says, blurting out a thought. My mom nods like she instantly understands what he’s saying. I, on the other hand, am left with the cliffhanger. Maybe staying here would have also given me the power to interpret Asher’s unfinished statements.

He turns to me, and I suppose my face must show confusion because he clears his throat with a smile and continues. “It will be nice to get out of town for a bit. You’re riding with me and Keaton, right?”

“Nah,” I say. “Too much of a bully.”

Asher laughs. “Right, I forgot. What a dick.”

Mom sputters in her coffee. “Asher Steven Ellis—language. And Keaton?” My mom’s hand goes to her heart. “That man couldn’t be mean if he tried.”

Mom always adored Keaton. He was the polite young man who changed Asher from outgoing wild child to moderately reeled-in extroverted gentleman. The entirety of the planet could catch on fire and trap us all in a fiery hellish reality before my mom could believe Keaton would be anything close to rude.

I shake my head, reaching to pat her on the forearm. Bless her heart. “I’m kidding, Mom. He’s nice.”

“Don’t startle me like that,” she says, hand still pressed to her chest. “He’s like a son to me. I swear I wanted to adopt that child, or maybe marry you off to him—”

“What?!” My voice is high-pitched and trails off in a tight squeak.

“So he could be part of the family!” she clarifies, waving her coffee mug in the air as if my reaction was completely unwarranted, and maybe it would seem that way to someone who hadn’t just fantasized about him for most of the week.

“Oh, please, Keaton and Violet?” Asher says, blowing out a heavy breath of air.

Well, now, hang on…

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“Nothing, really,” he says with an innocent shrug. “It’s just…well, do you want to date him?”

The accusation makes my face flush and my stomach flip.

No. Say no. Look disgusted. Appear like the thought of Keaton makes me want to vomit like a bad hot dog on the Fourth of July.

“Oh, god no,” I say, scoffing and bringing my coffee to my lips with the most exaggerated eye roll I can manage. “No, no, no.”

“I don’t see why not…” my mom mumbles before discreetly sipping on her own cup.

Asher brings his coffee to his lips, narrowing his eyes at me.

All at once, we’re all mid-sip in some kind of silent standoff, my mother with her matchmaking ambitions, my brother with his objections, and me trying my best to appear like the thought of Keaton’s hands on me doesn’t make me want to fall to pieces.

“Do you?” he teases.

“What is this, a stickup?” I say, throwing my hands in the air. “Of course I don’t want to date Keaton. I don’t even know the guy that well. Honestly. So, camping…”

Asher laughs and accepts the new subject proposal, going into the details of tomorrow.

It’s all just typical older brother teasing, nothing more than that and not something I haven’t handled before, but there’s something odd underneath the whole thing. Why was Asher so quick to dismiss a potential relationship between me and Keaton? Does he think Keaton is out of my league? Or am I still just the hopeless dorky younger sister?

I thought I grew out of this insecurity. I figured once I left the small town of Foxe Hill, some things would change, but here I am: living with my parents, plagued by writer’s block, and harboring a silly crush on my brother’s out-of-reach best friend. I’m practically a supporting character in my own movie.

Nine

Violet

I wake up Friday morning in Asher’s guest room, and I make us coffee as he packs our bags into the back of Keaton’s Jeep. I haven’t seen him since our trip into the city. It’s odd how something as simple as a black t-shirt and a red flannel can make a bearded man go from Wow, he’s cute to Holy shit, take me up against a tree, you lumberjack.

I sit in the back seat on the ride up while Asher and Keaton talk about this and that. I’m barely paying attention as I watch the border of Foxe Hill fall behind us and rows of trees start to line each side of the empty interstate.

Two hours later, we pull into a dirt parking lot. On one side is the gravel road we came in on, and on the other is a wall of pine trees. How deep the trees go is uncertain, but it officially feels like we’re more in the middle of nowhere than we were in Foxe Hill. I see no buildings, no other cars, no signs, just our lone Jeep and a couple wooden stakes in the ground.

“Is this it?” I ask, hopping down from the back seat and walking to the trunk, where Keaton is already unloading his backpack. I gather my pack over my shoulder, hoping I don’t look like an idiot with all the excess items hooked on. Asher loaded my bag down with all the collapsible cookware while his holds the heavier canned food. I’m accustomed to carrying heavy camera equipment, so it wouldn’t have been a struggle, but instead I was stuck with the bag that looks like it’s made of rubber condom keychains.

Keaton’s hair is tousled from two hours of driving with the doors off the car, and my hair would be messier were it not pulled into the tightest bun I could manage upon seeing the nude Jeep. Keaton’s brown locks look as if they were meant to be tossed around in the wind for a bit. It gives him a more rugged look, and by the way he picks up his larger pack with one hand, swinging it over his back and looping in the other impressively muscled arm, I can tell he is in his element.

I’m sure Keaton is an excellent business owner, but the man should have been a park ranger. A sexy park ranger…in uniform…

God, am I drooling?

“Need help?” he asks, scanning me up and down. I know he’s just checking out how badly I’m juggling the rubbery camping goods, but I wonder if maybe my carefully planned outfit of a crop top and tight-fitting cargo pants gives me the sexy Kim Possible vibes I was going for.

So what if he’s basically off limits? I like the way he looks at me.

“You think little ol’ me can’t carry all this heavy stuff?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow as I pull out the tent bag and swing it over my other shoulder.

“Impressive.” He chuckles.

“Come on!” Asher calls from the trailhead, pulling his backpack higher and tugging the strings tighter on a sack of more canned goods.

“When did you pack that?” I shove my open hand toward the lumpy bag with cans sticking out every which way. “Seriously, we will not need that much food.”

“You, dear sister, haven’t seen Joey eat.”

“If he eats that many beans, I’ll be concerned.”

The three of us walk down the dirt path. I expect a quick hike, but what started as a five-minute conversation discussing Joey’s potential bowel movements turned into a thirty-minute steep trek amidst bushes, thorns, and what I’m guessing is poison ivy.

Occasionally Asher and Keaton look back at me with wide grins on their faces, shaking their heads.

I would kill the both of them for their judging looks were I not too busy breathing like an asthmatic bear.

We finally crest over a rock and there, as if waiting just for us, is a large dirt clearing. The sun beams down between the trees like it’s some cozy abode that’s two sets of string lights away from being a romantic getaway. It’s big enough to hold all six of our tents and a campfire, if not more.

By the time we finish setting up, Kayla, Joey, and Lily arrive, and the process starts over once again. Asher helps them unpack their tents while Joey lines up his two coolers stacked full of beers, spritzers, and other, more expensive spirits.

“Are we trying to sedate a dinosaur?” Keaton asks with a laugh, bending over a cooler.

“Six dinosaurs, actually,” Joey says after taking a quick whispered headcount. “Go ahead—take one.”

“I can’t get started in good conscience until I’ve done something of value,” Keaton says, patting his knees and looking around. “How can I help?”

“Firewood!” Asher yells, grunting as he pushes a rod down into the ground for Lily’s tent. “And take Violet with you.” My heart sinks. “She’s being useless.”

I want to say anything that would suggest otherwise, but when I see everyone’s eyes looking down at the stack of canned foods I was rearranging to make a food pyramid, my face grows hot.

“Yeah, okay, sure,” I say, getting up from my knees and dusting off.

Keaton is at the edge of the woods, his expression hinting at a suppressed laugh. He has one hand against a tree as he climbs up a nearby rock and the other held out to me to hoist me up. I’ve only taken his hand a few times now, but whenever my fingers slide into his palm, it’s a new sensation every time. They’re rough and so unlike mine. When I grasp it, I notice a small burn above his thumb and a cut or two near his elbow, but mostly it’s his statue-like gaze I’m transfixed by as he looks down to me until I’ll pulled up to the rock as well.

The leaves and sparse grass crunch under our feet as we trek through the woods. I have no clue what I’m looking for. I’m waiting on his cue and I’ll carry back whatever is needed, but I keep forgetting what we’re even here for whenever I notice just how well his jeans fit him.

“Are you seeing anything?” he asks, stopping and turning.

I quickly look to my left, attempting to look interested in the giant span of forest beside me.

“Keaton, I’ll be honest: I can’t tell a piece of potential firewood from one that’s no good. Don’t we just need wood?”

He lifts an eyebrow and shakes his head with a smile. “Ain’t that easy.”

“Teach me then,” I say, taking large steps toward him as he turns around to continue walking. Damn, that ass again.

“Teach you about wood?” he says. My stomach does one of those fantastic flips it’s getting really good at performing. I’m likely to be an Olympic-level gymnast when this trip is all said and done.

“Firewood,” I correct, giving him a light shove with my elbow. The feeling of our touch sends a shiver down my spine, and I can’t help but cross my arms to get warm again. It’s still cool outside, though getting warmer. It’s not surprising such a simple interaction is enough to turn this April morning into a January snowstorm.

He glances down to my crossed arms then looks back up at my eyes and nods curiously.

I tilt my head to the side. “What?”

He shrugs. “You seem stressed.”

“Do I?” I ask, crossing my arms tighter without even thinking about it. I knew I should have packed a thicker cardigan. As of right now, I probably look like some soccer mom disappointed in her kid for being late to practice. I hope he can’t sense my unease with being around him, though it’s less about being nervous and more about the fact that, once again, we’re alone. This time, it’s absolute. No teenage employee, no camping store customers—just us and the quiet of the forest.

“You seem a little…on edge,” he says. I think he’s maybe about to mention that my nipples are showing through my layers due to the cold or perhaps even call me out on the fact that I can’t stop looking at his butt. “Is it your movie?”

I didn’t know it was possible for my stomach to drop lower and yet here I am with an upset tummy, a fuzzy brain, and a sense of becoming overwhelmed by both my attraction to Keaton and the unsettling weight of the entire reason I’m back in town—the missing narrative that’s looming over me like the Grim Reaper.

“Well now I’m stressed,” I say through a choked laugh.

He returns the good-natured gesture. “Hey, I’m not here to judge, Vi. Just checking in.”

Just checking in.

It’s odd how Keaton can go from sexy to adorable at the drop of a hat. There’s never a precedence for it or a buildup to the impact. It’s like it comes naturally to him, as if being concerned for another human being is always in the back of his mind.

All I’ve gotten since I arrived in town is ‘How’s the movie? How’s the writing?’ But not Keaton. He’s just checking in.

“I’m here to clear my head,” I say after a moment. “Or at least that’s what everyone else thinks this trip will be like for me.”

He nods, taking a step forward. “And what is the trip like for you? Really?”

“I don’t know,” I say, throwing my hands in the air and letting out another strained laugh. Is it laughter stemming from my growing anxiety and loss of mental stability? Who’s to say? “I think my presence here is honestly just the result of my inability to say no to peer pressure.”

Keaton takes me in for a second. He doesn’t say a word, just looks at me with a calming gaze. For anyone else, it might ease their anxiety…something about his eyes, the deep brown of them or the way the edges crinkle like he’s smiling with them alone. Instead, I feel like I’m standing in the nude, completely exposed and the exact opposite of calm.

He opens his mouth to speak then closes it before finally taking a deep breath and starting once more. “You asked me earlier why I said I thought you’ve changed. The truth is, you’re more outspoken now. It’s easy to get back here and feel like you’re just Asher’s little sister tagging along, but I know you. You’re not just Asher’s sister.” I involuntarily take in a sharp breath of air, and I see the hint of a smile on his lips. “You don’t want to just tag along anymore. And, just between you and me”—he leans forward to whisper—“you don’t have to. I like this confident Violet. She’s the person I knew, not just the shy woman everyone thought you were.”

My heart feels like it’s going to explode out of my body, racing so fast I swear I can almost see my heart pumping out from my chest with each beat like in a cartoon.

“Woman?” I question.

He smiles this time, and it’s a genuine expression, dimples and all. “What’s wrong with the word ‘woman’?” he asks.

“It’s just…” I try to choose my next words carefully because I’m not sure what will come out. I feel I need to tread lightly, and I’m not even sure why. “It’s just weird coming from you, like you must think of me as a woman or something.”

Cringe. Wrong words, wrong words! Kill me now.

Without skipping a beat, he takes another step toward me. I instinctually step back, and my back hits the tree trunk behind me. “You are a woman, Violet.” His voice is lower, gruff, heavy, sexy. “I do think of you like that.”

I’m flush with the tree and it’s the only thing supporting me as my knees slowly weaken.

I choke out a laugh. “When did this happen?”

His shoulders rise in a small shrug. “When we stopped talking about firewood.”

“Which we should probably get,” I say.

“Probably.”

I tilt my head to the side. He’s so close—closer than he’s ever been before. His nose is inches from mine, not yet near enough to kiss but close enough for his scent to wash over me. His subtle cinnamon cologne has notes of sandalwood, just like the candles they sell for ladies who need the scent of pure man in their life. I own about three of those candles, but right now, I wish I could bottle him up for later. The candles are nothing compared to the real thing.

“So…are you?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow. I’m nervous and I know I shouldn’t be flirting. He’s my brother’s best friend. He should feel like a brother to me, or heck, even a distant relative. Someone off limits. Someone who watched me grow up and saw me in my awkward stages. But…he’s also so, so hot.

“Am I what?” he asks.

“Getting wood,” I respond. I can’t help the smile that twitches at the corners of my mouth.

He looks away, laughing. Embarrassed, maybe?

There’s an entire miles-wide forest and yet we’ve managed to create our own little corner with heavy breaths and so much eye fucking I could die a happy woman right here.

Woman.

“Firewood, I mean,” I say. “We should get firewood.”

“Of course,” he says. His head tilts to the side to match mine. So close.

“So, where do we start?” I ask, biting my bottom lip in an effort to stop myself from doing anything stupid.

He places a hand on the trunk behind me, right beside my head. I attempt to back into the tree more, but there’s nowhere else to go. I’m only flattened further, straightening my posture and accidentally pushing my breasts outward and into his hard, muscular chest. I tighten my thighs, feeling the pressure of sensitivity in my jeans.

And then there’s a rustle of leaves behind us. Keaton moves away faster than I could have stopped him, and we both glance around only to see a squirrel staring at us dead in the eye, judging us, as if to say What the hell are you doing? A mother disappointed in her child.

Keaton doesn’t seem to be nearly as bothered as I am when he turns back to me, running his hand through his hair and grinning.

“Scared?” he jests.

I shake my head, letting out a quivering laugh. “Asher used to tell me there were bears in the woods, and I think I’ve been cautious ever since.”

It’s a lie in this exact moment, as the only thing I fear right now is what will happen next between me and Keaton. I instantly know it was the wrong thing to say—Asher is not the person to bring up right now.

Keaton’s face falls and his hands drop to his sides.

“Asher…” He breathes out with a laugh nervous enough to mirror my own. “Right. We should get some of that…the, uh, stuff.”

“Sure,” I agree.

Before I know it, he’s walking away and crunching through the leaves once more, picking up some nearby wood off the ground.

I randomly gather some sticks, not knowing if it’s what I should be doing or not.

Ten

Keaton

I was close—too close. Nature is my sanctuary, the place where I can find my center and clear my head. Some people like yoga; I rely on the outdoors—but this camping trip is far from meditative.

How did I take two steps forward then three steps back? I always assumed that was just a saying, and yet I am literally getting closer to Violet and then farther away just seconds later. I was tempted, so tempted to kiss her. It felt right. I couldn’t have cared less about what we shouldn’t have been doing right then. All caution was thrown to the wind. I had the forest and Violet with her lavender scent and plump, red lips ready for the taking.

But the second Asher’s name was mentioned, guilt washed over me and I knew the moment was gone. The entire situation felt wrong.

What were we thinking? Only yards away from the campsite. What was going to happen, anyway? We’d make out against the tree and Joey, or Kayla, or—God forbid—Asher would catch us in the act?

Irresponsible. Impractical. Reckless.

We carried the wood back to camp without another word exchanged aside from me pointing out the type of sticks she should grab.

Everyone suggested a hike when we returned, though Lily and Kayla insisted on staying behind. Violet joined them, maybe because she wanted to avoid an awkward situation again. Hard to tell what’s safe after someone you trust corners you in the woods.

I’m such an idiot.

Joey, Asher, and I follow a vague dirt path I’ve walked many times before. This isn’t a new campsite for me or Asher. We’ve frequented it often over the years, a way to escape, and there’s a small river nearby where we can fish. We never catch much and we forgot our poles anyway, but the sound of the running water makes me feel a bit better.

“You’re quieter than usual,” Asher says once it’s just us. Joey has journeyed farther down the stream to collect water or something. I don’t even know—the guy is more of a wild card than Asher, and I don’t think he’s been on a genuine camping trip since the twins were born.

I didn’t notice my arms were crossed, but then he glances down to the them. I drop them by my sides and try to relax.

“Just enjoying the outdoors,” I say. “How are classes going?” It’s a forced conversation, but my mind is so clouded with thoughts of Violet that it’s the easiest subject to broach without seeming suspicious.

“The usual. Students who try hard and those who don’t. The other day I received an essay written in crayon.”

I chuckle. “At least they turned one in.”

“It was one of the better ones too,” he says, placing his hands in his pockets.

“You actually graded it like that?”

“It was written in my favorite color,” he says. “What was I supposed to do?”

That is Asher. He loves his job. He’s always only wanted to teach. I think he even enjoys the unpredictability of the freshman class and the even more challenging laziness of the seniors. He thrives on motivating the kids to do their best even if it means encouragement through leniency. And allowing crayons as writing utensils.

I shouldn’t be the guy who wants to kiss his sister.

“Dare you to swim!” Joey yells, running over to us. He has a fish in his hands, and it’s wiggling around. Given the absence of any fishing poles, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned.

“How the fuck did you get that fish?” Asher calls.

Joey shrugs with a large grin. “Caught it with my bare hands!” Animal. He is an animal. And then he jumps in the water without an answer. What a maniac.

Then Asher yells, “I. Am. Man!” And into the water he goes.

Disregarding my anxiety and the fact that the water is likely cold and dreadful, I take the plunge as well, because why the hell not.

When in the wild…

* * *

That night we gather around the bonfire as it crackles and billows smoke into the sky. We all clutch our alcohol of choice. A few of us idiots are still wrapped in blankets—Joey in his sleeping bag—in an effort to get dry from our earlier activities.

Kayla is curled up next to Joey, leaning her head on his shoulder. She’s already had too many fizzy spritzers to count and will likely crash real soon. Lily doesn’t seem far behind, singing off-key karaoke to Asher’s unskilled playing on the ukulele Joey brought.

I bob my head to the beat, trying not to steal a glance over at Violet. She’s occasionally joining in to sing backup with Lily, both of their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Violet’s had maybe two small Solo cups of rum. I imagine there’s no way she’s exactly drunk, but she’s probably had just enough to feel as if she can figure out harmony notes to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”—which, for the record, does not have a harmony part. Her performance isn’t half bad, and I can’t help but grin like a loon at each missed note.

I sometimes forget this is not the norm. She’s sitting here with us after so many years just as if she belonged here the whole time. She’s developed this noticeable charisma that helps her fit in anywhere—a feat she couldn’t achieve when she was younger.

I don’t want to look at her this way. I don’t want to feel my heart sink every time she gives me a sly, secretive smile. The flirtation is surely due to her slight intoxication, but every time she looks my way, I make sure Asher hasn’t noticed. He’s thankfully too involved in his struggle with ukulele plucking. I cherish being able to see her like this: carefree, happy, clear-minded.

Joey and Kayla head to their tent with her giggling and indiscreetly pinching his butt cheeks as they crawl in. I can hear the distant smacking of kisses and hope to God they keep the rest of their activities to a respectable volume. With Joey’s laughing shushes, I’m thinking we’ll be spared.

Around midnight, Asher gives a small salute. “Alright, I’m going to bed. Teacher sleep schedule is a-callin’.”

“I’m pulling the teacher schedule card too, friends,” Lily says not even five minutes after Asher crawls into his tent. She plants a sloppy kiss on Violet’s cheek and blows me a kiss as well before crawling into her own tent and zipping it closed.

Violet and I say nothing for almost a whole minute, and it feels like years pass. It’s awkward, and I hate it. The last thing I want is the whatever-that-was earlier forcing us to avoid each other all summer.

I clear my throat, and she turns her head to me with a grin plastered on her face, followed by a tipsy giggle.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says.

I can see the playful twinkle in her eyes, illuminated by the dying bonfire. Only small embers remain, and the cold starts to seep in through my jacket. She holds her own jacket closer to her body. It’s the camouflage one I picked out the other day and, while it engulfs her small frame completely, it somehow also suits her.

She takes a deep breath in, a lopsided smile pulling at her lips. I wish there were some way I could scoot toward her, maybe put an arm around her to keep both of us warm, but with the circle of tents surrounding us, there’s no way I could do anything without someone noticing. All it would take is one person forgetting they needed to use the restroom before bed and I’d be caught red-handed, the creepy guy desperate to touch her.

Violet smiles to herself, looking at the dirt ground and swirling her finger through it, drawing some type of pattern or words. It’s hard to tell from here.

With a deep inhalation, she meets my eyes again and says, “Good night, Keaton.”

Although I wish there had been more said before that statement, all I can do is return the smile and nod. “Good night, Violet.”

She stands, dusting off her knees, and heads to her tent, not even exchanging one more look as she zips it closed.

I stand as well, stretching and staring at the stars. It’s easy to see them out here. They’re visible in Foxe Hill, but it’s different out this way, more vast. More empty, but humbling.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Violet’s scribbles in the dirt and let out an involuntary chuckle. Written in the sand is a small heart, and next to it is the word hi in perfect cursive.

I take my foot and scuff it out with a smile, and if I didn’t know any better, I would swear I heard a drunken laugh from Violet’s tent.

Eleven

Violet

I’ve never been camping before, but I can tell you there is absolutely nothing to do aside from lying in the sun and walking through the woods. By midafternoon, I’ve taken a nap and two strolls on the trails.

I try to sit by a nearby stream with my notebook and pen in hand, but it’s useless. My mind is still blank, no inspiration even after attempting to bury myself in nature. I attempt to walk off the path for a few steps to see if the feeling of danger will spark some fight-or-flight instinct in my brain, triggering some aha moment, but I instantly choose flight when I remember Asher’s stupid bear stories again.

At some point, I found myself chatting with Lily and Kayla. Kayla gossiped about people still in town from high school, but Lily commented on how those worth gossiping about had left town. Fewer and fewer people each year, she said. Foxe Hill just isn’t what it used to be. I chimed in that I’d noticed, but I think that only added to the depressing atmosphere. Kayla quickly changed the subject to celebrity news and grabbed a wine cooler to start her afternoon drinking.

Keaton didn’t exactly avoid me all day, but he wasn’t making an effort to speak to me either. He mostly stuck with Asher as they went on a few hikes. He lay on a towel in the late afternoon and read a book.

“Straying from your favorite genre?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. He tilted his sunglasses down with a smile.

“Not in the mood for naked guys with gorgeous hair, unfortunately.”

“Shame.”

And that was the extent of our exchange for the day. I didn’t know how else to start a conversation with him. It’s easier when we’re alone, and the thought of that gives me a start. Maybe that’s a bad sign, a red flag, or maybe we’re just two quiet people who find solace in being alone together.

I feel cheesy and dumb even thinking about it.

That night, I conquer the task of preparing beans over the fire for everyone. It’s not much, but I do feel a bit proud of my efforts. Camping pro? Why yes, I am the queen of the outdoors, thank you very much. Joey says they’re wonderful beans, but he’s also a human garbage can who I’m realizing will eat anything placed in front of him. I’ll still take the compliment.

When the sun goes down, Asher thinks it’s a good idea to tell scary stories, and I make a note to drink a little less if we’re choosing to up the fear factor. Lily is less than happy about it as well, especially when a tale about a serial killer lurking in the woods waiting to kill an unsuspecting late-twenties teacher emerges. She instantly crawls into her tent after glaring at Asher, who cackles like a maniac.

I throw a stick at him. “Stop it.”

“Maybe I should tell the one about bears next.”

I point another stick at him. “Shut up.”

Keaton chuckles, tipping back his beer. “Violet, I thought you knew—this is the home of the biggest bear population in the south.”

I glare at the two of them, pointing back and forth. “No. No, no, no. Stop.”

Joey tries to join in as well, but Kayla pops him on the head.

An hour later, after trying to stay up as late as I could to be even remotely close to Keaton for as long as possible, I give up when it seems like he and Asher aren’t going to sleep any time soon. I say good night and rest in my tent, staring up at the mesh ceiling, hands folded over my stomach as they talk about this, that, and the other.

It’s the rustling of tree limbs behind my tent that truly keeps me awake much longer than I intend.

There are no bears. No bears. I am an adult. No bears.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and only when I finally start to drift off do I hear scratching on my tent.

Oh my god, oh my god, it’s happening. It’s happening. They’re here to kill me.

“Violet.” The voice is so low I barely hear it, but then it registers that it is not in fact a ghost bear haunting me. It’s Keaton.

I unzip the entrance slightly, peeking my eyes through the gap.

“You don’t have a team of bears with you, do you?” I whisper. He grins and shakes his head, tossing it back toward the forest in the form of an invitation. My heart leaps.

“Oh hell no,” I whisper back. “Dark forest in the middle of the night? Absolutely not.” His finger goes to his lips, and he looks over his shoulder at the circle of tents.

“The bears are no match for me, I promise,” he whispers. He nods his head over his shoulder again, and in a second fight-or-flight moment of the day, my heart tells me not to flee this time.

I roll my eyes in concession and try to quietly unzip my tent just enough to crawl out. Wordlessly we both tiptoe toward the dirt path and into the woods.

We make it a good ways away from the campsite, me jumping at every sound around us.

Keaton chuckles. “You’re like a scared rabbit,” he says.

“Lest you forget that rabbits are at the bottom of the food chain,” I say, pulling my jacket tighter around me.

“I was joking earlier,” he says. “Bears don’t even frequent this area.”

“Seriously?”

“No.”

“Ass.”

He suddenly stops walking, and it takes me a second to see that I should stop with him. He looks up to the sky, and I follow his eyeline upward as well. The stars are gorgeous.

“You know, if you’re looking for a bear—” he starts.

“Which I’m not.”

“There’s Ursa Major up there,” he continues, ignoring my interruption.

“Show me,” I say. He leans in closer, wrapping an arm around my waist. I try to ignore how quickly he can make my thighs shiver with just a hand placed in such an innocent area like my side.

Keaton points to the sky with his other hand, tracing lines from star to star. “See there?” After a bit of coaxing, I can finally picture a faint outline to form the constellation, but his hand on my waist is slowly traveling down to my hip and my attempt to focus on the sky and stars is forgotten.

I want nothing more than for it to travel lower and grab my ass as he kisses my neck, bites my lip, anything and everything I’ve imagined before—but his hand stops at my hip and we stand there paralyzed.

“So you woke me up to show me the stars?” I ask.

“Hey, I’m a fan of nature. I had to share it with someone.”

“Could have picked Lily.”

“Nah, she’s a teacher,” he says. “She would have schooled me on this.”

“Pun intended?”

“You bet.”

We both laugh. His is so deep, so genuine, and I want to hear it more. I miss the days of working at the movie theater with him: stealing popcorn, playing music over the speakers while we closed up for the night, his cute dimpled smiles. Both of us were definitely quieter back then, but it was still nice, like we were in our own little world.

“Do you ever miss high school?” I ask.

He chuckles. “No. Not at all. You?”

“No,” I answer, though that isn’t entirely true. Yes, there were too many hours wasted trying to get into my college of choice, earning a scholarship, and having no life outside of the library, but I did have the movie theater with Keaton. I want to mention how much of that time didn’t feel wasted, but I don’t.

“I do miss how the town was,” he says with an exhalation, dropping his hand from my hip and crossing his arms. “More active. Busy. Thriving. Grandpa and I used to be slammed on Saturday mornings for breakfast. Now, it’s like a blip on the radar.”

“Have you ever thought about moving the store?” I ask.

He takes a second, possibly to mull it over, consider. I wonder if he imagines what life could be outside of Foxe Hill, or if he even cares. “No,” he says. “I love this town. I wouldn’t want to move. But travel? Absolutely.”

I smile. “You’d like it.”

“What’s your favorite place?” he asks.

I tilt my head back and forth, considering. “I don’t know. Weirdly enough, I like all the different small towns. They’re always so cute. Where would you go if you could travel anywhere?”

He hums to himself before answering, “Alaska, or anywhere way up north. I want to see the northern lights.” He smiles. “What makes the small towns cute?”

I shrug. “Something about them. I dunno.”

“Is Foxe Hill cute?” he asks.

“It has its moments, I guess,” I say.

He laughs, shaking his head at me. “And the people?”

I side-eye him and nudge his shoulder with mine. “Not too shabby.”

He grins. “I’ll take it.”

Standing here with him is just the same, but there’s something more, a current of electricity running between us. I couldn’t step away if I tried, but moving any closer seems dangerous. Maybe I’m okay with a little danger.

“You told your truth earlier,” I say. “I’ll tell you mine.”

“I’m listening.”

“You’re different in a good way. Not as quiet. Still pensive. You have that look about you like you’re always deep in thought. You’ve got that eyebrow raise too.” True to form, he mocks me by raising it. “It’s got…something. You’ve also got a beard now.”

“New beard, new personality.”

“No, it’s everything else too.” I swallow and let out a shaky laugh. “Must be all the heavy lifting at the shop or something.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment too.”

“You should.”

His hand bumps against mine and I let my fingers wrap around his. It feels taboo, but also so innocent, as if we’re back in high school again, just two teenagers sneaking out in the night. It’s not like I ever had any boys interested enough to grant me such a secretive experience, but I can imagine it must have felt exactly like this.

His thumb strokes mine and shivers run through me, from my spine all the way to my stomach, seeping through to my pelvis and causing me the slightest bit of anxiety.

Do not think with your throbbing vagina. Do not do it! Think with your brain.

My brain tells me this is not what I should be doing. My brain tells me Keaton is out of my league. Also, I’m only in town for a few months, God willing. A fling is the last thing I need right now, but good lord above, it’s Keaton.

“Tell me something,” he says, turning toward me.

Kiss me. Kiss me now. Take me up against a tree. Rip my panties down and have your way with me.

“It’s cold,” I say.

He smiles, letting out a small breath and nodding in the direction of the campsite.

“Want to head back?” he asks.

He pulls his hand away from mine and I want to tug it right back, but I can’t find the guts to do it. I’m better than this, but around Keaton? No spine.

I swallow, nodding slightly as he turns to walk back.

I ruined it. I’m not sure what I ruined, but there was a moment between us under the stars. Something romantic…an opportunity for something more, and I didn’t have the courage to do anything at all.

It’s only after a few steps that Keaton twists around, causing me to bump into his chest. I open my mouth to ask him what he’s doing, but he grips the back of my head and lowers his mouth to mine, pulling me into a deep, long kiss.

Electricity bursts through my body, zapping every single nerve. My fingertips tingle, my lips are heated by his, and my nipples are already hardened by the time he wraps his other arm around my waist, tugging me closer.

His mouth is desire itself. Every movement of his lips is heavy, backed by a low hum of longing. I grip his arms, running my hands over every hill and valley of his muscles—large biceps, strong forearms, and the large hands clutching the fabric of my jacket as if he can’t bear to let me go.

He teases my lips with his tongue until I grant him entrance. I hiss in a breath of air as we wrestle back and forth until I’m biting his bottom lip. His groans, pulling away to plant kiss after kiss along my neckline and collarbone.

My heart is beating faster than I thought possible, my head clouding with thoughts ranging from Holy hell to I can feel his hard cock against me and oh my god I think he’s huge.

When he trails back up my neck to plant another kiss on my mouth, I let out a small moan, which only spurs him to grip my hair tighter and nibble the curve of my neckline.

I want all of him in this moment, but after I let out another uncontrollable moan from a nip at my ear, he pulls away, leaving both of us exasperated and breathing heavily.

Keaton runs a hand through his hair, placing the other on his hip and chuckling.

“I’m not sorry for that,” he says. “But…we can’t. I can’t. Asher…he…”

“I get it.”

I absolutely one hundred percent do not fucking get it. My body wants him, and it wants him now.

I stop to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. I just kissed Keaton. I just felt his erection against me. Keaton, of all people. The sides of his mouth curl into a sly, devilish smirk, and my thighs ache to feel his touch again.

“We’re in the woods,” he says.

“Yes,” I respond.

“We should head back.”

And, as if that settles every question lingering between us, we walk back to the campsite in silence. I crawl into my tent, zip it up, and lie down in the exact same position I was in just thirty minutes ago.

Though, this time, I think bears are the least of my worries.

* * *

Leaving the campsite the following morning lacks the same excitement from when we arrived. Kayla and Joey are hungover, stumbling into the back of their car as Lily volunteers to drive. We exchange hugs, and after the girls tell me they would very much like to have a girls day soon, I pull myself up into the back seat of Keaton’s Jeep.

We don’t speak the entire ride back. Asher is asleep in the front seat, letting the seatbelt hold him in place so he doesn’t fall through the opening of the missing door. Keaton doesn’t look at me once.

Trees fly by, sunlight flickering through the branches. The morning air is cool, but the sun warms my face once we reach the stretch of land leading into Foxe Hill. Fields are fenced in on both sides, with grass waving in the emptiness save for the occasional grazing cow or long dirt driveway leading from the road to a well-kept house that always seems to be precariously placed on a hill.

The area becomes slightly less rural as we approach town until we’re back on Main Street. It’s a Sunday morning, and nobody is out. The streetlights are red, flashing a coordinated intersection into a four-way stop. The lights for Keaton’s sandwich shop are on, but there’s only the one employee inside.

I can see how the locals are worried. Sunday mornings have always been slow and vacant, but I remember there being at least a few folks walking on the sidewalks, getting in their weekend exercise, or maybe even early moviegoers catching the matinee.

It’s sad what Foxe Hill has become, and I almost feel nostalgic for it too.

I’m dropped off at my parents’ house, and Asher wakes like a bear coming out of hibernation, lazily saluting me as I carry my bags and tent into the house. Keaton gives a small wave, nothing a friend wouldn’t give to another friend, nothing to signal that we kissed last night, which makes my heart feel just a bit heavier.

Regret is the first word that comes to mind because I know he must regret it. Asher is his best friend, and I’m just the desperate little sister.

My mom is already plucking weeds out in the back yard when I walk in. Dad watches from the kitchen with the newspaper and his cup of coffee, giving a thumbs-up when she points to the thriving flowerbed. I turn to my phone, seeing a text from Keaton before my bag is even off my shoulder.

Keaton: Meet me at the theater in an hour.

I bite my lower lip.

Regret is definitely the word I’m looking for.

After a shower and coming up with some excuse to run an errand (I may have told my dad we needed bread? I don’t even know), I crank up the van and head to the movie theater, driving like a bat out of hell.

When I sneak in through the back door, the smell of butter and popcorn wafts down the hall. I can barely see the few feet in front of me, the only light shining out from under the doors of Viewing Room 1. It’s almost nine o’clock on a Sunday, and the workers won’t be arriving on shift for another hour if the schedule is the same as it was years ago. If I’m lucky, nothing has changed except for the fact that I am meeting up with a man who is so severely out of my league. Is this the high school experience everyone else had? The anticipation, the anxiety, the borderline excitement of knowing you’re about to walk into the lion’s den?

I crack open the viewing room door and Keaton is already silhouetted in the center row, feet propped up on the back of the seat in front of him, a bag of popcorn settled in his lap. His head turns to find me, and he waves. Good sign number one: That grin of his stretches from ear to ear, that dimple as deep as ever, so genuine and welcoming.

I walk down the aisle, plopping down in the seat next to him.

“Hi,” is all I can get out.

“Hi there,” he responds. Good sign number two: His eyes dance over me, taking in the loose bun that took over ten minutes to get to the right level of ‘I’m casual. This is no big deal.’ However, paired with my most slimming crop top, I might have created an odd juxtaposition as far as what look I’m going for.

“What movie are we watching today?” I ask, turning toward the screen. Any more eye contact and I might just melt into this chair.

“Well, I put on the first movie I could find,” he says. I can feel his eyes still on me even as I face forward. I try my best to steady my breathing, but he’s right next to me and he looks so ridiculously hot and I already just want whatever movie this is to be over and done so I can go hide elsewhere.

“And what is that?” I ask.

“Jaws,” he responds with a laugh.

“You’re kidding.”

“I just got it for our next book club, so it was the closest thing to the projector.”

“I didn’t know it was a book first,” I say.

“Not a lot of people do.”

His smile is intoxicating. I’m anxious about all the words not being exchanged yet still lingering in the air like storm clouds ready to rain down on us. His hands rest on the popcorn bag, but I want them touching me. His jaw ticks as his eyes roam over the opening credits, but I want to feel it under my touch. I want all of him.

“Tell me something,” he says. It catches me off guard, as the statement always does.

Something… How about the warmth of your hands when they were on my waist? How about the fact that I haven’t stopped thinking about our kiss since it happened? How about the way your sleeves are rolled up just so, showing off the strong muscles of your forearms underneath?

I have so many questions, but only one truly matters.

“What happened last night?” I ask.

He inhales sharply, blinking at the screen but surely not actually watching the film. I can see the gears turning. He lowers the popcorn bag to the ground, propping it against the seat in front of him, and twists toward me.

“I kissed you.”

“And you regretted it?” I ask.

“No,” he says quickly, following up with a small laugh. “No. But…Asher is like a brother to me. I respect him more than I respect anyone else. And you…you’re something different, Violet, and I can’t ignore that.” I don’t respond, and he continues. “You’re a grown woman and you can make your own decisions, as can I. I kissed you, and I’d honestly like to do that again,” he says matter-of-factly. His voice lowers, gruff and sensual, and its timbre rushes through me like aromatic smoke. “I’d like to do much more.”

I blink, unable to form any type of words.

Please God yes?

“Yes.” That’s all I can get out.

His hand trails from his own lap to my knee then up to my thigh, fingers splaying out until his palm covers me. Nerves send jitters through me. I can feel every single gesture he makes, every twitch of his thumb, every slight movement setting alight something new, a longing I didn’t know existed. I’ve been touched before and my so-called “number” is probably about standard for someone who has lived in L.A. for the past few years (take that as you will), but this anxiety isn’t the same as that of a one-night stand. This is years of Keaton lingering in the subconscious of my mind.

He strokes his hand up my thigh and to my waist, exploring my skin, no doubt feeling the goose bumps rising up my side.

“Do it,” I murmur, daring him, and with only the raising of a single eyebrow, he waits not one more second to comply with my request.

His lips are full of energy when they meet mine. My chest is engulfed by flames licking at my heart and setting everything inside of me on edge. My hands roam back to his arms; I’ve been desperate to touch them again—their hardness, their bulk, the thought of how tightly they can hold me.

Keaton clutches my waist, his hand finding the exposed area between my jeans and my crop top. Shivers shoot through me, and he’s inching higher, running a thumb just below my bra line, teasing even the thought of going farther. I arch my back, pressing myself into him. Damn being in a theater. Damn employees arriving in an hour. I need him to know this is everything I want. Permission granted, Keaton Marks.

And then—his phone. A buzzing in his jeans. He lets it go for a couple rings before pulling back. “Hang on a second.” When he glances down at it, a groan escapes his mouth. The sound is enough to tempt me forward to kiss his neck. He groans again when my lips meet his throat, but the sound is more of a release and very clearly unrelated to the frustration of a call.

“Yes?” he asks into the phone, letting my lips continue to wander across his skin, taking his hand from underneath my shirt and moving it to my neck, ghosting over my hairline as if coaxing my kisses further. “Absolutely…uh-huh…it’s alright. Feel better, man. Alright, uh-huh. Bye.”

His thumb taps his screen a bit harshly, and he sighs.

“I have to go,” he says. “Trust me, I really don’t want to.” His hand curls into my hair, running through it with fervor. “Matt is sick, and as the owner, I’m obligated to work his shift.”

I lean back, and there’s a moment of silence once more. His eyebrows are tilted inward, and I can feel mine doing the same.

I can admit I was wrong earlier—no regret about last night is even remotely present in his features—but the thought still lingers. What does he want? Is this just a fling for him? I am almost ashamed of how much I wish for that not to be true.

“What is this?” I ask, internally cringing at such a childish question. We’re both nearly thirty, him likely already that age. Labels seem so trivial.

He laughs, letting his hand fall back down to my thigh and giving me the best eye-fucking I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Whatever you want it to be,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t say that.”

He leans forward, running his hand along my leg and down to my knee. “Why not?” His voice is a whisper, low and sensual and everything I want in this moment.

When he traces a line down my spine with his other hand, I inhale sharply and my body turns to putty in his hands, my brain to utter mush. “I honestly don’t know,” I say breathlessly.

“Meet me again tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say.

He plants another kiss to my collarbone and stands to leave. He glances up at the booth, and I shake my hand in his direction. “I’ll handle the projector, don’t worry.”

He smiles. “Thanks.” Keaton bends down and tilts my chin up, causing swarms of butterflies to flood my stomach. He kisses me, deeply, and then is gone before I can gather the strength to answer.

I wait a moment, soaking up the past few minutes, trying to parse through any event in my life that could have led to this perfect moment. I’m not sure how long I sit there, but once the scene of a very irate shark appears on screen, I figure it’s time to leave. Jaws can claim his victims another time.

I shut down the projector and leave the theater through the back door. On the way back to my car, I take in the sight of Main Street once more. It’s hard to ignore its vacancy and even more difficult not to steal a glance at the large windows of the sandwich shop where Keaton is already in action, moving behind the counter, distracted and tending to the two customers inside. I inhale the scent of freshly baked bread and unlock the van.

* * *

I toss the keys down on my beside table and take out my trusty brainstorming notebook. I prop it on the shelf next to my old yearbooks and stare it down.

“I will conquer you,” I taunt.

The Keaton distraction has gone on too long. I’m here to work, and I will. Except…the yearbooks on the shelf tempt me to pull them out. I’m not sure what compels me to do so, but next thing I know I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed and flipping through, brainstorming left behind.

So much for work.

I wonder how silly I look in my photo, wonder if Keaton is as handsome as I remember. Was my teenage self justified to crush on him so hard? Would my teenage self even believe I just ended a very heated make-out session with him?

The yearbook is from my sophomore year, the last year Keaton and I would have been in school together. I find my picture first and instantly cringe. Braces, bangs, and a sharp bone structure I had yet to grow into. Those high cheekbones belonged to a woman still covered by baby fat with no discernible heart-shaped face or curved chin just yet. I had no idea what confidence even was, and I wouldn’t learn for many years.

I turn to the senior pictures and find Keaton. His hair is parted to the side and neater than I ever saw it at that age. His grandfather clearly must have had input on how he would look for his final picture in high school. The accompanying bowtie makes him seem even more put together, and he is significantly more gangly, not nearly as filled out as the man I see now. Now, he’s thicker, muscular…and handsy, a man who clearly knows what to do.

I thumb through the remaining pages, seeing people I recognize but thought I would surely never see again. Some, like Kayla—hair and makeup perfect as ever—have stayed, but others, the acquaintances from my honors classes and those study groups…they must have moved on.

This town clearly experienced a mass exodus, and ever since then it’s been limping forward the best it can. It still has charm, though. The theater is an excellent example of our town’s staple landmark, and Main Street hasn’t changed one bit. It’s lacking a crowd, but the cute small-town vibe still exists.

And then—it hits me.

I toss the yearbook to the ground, grab my notebook from the shelf, and happily let my blessed car-horn moment run me over.

Twelve

Keaton

I’ve just sat down in the fifth row back when Violet busts in through the double doors. The movie was playing for just me, an audience of one, fulfilling our plan even though she was a good fifteen minutes late. I was starting to wonder if she would show or not, but there she stands, dressed in all black and only visible across the theater due to her smooth ivory skin and pale blonde hair. She spots me and sidesteps down the aisle quickly, landing in the seat next to me and already giddy and smiling, almost frighteningly so.

She pulls her legs underneath her and raises her hands in the air, spreading the fingers wide as if presenting something.

“I have news,” she says.

“Okay.” I breathe out. “Go.” Even with her enthusiasm radiating in waves, all I want to do is kiss her. Being without her the last day has been agonizing, to say the least. I tried to call her but only got her voicemail. It wasn’t until she texted me an hour after I confirmed our plans that I was positive she wasn’t dead.

She breathes in and exhales heavily. “I have my movie idea.”

I throw my hands in the air. “That’s great!” I say, and before I know it, she’s standing in the empty theater row with her hands held high as if she just won an Olympic gold medal.

“Yes!” she calls to the empty theater. “And I’m running off of two hours of sleep!”

“You would never notice.”

She falls back down in the chair, exhausted but still absolutely beautiful with tiny tendrils of hair brushing her cheeks.

“So, what’s it about?” I ask.

“Okay, hear me out: I’m going to pitch a movie about small-town America. Their history, their decline, but also”—a finger is raised in the air as if to emphasize her punchline—“their potential. How what they’re doing is the change our country needs right now, the closeness, the intimacy—”

“You might be a bit biased on that…” I wiggle my eyebrows up and down.

“Seriously though,” she says, ignoring my snark, “I’ll use Foxe Hill as my reference, I’ll look around, and I think I could present to my backers in no time! I’ll need to get some footage, maybe make a quick trailer to capture the aesthetic I have in mind… Keaton, I think this is going to be great.”

“It sounds great.” And it does. I adore this town more than anything in the world. I wouldn’t have stayed so long if I didn’t, and its special nature being recognized and acknowledged is something I support whole-heartedly.

“When do we start?” I ask.

“Soon. Are you still on board with being my tour guide?”

“I said I would,” I say, grinning.

“Good.” She exhales. “But right now I need sleep.”

“Then go to sleep,” I tell her, laughing.

She lifts the armrest between our chairs and curls into me. “But I want to be here.”

“Then stay here.”

“Sounds…good.” The word trails off, and she passes out in seconds. We didn’t kiss, but I can’t say I’m the least bit upset.

* * *

I decide to take a couple days off, put all my trust in my teenage employees, and hope the shop doesn’t burn down while Violet and I plot out every local landmark that captures the charm of Foxe Hill.

I show her the fountain hidden behind Pear Street, the one that was a common make-out spot for high schoolers until local police started patrolling. Now it’s just a sanctuary for retired couples who like to get even more handsy early in the morning when law enforcement isn’t around.

“Promotes long-lasting love,” Violet says, jotting down notes and aiming her camera at the small park, getting a couple different angles as I hold some type of white tarp-looking thing she said helps reflect light or something.

There is this unspoken current of electricity running between us as we work, a small shudder of breath when we brush past each other, a sly smile when one of us makes any comment that could be misconstrued as an innuendo. She asked what this is two days ago, and I couldn’t care less. As long as I get to be around her, labels are irrelevant to me.

Once Violet is satisfied with her footage and starting to pack up her camera bag, I pull at the hem of her dress until we’re behind the fountain and it obscures us from the street. She sits on the edge, leaning back and letting my hands roam over her figure as she buries her fingers in my hair. Her head is tilted to the side, allowing me to kiss every inch of her neck. My hand trails up the skirt of her dress. I tease the lining of her underwear. She tugs me closer by my belt so she can palm the outside of my jeans. Every motion is quick, feverish, desperate to get just one more touch, take it just a little bit further…

Exasperated, we pull apart and decide to continue on our way. She pulls the camera bag strap over her shoulder, and I lug the tripod. Her face is flushed, and she can’t stop smiling. My zipper is strained.

Each day is a different adventure with heavy camera equipment, secret touches, and lots of Foxe Hill.

There are the obvious spots: my sandwich shop, the large bell of Main Street, the courthouse with documents dated back to the 1700s. We visit the town’s one and only library with its sticky carpets, low ceiling, and general atmosphere of old books and mold.

Then we check off the more obscure points of interest: the park bench occupied by a human-size stone frog with his arm draped over the back, the alleyway with a chalk outline of a body drawn on the farthest brick wall, and even the giant out-of-place billboard of the Scooby-Doo gang on a closed-off farm. Asher and I trespassed on the property during our senior year, nearly falling down the hill when the owner caught us attempting to book it back to my Jeep. I take Violet to every eccentricity I can think of that makes Foxe Hill unique.

Our final stop is the chicken memorial near the edge of town. It’s less exciting than the billboard but worth visiting for its stumpy hedge stone surrounded by well-kept flowers and pine straw.

“It’s said the chicken kept crossing the road. Everyone got attached and one day he just stopped showing up, so the town made this.”

“Get real,” Violet says, hesitating to set up her tripod. “How have I never heard of this?”

I shrug. “That’s just how the story goes.”

She rolls her eyes with a disbelieving smile but still reluctantly films it from one angle before calling it a day because, hey, it’s still a memorial for a chicken, after all.

I drop Violet off every night with nothing more than a wave. Even though I spend all day driving with one hand constantly on her thigh and steadily snaking beneath her skirt, we agree to keep it a secret. It would be too suspicious for her to stay out any later than dinner time, and that thought alone makes me feel the weight of everything we’re doing.

But, we can both feel the tension rising. Every time we park for a different landmark, my hand eases farther and farther up her dress. We can’t last ten minutes without finding some excuse to touch each other, me brushing against her arm or Violet discreetly grabbing my ass while I try to be the attentive tour guide as I promised.

“Ma’am,” I chastise. She sashays away and I’m left with yet another erection I can do nothing about.

The only relief I find is in our continuing text threads each night. What starts as “What are you doing?” texts develops into messages that are less and less innocent as each day passes.

On Tuesday, we discuss our dating history—me, the occasional relationship here and there; her, the fleeting one-night stands in L.A.—but nothing compares to this for either of us. She doesn’t need to tell me that. I just know.

She tells me she needs to start editing the footage on Wednesday, so I set my phone to the side, not expecting another risqué conversation. That is, until I receive a picture that causes me to drop the fork from my bowl of Asian take-out and choke on a small piece of rice.

The picture is of Violet, but without her usual black dress. In fact, she’s missing all forms of clothing—just a sly smile, her tiny waist, and full breasts, framed by her hair splayed out beside her. I couldn’t have imagined her skin looking that smooth even if I’d tried. It’s everything I want and need. I have officially seen more of her body via a screen than in real life, and that just seems wrong. I quickly type out a text.

Keaton: Come over.

Violet: Is that a request or a demand?

Jesus Christ, this woman.

Keaton: Which one will convince you?

I wait a second, watching the three dots appear and disappear on the screen, indicating she’s typing. Just when a new text pops up, the screen goes to black and Asher’s face pops up, alerting me to his phone call.

Fuck. Fuck.

I set my bowl on the side table, standing in the living room over my coffee table, staring at the ceiling. I answer as nonchalantly as I can.

“Hey, man,” I say. There’s no way he would know I just received a nude from his sister, but I can still feel the guilt ooze from my words like venom dripping from a snake’s fangs.

“Hey, I haven’t seen you all week,” Asher says. “What have you been up to?”

Just lie. Lie to your best friend.

“Nothing much,” I say. I pause the movie I had on and run my hands through my hair. “Just…you know.”

“Yeah, that kind of week, huh?”

Lie. Lie.

“Uh, yeah.” I choke out a laugh. “I’ve…well, I’ve actually been helping Violet with her film.”

I can’t lie to Asher.

“Oh, right, the small town idea!” Asher says. “She called me up the other day super excited. I didn’t know you were helping.”

“Yeah, she roped me into showing her around Foxe Hill,” I say, letting out a forced scoff and finding myself pacing around the house, absentmindedly spinning the globe on my bookshelf and clicking a pen I don’t remember picking up.

“She has a way of doing that,” he says with a laugh. I join in laughing but wonder if it sounds too shaky while his laugh sounds so absolutely oblivious.

“Yeah, you know how she is,” I say.

But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know she takes nude pictures and sends them to his best friend. He doesn’t know…well, there are a lot of things he shouldn’t know about his sister.

“Hey, listen, thanks for being good to her,” he says. “I don’t think she’s been doing well with being back in town.”

My breath catches in my throat. Thanks for being good to her.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “No problem.”

Good to her.

I pull my phone away from my ear, glancing down at the unread text from a few minutes ago.

Violet: I’m on my way.

I let out a heavy exhalation, starting to pace once more. Asher’s voice is what pulls me back from what might be too many endorphins rushing through my brain to allow me to remain standing.

“So, anyway, want to hang out?” he says. “I’ll invite myself over and bring the beer—the usual.”

“Uh, no, I’m actually kind of tired,” I say, tapping my hands on the counter. “I was thinking of going to bed soon.”

“Well too late, I already have the beer and I’m pulling onto Main Street.”

No. No no.

I don’t like roller coasters. I don’t like them because when you hit the top, finally relieved you’ve crested the mile-long hill, you drop and everything inside you falls to the pit of your stomach. For a split second, you wonder if that sinking feeling will ever stop.

In this moment, I’m pretty sure it never will.

“What,” I say. It’s not a question. Why? Because I live five minutes from Main Street, and Violet is on her way to this exact spot as well. The Ellis siblings have no chill on impromptu visits, but at least I invited Violet.

“It’s hard to pin you down nowadays!” He laughs. “I just figured I’d get a jump on it before you could say no.”

I frantically pull my phone away from my ear again, fumbling to type out a text, but…are those headlights outside?

Shit.

“No, really, I think I’m gonna go to bed,” I say, shoving my way around the kitchen island to look out the window. It’s a van, and a short figure with a bun bouncing on the top of her head exits the vehicle.

Violet.

“Drink some coffee, dude!” Asher says. “Be there soon.”

As he hangs up, I hear footsteps outside my door.

Fuck.

Thirteen

Violet

I normally don’t send nudes. The concept always seemed a bit too voyeuristic to me, but I guess things change. I understand that wherever you get your kicks is your business, and me lying on the ground with too many of my studio lights shining down on my naked body so I am guaranteed to look like some ethereal angel in heaven just to seduce my brother’s best friend is apparently how I get mine now.

To each her own.

When I show up on Keaton’s doorstep, I don’t even have time to knock before he’s whipping the door open. I changed clothes in my car before pulling out of my driveway and, during the ride over, I couldn’t wait to see his face when he sees me standing in the camouflage jacket he picked out and only the camouflage jacket he picked out—but instead, he looks like he’s seen the ghost of deer hunting past.

“Oh my god,” he says.

I hip-check him into the house, lifting my hands above my head in an exaggerated stretch, exposing the tops of my legs and underside of my ass.

Come get me, tiger.

“Violet,” he says—in awe, just as I predicted. I hear the door slam closed behind him and look back to see his eyebrows pulled inward and his head tilted to the side like a cute puppy. The words that follow do not match his adorable expression.

“You can’t be here,” he says.

I blink. Did I miss something?

“But you invited me.”

“Okay, listen, just…let’s go to my room. Now.”

Well okay then.

He doesn’t have to tell me twice—except, I’ve never been to his house before. It’s small, but just big enough to suit the one occupant. There’s a lamp in each corner of the living room surrounded by bookshelves containing an equal number of books and movies. The majority of the floor space is taken up by an L-shaped couch, and a decent-sized television is mounted on the wall opposite the kitchen, paused in the middle of some classic black and white film.

“Violet, please,” he says, giving my rump a little push. I throw both arms around his neck. I can feel the jacket ride up entirely, exposing my full moon ass. He shakes his head, avoiding my lips when I move in to kiss his. “We don’t have time.”

He takes my waist in both of his hands and throws me over his shoulder. Now I’m really exposed, my ass bouncing next to his head as he balances me to the side.

“Oh, okay, I can get into this,” I say.

I can barely make out anything other than the hardwood floor passing below me. We pass one, maybe two other rooms before we cross the threshold into the last one, and I’m tossed onto a large bed.

“You need to get dressed,” he says, and suddenly I feel like we’re working against our mutually understood common goal.

“Wait—what?” I ask.

He’s reaching into the open closet on the other side of the room, digging through hangers, flipping through stacks of folded shirts on built-in shelves. He’s humming to himself as he takes a step into the closet, reaches an arm in so far it disappears, and returns with a pair of sweatpants. He tosses them next to me on the bed along with a t-shirt.

“Put that on.”

“I thought I was here to not put things on.”

“Put it on, Violet,” he says. “Asher is on his way here.”

My heart sinks.

He’s joking. He has to be joking.

But this isn’t a funny joke. In fact, it’s one of the least funny ones he’s ever told.

“Stop it,” I say.

“I’m not kidding.”

“What?!” I’m louder than I intend to be, but my hysteria knows no bounds. “Then why did you tell me to come over?”

“I didn’t know he was coming over!” he says, looking nearly as hysterical as I do. “He’s Asher! He’s used to dropping by unannounced!”

I narrow my eyes at him, snatching both the sweatpants and the shirt and taking them with me into the master bathroom attached at the far side of his room.

“I don’t at least get to see you change?” he asks, throwing his hands in the air.

“You lost that privilege when you double-booked with my brother.”

I pull on the sweatpants, which fit surprisingly well—not loose at all, actually a bit snug, though they seem a bit too cropped for my taste. They hit just an inch or two above my ankle, but nothing unmanageable. I unfold the t-shirt and look at the design. It’s an illustration that, while it may appear to be a big cat yelling, is actually just a crude drawing of our fierce high school mascot, Fanny the Fox. I own this shirt too—what Foxe Hill High alum doesn’t? I pull it on, and while it’s looser than the pants, it doesn’t seem conspicuously overbearing. It could be mine.

After this, it decidedly will be mine.

When I walk back out into the hallway, I follow the noises to one room over. Keaton is inside what looks like an office space. He’s moving loose papers to bookshelves and picking up a coffee mug when he sees me.

His eyes trail from my shirt to my pants and my bare feet. He lets out an exasperated laugh.

“Well that worked better than I thought it would,” he says, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair. By the height of it, it looks like this isn’t the first time in the past few minutes he’s done that. “They look like yours, which is good.”

“Whose pants are these?” I ask, shoving my hands in the pockets.

“Mine.” He throws a piece of paper in the trashcan under the desk supporting two monitors. “From when I was in middle school.” He grabs some headphones off the wall and places them in my hands. “So, listen up: the story we’re telling is that you came over to edit. I forgot you were here because you’ve been so quiet and concentrated and, whoops, you’re still editing.”

“Okay, but why would I come here of all places?” I ask.

He points to me. “Fair question. Because you wanted my opinion on the edit.”

“I couldn’t have just shown you tomorrow?” I ask.

“You were excited about the idea,” he says.

“And I insisted on staying to continue editing?”

“You were excited about the idea,” he repeats in a matter-of-fact way.

I cross my arms. “You don’t really think my brother will buy that, do you?”

“Have you met you?”

Okay, I’m excitable—I’ll give him that.

“Let’s assume he does believe us,” I say, pacing toward the computer chair. “I don’t have anything edited yet.”

His face falls. “Nothing at all?”

“Hey, I’ve been too busy sending you naked pictures of me, if you remember.”

He raises an eyebrow, slowly stalking toward me until his hands land on my waist. “I remember.”

They trail up my sides, twisting into the shirt, tugging it higher until the cool breeze from the ceiling fan brushes over my skin. His lowers his chin to kiss the tops of my eyes, the bridge of my nose, and the edge of my lips. My legs throb, desperate for attention, but I quickly shake my head.

“Focus, Keaton.”

“Yes,” he says, clearing his throat and dropping his hands from my waist. “Okay, so…you don’t have anything ready yet.”

“No, but I uploaded stuff to my cloud account this afternoon.” I shrug. “I can pretend to edit that.”

“Perfect!”

I raise a quick finger, lolling my head side to side. “But, do you have any editing programs I can pretend-edit with?”

“Right.” He pauses. “Uh, no.”

We both scramble to the computer chair—me claiming it before he can and elbowing him out of the way—and I quickly download a trial of the program I’m accustomed to. I frantically click through browsers to navigate to my cloud account. I start to download footage, dragging it into the program and arranging it like a good fake project ought to be.

It’s easy to get lost in attempting to create the best rough cut I can manage with the limited clips available. For a minute or two, I forget where I am. I can’t hear anything outside of the birds chirping and the running water of the fountain video from earlier in the week—that is, until Keaton lets out a small chuckle, causing me to pause.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing. You look sexy when you edit.”

“Go away.” I laugh. “You’re supposed to be forgetting I exist, remember?”

“Impossible.” His voice is low and tantalizing, enough to send shivers down my spine, giving my toes a reason to curl.

Keaton’s thumb strokes my shoulder then he plants a soft kiss where the ghostly prints were left before.

Outside, there’s the sound of a car door closing, and Keaton scrambles back into the hall, letting out an exhalation.

“Turn off the lights when you leave,” I call. “It’ll be more believable, trust me.”

He nods, flips the light switch, and then shuts the door.

I’m alone with just the light of the computer and the distant sounds of my brother entering the house, the clinking of the beer bottles, and the unmistakable sound of his question: “Dude, is that my dad’s van outside? Is Violet here?”

I shove the headphones on my head. Were our stupid little lie a reality, it might be believable how lost in my work I could get with how noise-canceling these headphones are. He might definitely forget I’m here. The continuing conversations are more reminiscent of Charlie Brown’s schoolteacher, and my ears throb with the thump of each heartbeat. I stare at the screen in front of me, clicking through clips, making no actual difference in the arrangement but trying to look as busy as possible.

Light suddenly floods into the room from the hallway and I whip my head around. Asher is holding a beer, eyebrow lifted curiously, and he looks at me sitting in an office in the dark, knees pulled to my chest and a crazed expression on my face that hopefully resembles exhaustion from work and not deer-in-the-headlights fear.

“The office door!” I say, tossing my hand up. “I’m color-correcting! I need darkness!”

“What,” Asher says, deadpan.

“Geez, you wouldn’t understand.” I fake a groan.

It’s hard to tell what Keaton is thinking from his blank expression. When the man has to poker-face, the man can poker-face. He doesn’t look like he has any emotions, least of all guilty ones.

“Sorry—I forgot you were here,” Keaton says from behind Asher. The words, though I know they’re a lie, came so fast and seem so genuine that they sting a little.

“Rude,” I say.

Asher nods slowly, and even more slowly, a smile spreads on his face as if he finally understands everything. Yes, something is going on. Yes, we’re caught red-handed. Yes, this was a really awful lie—but then he laughs. The man laughs.

“God, it is so nice to see you so wrapped up in a project again, Vi.” His hands drop to his sides, beer sloshing a little in the neck. I almost expect him to start a slow clap.

“Yeah, uh, I get wrapped up in all this,” I say, waving to the computer. I’m hoping I don’t break, but, like, what is even happening. Asher walks up behind me, looking over my shoulder at the footage.

“Woah, is that the fountain off Pear?” he says.

“Yes.”

“That looks sick.” His voice rolls out the last word like a surfer admiring an impressively large wave passing by.

“It’s a fountain, Asher,” I say.

“Yeah, well, it looks cool.” He straightens up, bringing the beer to his lips. “Nice camera angle and stuff.”

“Alright, I’m gonna head out,” I say, giving a laugh and saving a copy of my supposed edit to my cloud account.

“No, no, stay and keep working!” Asher says. “Don’t let me upset your productivity.”

I look at Keaton, hesitant, but he shrugs. “Yes, don’t leave. I’ll go get you a beer.” It’s all said with the enthusiasm of a dead goat.

“Thanks,” I say. “That would be great.”

It would not be great. None of this is great. This is the opposite of how I imagined tonight would be going. Plus, these sweatpants, which are obviously not made for women to begin with, are now chafing in areas they shouldn’t since I’m not wearing underwear, and I just want to die.

Asher leaves, and Keaton follows behind him.

The only other time they talk to me is when Asher drops off a beer, telling me to “Keep up the good work!”

I don’t have enough clips to edit, so instead I spend hours browsing the internet.

Did you know cats can jump over seven tiers of cups?

I didn’t either, but now I do.

I finally pretend to wrap up around midnight, taking the headphones with me because I could seriously use a pair of these. Keaton ignores me from a distance even when I tell him I’m borrowing them, and Asher walks me to my car, telling me how proud he is that I’m achieving my dreams.

Oh yes, I’m so proud of myself.

Fourteen

Keaton

I have felt like a piece of human garbage since Wednesday night. After being a bit more absent than usual at the shop, I scheduled myself for all day Thursday and spent every bit of downtime texting Violet, who only answered with very short messages.

Asher is my best friend. Violet is…well, she’s Violet. She’s bright. She’s quippy. She’s all types of weather, but only the best kinds. She’s sunshine after a long day at work. She’s rain when all you want to do is sit inside and read or watch movies. And I royally screwed her over.

Keaton: I’m sorry you were in that room all night. Do you want me to beg on hands and knees? I can do that.

Violet: Do that for two hours and we’ll be about square.

The bell above the shop door rings, and I place my phone down, tending to the small, welcome rush.

That night, I swing by her house, parking at the end of her long gravel driveway and walking through the pines and weeds to the side where her room has always been. I’ve never stood outside her window before, have never had the need to, but now seems like a good time to start.

I pick up a rock and toss it at her window. Then another…and another, pebbles hitting the glass so often I wonder if eventually Mrs. Ellis will come out and demand to know what the racket is. The light inside finally shifts, and I see a finger and eyes poke through the blinds. In seconds, the pane is open.

“What are you doing?” Violet hisses down at me, looking side to side as if hoping I didn’t bring a boombox.

“Stealing you.”

She exhales. “Well, I’m actually getting work done here.”

“I have one more landmark I forgot to show you,” I call back in the lowest tone I can to be heard without yelling. “So, technically this is work.”

Violet squints her eyes at me, inhaling sharply before saying, “Give me five minutes.”

We drive down the road with my Jeep doors off, wind flying in through the sides, sending the small face-framing sections of Violet’s hair shifting all over the place. She stares out the window, adjusting her position every few minutes, bringing her knees to her chest, curling her feet underneath her, stretching her legs out to the floorboard…

“Where are we going?” she finally asks.

“Just wait,” I say.

Her head falls back against the seat. “It’s dark and we’re in the middle of nowhere.”

“Trust is key, Vi.”

The grass starts to get higher on either side of us and two lanes narrow to one. I take a right where a white fence starts and the road turns to dirt. I slow my driving as we rumble down the road. There are fields for a few acres before they run into a crowd of trees, but ahead of us is only more pathways.

“You’re about to kill me, aren’t you?” she asks, peering out in the dark.

“Possibly,” I joke. She scoffs.

Without the additional floodlights on my car, we would be completely blind to the area around us. We get in so deep that we’re in the midst of spots the wildlife call home. Deer peek out from behind branches and rabbits cross the path.

We wind up a small hill until the trees clear once more and we find an open area, surrounded by the white fence on two sides. The third side displays the edge of a cliffside overlooking the remainder of the fields and a clear view of the moon overhead. Occasional twinkles of lights pop up—the fireflies coming out to play—and the only sounds are the crickets and the gritty dirt beneath our shoes as we walk to the edge of the hill.

She sits on the ground cross-legged, still in her blue house shoes, and I lean against the hood of the car, elbows resting behind me.

“I’m sorry for Wednesday,” I say.

She sighs, leaning back into my knees. “You couldn’t have known.”

“I didn’t need to ignore you. That was too much of an overcompensation.”

She laughs. “Yeah, that was pretty shitty.”

“It was pretty shitty.”

We let the silence stretch for a minute or so. It’s not uncomfortable, simply relaxing. It’s a feeling of ease that comes with distance from civilization.

“Tell me something,” she says, breaking me from my thoughts.

I open my mouth to answer and come up blank, leading to a sudden burst of laughter. “Wow, that question is startling.”

“Told you.” When I don’t answer, she lightly elbows me in the shin. “You’re not getting out of it, though. I’ve had to endure it.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, humming my way through items in my head.

I couldn’t imagine a day when she would come back to Foxe Hill. It feels surreal hanging out with her, touching her, and sharing not just our hopes for the future but personal experiences. She achieved everything I knew she would, and she’s still shooting for the stars. I want to soak up her presence for as long as I can until she’s gone again.

“I’m waiting,” she singsongs.

“I like that you’re making a movie about Foxe Hill,” I say. “I like how you view the world as if everything has a story just waiting to be told.”

“Everything does have a story waiting to be told.”

“And what’s Foxe Hill’s?” I ask.

She hesitates, pursing her lips then relaxing them and shuffling her feet back and forth beneath her. “Foxe Hill is…home. Like, the quintessential meaning of it. Maybe I’m biased since I grew up here, but it’s the place where you can rediscover yourself. I mean, the door behind the theater is still unlocked, as if it’s welcoming me back.”

“I just forgot to fix it.”

“Let me hold on to this fantasy.”

I chuckle. “Okay, okay.”

“I don’t know…I feel like any second I’ll run into an old teacher or stop at a four-way and see some old study buddy in the car across from me…or my crush still at the movie theater.”

“I sure did.”

She pauses, turning to look up at me, big doe eyes reflecting the moonlight. “Oh yeah?”

My stomach drops, but I smile; it’s reflexive and spreading by the second. “I’ve been thinking about you ever since I heard you were coming back. For ten years, really. Hope that’s not weird.”

She nods and focuses back on the vast land before us. My heart races at her silence. I wonder if I said something wrong, if maybe it sounded creepy coming from her older brother’s friend. Or is she still upset and that was bad timing?

“Can I be honest with you?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” I say.

“I always wondered where kids went to have sex in town.”

I almost choke on my own breath, gripping the car’s fender and letting out a nervous laugh.

“Did you now?”

“Like, you can’t do it in your house,” she continues. “The parents are there. So, where did people go? Here?”

“No, not here,” I say. “I can guarantee it.”

She turns to me. “You’re telling me you didn’t come here with Liza or Brittney?”

“Who?”

“Come on. You flirted with them every time they came in the theater. You gave them free popcorn.”

I laugh because I haven’t thought of them in years. They moved right after graduation, going to colleges in other states and moving across the country for some reason or another—I don’t even know. The only person I’ve thought about is Violet.

“Nobody knows about this place,” I say. “My grandpa found it. It’s abandoned, I think. Maybe an old farm or something. I’ve been coming here since high school, but I never brought a girl, I promise. Never told a soul…until now.”

“Why now?”

“What do I need it for anymore? It’s special, sure, but it’ll be more special if you can include it in your movie.”

She laughs. “You’re a sap.”

“No, I’m a tour guide to beat all tour guides.”

Violet rises off the ground, dusting off her pants and twisting on her heel to come face to face with me, tracing a finger across my chest, splaying her hands out over my heart and shoulder.

“You’re not wrong there.”

My head clouds when our lips meet again. It feels familiar now, but still new. I’m still learning how she reacts; I’m unable to predict how she’ll kiss me, where her hands will tread, and where she wants mine to journey. As I grow harder, blood pumping down south, I know I want to find out.

Fifteen

Violet

I don’t know when it started to get serious, but I know how it will end.

Keaton’s touch grows more and more needy with every sharp inhalation of my breath. His lips press against me, parting enough for our tongues to touch gently, and then they’re hot and wanting. I reach his jawline, tracing along the edges where it meets his neck. I want to feel all of him, every way he connects and every hard muscle underneath.

His hands grip my waist, pulling me closer into him. They curl down to my hips as he tilts his head to devour me more, feverish. My fingers run through his hair, gripping the locks and letting our lips press harder, our tongues play wilder. Each movement comes with another exploration, another hand finding its way to a new spot and another groan from my mouth, unable to contain the nerves that need release.

When he starts at the hem of my shirt, my breathing grows faster. His palms run up my stomach, and my shirt rises with it. His thumb explores the scant area where my bra meets the underside of my breast, each stroke lifting it higher. It crests my hardened bud and he circles close to it before finally giving me relief by rubbing over it. The moan leaves my mouth against my will, and my only thought is how long I’ve waited for his warmth on me.

He pulls my shirt the rest of the way over my head, bending down to take my nipple in his mouth, running a tongue over me. The feeling is like lightning, shooting across my chest and down between my thighs, which ache for attention. His hand finds my other nipple, pinching it between his fingers, making my back arch and my knees grow weak.

He releases me, and the cool night air leaves the abandoned spot sensitive and needy. Hands wrap around my back, gripping my ass and picking me up to place me on top of the hood of his Jeep. I tug his jacket off, rip the shirt over his head, and run my hands over his shoulders, biceps, and forearms, hard and rolling in waves beneath my palms.

He lays a hand on my chest, leaning me back to lie on the hood, torso exposed and arms spread to either side, feeling his soft touch as he kisses between my breasts, down to my stomach, and on each hip bone. Every kiss adds to the bundle of nerves, and as he dips lower, I feel the need pulsing between my legs.

I reach out for him, fumbling to find his belt. I unhook it from its holdings, hearing the clink of metal against metal and the zip followed by his falling jeans to the ground. My palm presses against his underwear, stroking the underside of him. He’s large—larger than I expected—and with every stroke up and down his length, he lets out a low growl that spurs me to reach for his waistband and lower his boxer briefs down beneath him.

My thumb rubs against the head as he unbuttons my pants now, shimmying them down past my hips and knees to fall past my feet, house shoes abandoned on the ground. I lie there against the car in nothing but the fabric of my lacy panties with Keaton in front of me, torso muscled and hard cock illuminated in the moonlight. My stomach drops and a passing wind causes a shiver to run over me.

Keaton strokes a hand over my knee, up my leg, and to the edge of my underwear, tugging at the sides and sliding one finger through, parting me and pressing in. I’m already wet for him, slick and ready. He curls up to the knuckle, stroking the soft spot inside, the nerves darting out to my toes, my fingertips, my body shaking from the insertion of another finger and the outdoor air rushing by. It startles the trees, but the heart beating in my ears is the only sound I can register.

Pressure builds in my legs then in my abdomen, swirling and swirling until I feel my brain dunk into deep water and pleasure wash over me in waves as I moan his name, every syllable sounding perfect on my lips as if they are meant to say his name and his only.

His fingers retreat from me, removing the last article of clothing and placing both hands on my ass to pull me closer to the edge of the Jeep’s hood. He bends down to kiss the inside of my thigh before walking around to the passenger side of the car. I hear him pop open the glove compartment and rip open a packet. He returns with a condom in his hand, rolling it over his length and down to the base. I reach out to stroke him, and a devilish smile plays across his lips.

“You are so attractive, baby.”

“Baby?” I croon. “Is that the pet name we’re calling each other?”

He centers himself between my legs, nudging my lips with his head. I spread wider for him, our eyes locked as if daring the other to move first.

“What would be better?” he asks. He pushes part of himself in then pulls out once more. I lean my head back, letting out a small moan.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to say my name,” he says, inserting himself deeper, stretching me bit by bit and touching the soft spot inside me again. He rubs against it with every movement in and out.

“Keaton,” I moan. “Keaton,” I repeat each time he slides in deeper and deeper.

“Say it again,” he demands, increasing his speed, pulling my legs up to rest on his shoulders and pushing in inch by inch.

“Keaton.” I feel his base finally hit me, amazed he made it all the way in but too overwhelmed by the nerves sparking every time he smacks against me over and over to really think about it, moaning in tune with my repeated calls of his name.

“Oh God,” I yell, breathing heavier and heavier until the nerves build up once more and desire overtakes me. Every extremity of mine tingles and feels spent as he groans, leaning over and releasing himself inside me. He thrusts slower and slower until he finally pulls out and lays his head on my chest.

We breathe heavily in sync, our eyes closed with only the crickets and the trees to hear us.

“Why did we wait this long?” I ask.

“What, ten years?”

“No, one week.”

He laughs. “I don’t know, but I don’t wanna wait again.”

So we don’t.

Sixteen

Violet

I wake up in an unfamiliar bed to the sound of birds chirping outside and the smell of bacon wafting around me. I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the room in front of me. My contacts were in all night and I can feel the ramifications now as they attempt to correct themselves.

The room comes into focus, and everything from last night comes flooding back.

I’m in Keaton’s room. I had sex with Keaton two—okay three—times. Two at the secret cliffside, one in the middle of the night. That or I dreamt it, in which case Keaton has a very, very dirty mouth in my dreams.

I sit up, looking around at the room I was too rushed to pay attention to just a few nights ago. The house is cleaner than I expected, and I’m not sure why. Maybe I still have the impression of him as a long-haired, wily teen, but his room does not reflect that. The king-sized bed is adorned with striped sheets and topped with a thick forest green comforter. The walls have shelves with neat stacks of books ranging from nonfiction titles to a few sci-fi novels I’ve heard of but never read.

Hearing the distant sounds of pans and plates clacking together, I climb out of bed and grab a shirt from his closet, letting it hang loosely over me. In just that and my underwear, I tiptoe out of the room, hissing once my bare feet hit cold hardwood instead of carpet. At the end of hall, I see the television is on, but it’s only displaying a playlist he must be casting from his phone. I turn the corner into the kitchen, where Keaton is moving around with the grace of a man experienced in doing so, running a spatula over the bacon to flip it, reaching into the fridge to pull out orange juice in one smooth motion, just as elegant as he might be at his shop.

He spots me, and a dimpled smile shines through his beard. My heart soars. So, it did happen. It wasn’t a dream. We did have sex. I did spend the night at his house, and he is making me freaking bacon.

“Mornin’,” he says. “Didn’t want to wake you. Well, I did, but I figured it would be better with bacon and eggs.”

“Ooh, there’s eggs too?”

“Only if you like them with some spices.”

“Is there any other way?”

He takes me in his arms, and I wrap mine around his waist. He’s well-built, so defined that I wonder if he had time to work out this morning and his muscles are still flexed from that. Or maybe all our activities have made him sore. When I squeeze his waist tighter, I feel my arms pinch and know I am.

He plants a kiss to the top of my head, and I nearly melt.

“So, I say we eat breakfast and then…” He trails off, kissing my forehead and cheek. “Then do you want me to fuck you over the counter?”

I laugh, standing on my toes and tilting my head to kiss him deeply. Even though my lips ache from last night, I relish the fluttering wings of butterflies in my chest.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

It turns out I wasn’t dreaming—Keaton is a very handsome man with a very nasty mouth.

We hop in the shower together, resisting another go-round so he can make it to work on time, and an hour later I’m driving the five minutes it takes me to get home, replaying the events from the past twelve hours over and over. I hope he knows that dirty talk will only hold me over for so long.

I pull into the gravel driveway, and my mom sits on the porch in her Adirondack chair per the usual schedule, phone close to her face and coffee mug steaming on the armrest. She looks up and my stomach drops. How do I explain my absence? Where would I have been? I could say I was at Asher’s, but that little white lie would be dashed the second she asks him about it.

I cut the van off and walk to the porch. It would be suspicious if I didn’t stop to sit with her, so I do. She has an eyebrow raised in my direction, and I’m still trying to think as fast as I can. It’s weird how I am nearing thirty yet the second I’m back under my parents’ roof, the rules of high school still apply.

“And where were you?” she asks.

“Lily’s house,” I say. Well, that lie came quicker than I expected.

“Lily, Lily…” she repeats, no doubt trying to match the name to the person. I’m hoping to God Lily’s notoriety is not nearly as prevalent as Kayla’s. To my astonishment, I’m correct. “Who is Lily?”

“A friend,” I answer, just a bit too quickly—so quickly it gives me away in an instant and we both know it.

“Uh-huh,” she repeats slowly. “A friend. And would Lily be the code name for a boy?”

“No,” I answer.

“Not a boy?”

“No,” I say, matter-of-factly. “Now I need to go shower.”

She lets out the motherliest mix of a scoff and a laugh, as if chastising me for even thinking I could have fooled her. “We can discuss later if that works better for you.” She pulls the phone back to her face, lowering her glasses and reading the news once more.

I stand up, only partially relieved by the interaction, until she calls back to me, “I won’t tell your dad, but I hope you were safe.”

“Ahh, no more talk, thank you,” I say, covering an ear as I open the screen door and silently climb the stairs to my bedroom.

Dazed as the thoughts of Keaton gripping my hips while I rode him in the sheets fill my mind once more, I flop on the bed, sprawled out starfish-style, feet hanging off the ends. I reach over and grab my laptop, which is right where I left it before sneaking out last night, and I open it to view the progress I made yesterday.

I was close to finishing, but I still hadn’t looked over the footage from Thursday. I pull it from my saved files and pore over every clip. Foxe Hill is both so small and big at the same time. Maybe it’s the personalities of its residents or the experiences that come with it, but a million words could be said about the stores on Main Street alone.

Once I feel satisfied with a test reel, I turn my attention to a text file, copying over every note I’ve made in my brainstorming journal regarding this project. The subtle ways small-town life can sneak up on you, starting with apprehension and ending up as something resembling home—a feeling very unlike the overwhelming nature of a big city where you’re just one in a million. In small towns, everyone has a purpose. Everyone matters.

I record a quick voiceover for the trailer, compile both the final product and the finished movie treatment, and send it in an email to Sean and Dean. I look at my phone to see that a few hours have passed, and I’m overwhelmed with about twenty group texts.

Kayla: Added Violet to the group text. Hope you’re all okay with it. If not, fuck off. Also, I got a new puppy. His adoption party is tonight. Be there.

Lily: Are adoption parties a thing? (Hi, Vi!)

Kayla: A celebration is a celebration.

Asher: Are we celebrating getting the puppy out of poverty?

Kayla: That’s the spirit.

Joey: He has a shirt and everything.

Keaton: Thank God. I was afraid he would be naked. Crisis averted.

Just seeing his name pop up is enough to make my stomach flip. I imagine him at the shop, leaning against the counter, fingers tapping away on his phone, looking sexy with a black t-shirt pulling against his biceps and the cap he wears backward and that ridiculous but adorable beard hairnet.

This text conversation goes on for a while, debating puppy names and different outfits that poor dog will be put in over its lifetime. It looks like everyone else has agreed to a Friday night bonfire. I make sure to add in my confirmation as well, and five minutes later, my phone buzzes.

Keaton: Are you showing up in just a t-shirt as well?

I smile, starting to type a message back, but a notification slides down, showing a calendar invitation from Sean and Dean. It’s a follow-up meeting early tomorrow morning regarding the pitch I sent over. My heart skips. That was curiously fast, but this is a fast industry so I shouldn’t be too surprised. I accept the invite and go back to my texts.

Staring at Keaton’s, I bite my lip and close my eyes. If my heart beats any faster, I just might die. I might even be happy if I died in this moment, but I have a movie to make and a man who is scheduled to satisfy me.

* * *

That night, I’m in Kayla’s back yard, sitting on the edge of a white-backed lawn chair. Globe lights hang off the pergola over my head, a fire is roaring a few feet away, and my eyes try so hard not to lock with Keaton’s every five seconds. Thankfully, the puppy is doing a great job distracting him, but the scene of this hot man playing with probably the most adorable dachshund puppy I’ve ever seen only fuels my temptation to stare. At least I can blame it on the cuteness of the puppy and not the man playing with it.

When I get a new drink, Keaton follows, our hands grazing for a moment before we part ways once more. The touch is enough to last me for another five minutes until I ask Kayla if there’s a restroom I can use and flash a look to Keaton while the others chat about who knows what.

Ten minutes later, Keaton is in the dark hallway, backing me into the bathroom.

“Again?” he whispers.

I nod, closing the door behind us and backing up against the sink.

“You’re gonna wear me out, Vi,” he says, though we both know it’s an empty protest. His mouth roams mine while I hear the clinking of his belt. I’m already pulling my skirt up. He’s pushing my thong aside. I feel just the tip of him before halting at the sound of a deadening, soul-shattering knock.

He pulls away from me, fumbling to pull up his pants. I hop off the counter, hissing at him to get in the shower and pulling the curtain shut while he’s still mid-zip. I run my hands through my hair, trying to make sure I don’t look like I was being ravaged by some bathroom ghost demon, and swing the door open to see…nobody. That is, until I look down.

Standing two and a half feet tall with a mess of brown hair and matching pajamas is one of the twins—Joey and Kayla’s child.

“I’m getting water,” he says.

“That makes s-sense,” I stammer out, but I do not move.

He stares at me, rubbing his eyes and squinting. “Are you going to stay?”

“Oh, no, no, I’m not,” I say, sidestepping him as he walks past. “I’m sorry.” I tiptoe down the hall, watching the pool of light shine out from the bathroom until the water stops running and he exits into the hall, giving me a small wave then toddling back to his room.

My eyes are wide, surely displaying the pure terror I feel inside. I’m happy it was just the kid and not anyone else, but can that kid keep a secret?

I hear the rustling of a shower curtain and out walks Keaton, eyes equally as wide as mine with a hand covering half of his face as if he can discreetly Phantom of the Opera his way down the hall.

“That was almost not good,” he mumbles.

“Maybe no more bathrooms.”

“Agreed.”

We break our promise a few hours later back at his place, but hey, we’re no saints.

I leave his house early the next morning, hoping to prepare for my meeting and avoid running into my mom again. Alas, as the gravel rumbles beneath my van’s wheels, she is sitting there with her glasses on the bridge of her nose, no phone but instead giving me a look of pure judgment. Absolutely zero avoidance possible. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was waiting for me the entire night.

I hop out of the van and sit in the same rocking chair as before, hands folded on my lap, looking to the ground.

“You want to tell me you stayed at Lily’s again?”

I’m almost thirty and yet here I am, unable to say a single false thing to my mother. I can hide this from the rest of the world, but my mom’s shaming gaze can make me feel like I’m thirteen all over again.

“No.”

“Do you want to tell me who this man is yet?”

“Not yet.”

Her lips stretch into a smile, accentuating her laugh lines and giving a small sparkle to her eyes.

“Yet,” she echoes then leans back in her chair to sip her coffee.

I rise before another word can be said on the subject then run to the bathroom to get ready for my web conference with Sean and Dean. I’m still living out of my suitcase, so I sift around until I find a simple white top with the only navy blazer I own and some cropped pants because, even though they can’t see my lower half, I’m excited. I sent them a pitch I’m proud of, and maybe I want to dress like some silly executive today.

I review my proposal one more time, trying to memorize every word, practicing every inflection. I even look up voice exercises, but I don’t think ‘yellow leather, red leather’ helps much.

Ten o’clock hits and the notification for the calendar event pops up. I take a deep breath before calling the number listed. I shuffle until I’m comfortable on the floor of my bedroom, letting the end of my bed serve as a neutral background. In seconds, both Sean and Dean appear, sitting next to each other in an empty, open conference room, shoulder to shoulder. I wonder if they’ve even left each other’s side since our last call.

“Good morning,” I say, giving a small wave. They return the gesture in sync, lopsided dude-bro smirks on each of their faces.

“How’s the weather over in Cali?” I ask.

“Fine, fine,” says Dean. “Enjoying the small-town life?”

“It actually hasn’t been half bad,” I say, exhaling and zooming through every word in my head. “I think I’m really hitting my stride. A lot of developments, as I’m sure you saw in my presentation. I wanted to touch on a couple of those points—”

“We’re gonna stop you there,” says Sean, his hand rising to display an open palm. “First of all, we love your edits. They’re good—exactly the quality we knew you were capable of.”

“Yes, absolutely love them,” Dean adds. “Couldn’t have framed the shots better myself.”

“Truly.”

“That fountain?”

“Oh yeah, great.”

They’re talking over one another, mimicking the words the other just said, circling around the same sentiment until I clear my throat.

“Thank you,” I say. “So, what were you going to say?”

“Right, listen,” Sean says, shifting in his chair, resting his chin in his hand. “We’re looking for something a bit more edgy from you.”

“Edgy?” I ask.

“Yes, like your last film. A scathing review of American education? Groundbreaking. A conversation piece, and so nasty.”

Dean feverishly nods in agreement, holding his hands up as if praising a higher being. “Yes, absolutely disgusting.”

“Disgusting?” I ask, choking out a laugh. “I don’t know about that. I mean, it was a critique—”

“A harsh critique,” one of them says, as if correcting me. “But that was good! It’s why it sold!”

“So fantastic,” the other continues.

“Genius.”

That documentary was not meant to be harsh. Sure, I received my handful of bitter emails, but who wouldn’t when commenting on something as sensitive as education? That said, it was by no means nasty…

“We’re just looking for something more,” Dean says, leaning forward, his nose getting far too close to the camera. “Why is this small town dying?”

“Dying?” I ask, pressing a hand to my chest. “Jesus.”

“Yes, why is it ending? Suffering? Going bankrupt?”

I laugh. “I literally said none of that.”

“But you could,” Dean suggests.

“And you should,” Sean continues.

I stare at them. Am I being punk’d? This is definitely a prank, right?

“This town has so much more to it, though,” I say, running my palms over my crossed knees, trying to get the ever-building perspiration off. “It’s got charm. And that video I sent…I mean, that was just the start. I’m going to visit other towns, see what makes them special, interview their locals—”

“Oh, no, we love this town,” Dean interrupts, throwing his hands in the air once more. “You don’t need to go anywhere.”

“Yes, it’s perfect for the story we’re trying to tell.” …the story we’re trying to tell. “The little secret spot in the woods you mentioned in the voiceover? Love it. Get footage of that too.”

My knee starts to shake. It feels wrong hearing them discuss the hidden sanctuary overlooking the cliffs, like I gave Keaton’s secret away to somebody I shouldn’t have.

“It’s charming, sure, but it’s also just…sad. Really sad.” They lean back in their chairs, hands steepled over their chests and eyes narrowed. “What do you think? We want to hear from you. What’s on your mind?”

I open my mouth to talk and a small laugh comes out. “I just don’t know if that’s the direction I was looking to head in.”

“We understand, but it’s very early in the process.”

“Very early,” the other says.

“Exactly, so it’s very easy to course-correct here. We still see a lot of potential in this idea, Violet, and we’ve gotten approved to give you more money than originally promised if you want to keep pursuing it.”

“That’s…well, that’s very generous.”

“Ninety percent of success is luck. You got that your first go-round. We’d like to ensure it happens again, but we need to sway the odds. But, listen—no changes, no funding. Simple as that. If you’re still interested, send us a new reel by tomorrow night and we’ll discuss.”

I gawk, looking like a fish with a hook still curled in its mouth, no doubt. “A day and a half to change the entire narrative?”

“Is that too much time?”

The room feels as if it’s shifted. His tone is darker, with undertones of a…a threat, maybe?

“No,” I say. “No, it’s not.”

“Perfect. We’ll keep an eye out for your email with the new material.”

“Sure,” I say.

They hang up with a billion bye-byes, and I stare at my screen until it fades to black. The only person looking back is me—me in my silly blazer with my destroyed ideas.

I need to do this movie. I have so little savings to live on, and I want to make documentaries. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. But, at what cost? Adopting a narrative I’m not even sure I believe in?

I look at the posters covering the walls of my room, advertising films written by so many successful directors. Did they have to do this? Did they sacrifice their values for money, for stability? To build a name for themselves in the industry? Dean and Sean are right—maybe I need that extra bump to beat the odds.

Am I willing to sell out to get it?

I put my face in a pillow and scream.

Seventeen

Violet

Asher and Keaton sit on the couch in my parents’ finished basement, feet propped on the dinged-up coffee table and laughing. About what? Who knows. They’ve been cradling beers for a few hours while I sat hunched over my laptop in the bedroom editing. I preemptively invited them over to test out my new edit of the film—an edit I spent all day making. I looked at myself before coming downstairs, and I have bags under my eyes as if I haven’t slept for days, though it’s only been nine hours since my last call with Sean and Dean. It feels like a lifetime.

Asher breaks out in a clap when I walk down the stairs, laptop by my side. Keaton turns around in his chair, flashing me the biggest grin, dimple and all.

Fuck.

“The director is here!” Asher calls, clapping harder as Keaton sets his drink down and joins in.

“Stop, you guys are embarrassing me,” I mumble, walking over, shoving their feet off the coffee table, and placing the laptop down.

I take a deep breath and prop it open, the final video already loaded and simply needing to be played.

“Just keep in mind, it’s a working edit. Nothing too final or anything,” I say.

“Oh, just play it, Vi,” Asher says.

I gulp, bending down to press play, and then I step away, walking to the far edge of the room, trying my best to block out the sounds behind me, the voiceover narrative I changed just hours ago from light and airy to dark and foreboding. I look over my shoulder, watching clips of the town cut through the scenes, some blending into others. The shots aren’t as bright as they were before. I color-corrected them to more neutral, desaturated tones, and my narration is just as dull.

I cringe internally, running a hand over my face, looking up at the ceiling and tapping my foot. Keaton and Asher are silent once it stops, and I slowly walk over and close the laptop. When I glance at their faces, they each bear different expressions, but neither is one I’m particularly keen to see.

Asher’s brow is furrowed, his chin rested on his fist as he leans an elbow on the couch’s armrest. His eyes are narrowed, and I can see the wheels still turning in his brain. Keaton, on the other hand, has his mouth still agape, looking from the closed laptop and back to me. There’s no dimple, but I guess I didn’t exactly expect one, did I?

“So…?” I ask. Asher goes to open his mouth to speak, but I break in. “I mean, keep in mind I’m still writing the full treatment. It’s a work in progress.”

“And how much is going to change?” Asher asks, waving his hand toward the laptop.

“Um, you know, hard to tell,” I say, shrugging and running a hand over my opposite shoulder. “It’s a long way from finished.”

“I thought you were going for a charm approach…” Keaton says, his voice a low whisper. “Explore the good side of small towns. I mean that…”

“I…well, I wasn’t sure if I was doing the charm thing… The producers wanted a couple changes here and there…”

“And you’re going to make those changes?” Keaton asks, eyebrow lifted.

“Yeah.” I sigh. “I mean…I have to.”

“You don’t, though,” Keaton says.

“They’re paying for it.”

“They didn’t pay for your last movie and you did whatever you wanted.”

“Yeah, but that was just luck, a shot in the dark. This time I can guarantee it will get seen. I can hire a whole crew.”

“But this is our town, and you’re… It’s just…you’re trashing it.”

“No, not really—”

“A bit,” Asher says, holding up his thumb and forefinger and swaying his head back and forth.

“Asher,” I warn.

“Hey, you wanted our opinion,” Keaton says, pulling in a sharp inhalation and folding his arms behind his head mid-stretch. “I think it’s insulting.”

“Yikes, Keaton.”

“I mean, come on!” he says, holding out his hand. “We all know this town isn’t what it used to be, but it’s still great. It’s still…Foxe Hill. I don’t know.” He stands, running a hand through his hair and scratching his beard.

“Are you mad?”

“A little. You can’t release that. It trashes us—specifically us, Foxe Hill, not just small towns.”

“Maybe you’re just being a bit irrational,” I say, holding out a hand.

“Irrational?” he asks. “You kiddin’ me with that?”

“It’s just a movie,” I say, but the words feel flat.

He tilts his head in my direction. “You know it’s not just a movie.” It’s like he can read my mind. This isn’t my masterpiece by any means, but it’s still a movie I’m producing, meaning it’s still precious. Nothing I make could ever be just a movie. It’s not how I function, and he knows that.

Keaton exhales. “I gotta go, but thanks for inviting me.”

“Where are you going?” Asher asks.

“I don’t know. Not here.”

My heart contracts as he ascends the stairs and walks out the front door, saying a sweet goodbye to my parents before leaving.

I look to Asher, whose mouth is twisted to the side in unease.

“What?” I ask. “You gonna leave too?”

He shrugs. “No, but…that movie’s not a good look, Vi.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

Eighteen

Keaton

I’m not one to get pissed over simple things, and I like to think I’m a rational guy. I take things as they come, but that movie was a stab right in the heart.

“These small towns are suffering what could result in their inevitable demise.”

That’s what she said in that video.

Everything about the trailer—the pitch, whatever it’s called—was a direct attack on Foxe Hill, on my home, the place I’ve lived in forever and always loved, the place I thought Violet adored as well. Maybe I was wrong about how she felt. Maybe she was just here to get whatever footage she could get, no matter the cost.

Even as I think that, I know it’s not true. I know better. I see the light shine in her eyes as she captures footage, the shots she sets up with such precision, the excitement of discovering new secrets about the town she grew up in—or am I deceiving myself? Hoping for her to love this town?

It’s almost selfish. She came here for a purpose. It was to make her next film and move on. It wasn’t to fall in love with this place. It wasn’t to fall in love with me.

I decide to head to work early. The only solace I find from my thoughts is moving the bread from one pan to the next, rolling it, shaping it, smelling the fresh-baked scent. It’s a routine. I can cling to it better than I can convince myself anything has changed Violet’s mind these past few weeks. She’s got a job to do, and so do I.

The bell above the door dings, and Asher and Joey wave. I don’t need to ask for either of their orders and just start making them each a breakfast sandwich.

“What are you doing up so early?” I ask.

“Eh, the boys are going through a weird phase where they pee the bed at four in the morning,” Joey grumbles. “And I figured hey, if I’m up, so is Asher.”

“Not far from the truth,” he agrees. He’s the good friend. If another person is up, so is he, ready to start the day. There’s a reason he became a teacher—to help people, to be there when someone needs someone, and I’ve been the worst friend in return. I betrayed his trust by sleeping with his sister.

They discuss another camping trip, Joey much too ecstatic about how the last one went. I want to agree, but the last thing I need is another trip with Violet. I couldn’t help myself then, and I can’t now. Regardless, she’ll likely be gone in a few months, busy with filming then off to movie premieres and L.A. again.

The door dings once more, and my heart sinks at the sight of none other than Violet herself. She’s in a black dress, possibly the same one she wore on the first night I saw her back in town. It clings to her in all the right places. It’s odd how, just like then, I don’t feel comfortable checking her out. It’s not only due to the fact that her brother is here, but also because I don’t know if I even have the right to do so anymore.

“Another early bird!” Joey calls. “Did you piss the bed too?”

“Ew, what?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at them.

Asher groans, waving her over to their booth. “It’s a bit too early for him.”

“I can tell.”

“Did you want a breakfast sandwich too?” I ask. “I can also make an omelet if you like.”

“Oh.” Her face falls. “No, thanks. I actually just came here to give you back your headphones. Thanks for letting me borrow them.”

It might just be the fans overhead, but it feels chilly in here. Her sharp comment is a knife twisting in me, and I don’t know how to respond.

“No problem,” I say.

Violet is not a bad person—far from it. Just like her brother, the whole Ellis family is good. They all mean well. She’s just doing what needs to be done for her future. She’s achieving her dreams as she’s always been destined to do. Who am I to tell her otherwise? I have no right. I’m just a guy in her hometown, a person from the past.

“Sorry, guys,” she says after Asher waves her over again. “Can’t stay. I have to head out.”

“Meeting with the bigwigs again?” Asher asks. Though his tone is light, he isn’t as excited as he normally is when she discusses her film. Asher and I haven’t talked about anything from yesterday, but I wonder if he’s just as put off by her movie as I am.

She lets out a small laugh. “Yeah.”

“Oh, nice! You finally got that idea?” Joey asks.

“Mhmm,” she hums. “Finally.”

Her head drops as she taps her foot and gives a hint of a smile. It almost seems forced, but maybe she’s just tired. I wonder if she’s been up all night finalizing the rest of her proposal.

“Anyway, I’ll see you guys around.”

“Dinner tonight?” Asher calls before she can walk out the door.

“Oh, sure,” she says. I hate how jealous it makes me—not of their relationship, but of the fact that even though they may be at odds, he’s still family and he still gets to spend time with her.

I, on the other hand, am an outsider once more, family to Asher, but to him alone.

Nineteen

Violet

I email the final treatment, and I can say I’ve never felt more disgusted with myself, not even when I puked on my shoes after a particularly bad night in L.A., nor when I spent an entire week after my last movie’s release not showering, eating those weird cone-shaped potato chips, and binging every season of Friends. No, submitting a pitch for a movie that goes against my own morals is what takes the cake.

It’s wrong. That’s all I think over and over and over, but isn’t this what I want? A career? Real backers, not just me trying to survive on what little income I have? I literally can’t afford to make another movie by myself. I can’t go back to part-time work just to support the mounds of credit card debt that come with renting better equipment and funding my own marketing. It was worth it, but was it easy? No. I didn’t sleep, and I barely ate. I’m always up for a challenge, but with eager backers, why would I risk my well-being again?

I shuffle out of my bedroom, exhausted from work and mental angst. I’m already in a shirt several sizes too big, a hand-me-down from my dad. I would change, but it’s all too appropriate. I’m drowning in horrible decisions—might as well drown in clothing as well.

Do I mope for too long? Yes, probably, but it’s easy when you have a couch and endless streaming options. A documentary on addictions? Don’t mind if I do. Let’s totally see the woman who downs twenty pints of ice cream a day.

Asher’s face appears before me who knows how much later in the day. I must have fallen asleep on the couch at some point—my parents’ couch, in their house, because I can’t afford to be anywhere else. How could I afford another movie? I’ve dug my own grave; now I’m lying in it.

“I got some fast food,” he says.

“Are there fries?” I grumble.

He shakes the basket. “Seasoned.”

“Gimme.”

Asher sits down beside me, taking the remote and clicking out of an episode about a man hoarding cats.

“I have a few movies on my watchlist if you’re interested,” he says.

“Sure.”

He flips to a documentary I’ve already seen, but I don’t tell him that. I’m a fan of re-watching things anyway. I’m also too tired to find anything different. We don’t discuss much in the first ten minutes of the movie. He grabs a couple of my fries and I shoo his hand away, but he doesn’t back down. Typical.

“Sorry about yesterday,” he says.

It startles me out of my daze, and I shrug.

“Don’t be.” I am going to obliterate the reputation of Foxe Hill, and he got mad—a very understandable reaction.

Behind us sneaks in the distinct smell of brewing coffee and the shuffle of house shoes.

“Mom, are you trying to eavesdrop?” I ask.

Her laugh proves my assumption right.

“Just watching my children being cute,” she says.

“Interested in people doing a one-hundred-mile ultramarathon?” Asher asks, resting his arm over the back of the couch.

“Goodness no,” she says, sipping her coffee. “Does anyone want a cup of coffee?”

“I’ll never sleep,” Asher says.

“Violet?” she offers. “Maybe it’ll keep you alert for the next time you visit that man.”

Asher pauses the documentary, and I internally cringe.

Come on, Mom. You choose now to be a stereotype of the nosy mother?

“What man?” Asher asks.

“There’s no man.” I rush into my lie as quickly as I can, though it’s not really a lie anymore. Keaton hasn’t texted, called, or given any indication that I didn’t offend him. I’m not sure if whatever we were doing is over, but nerves rush through me at the thought. I can’t stand even the idea of Keaton being mad. The way he looked at me yesterday, the pure disappointment…it makes my stomach churn, and the inquisitive expression on my brother’s face prompts another solid toss.

Asher tilts his head to the side, squinting while my mom’s big mouth can’t seem to stop opening and closing with wild accusations that are also disturbingly true.

“She keeps having sleepovers with her ‘friend’.” She makes air quotes while still clutching her mug.

The way Asher squints harder makes me wonder if he’s trying to read my mind.

Nod once if you can hear me. Yes, I fucked your best friend. Yes, it was amazing. Yes, he has a mouth on him. Also, I want to crawl into a hole and die just from even thinking about it within fifty miles of your presence.

Thankfully, there is no nod. Whew, close one.

“Mom is making things up. I’ve been at Lily’s.” I lie, one right after the other. “She’s helping with the movie.”

“Lily’s,” Mom says, drawing the word out.

“Oh, come on, Violet,” Asher says. “Don’t be shy. Who’s the dude?”

“There is no dude,” I say, laughing with too much eagerness to be the least bit convincing. “Do you think I have time for anything outside of work? Seriously.”

“You have time for Lily,” Mom comments oh so helpfully.

“Maybe I’m a lesbian,” I say, giving an exaggerated shrug. “Has anyone thought of that?”

My mom places her hand on my shoulder. “Honey, we will accept you either way.”

I groan. “I only have time for this movie. No worries. I’m not going anywhere conspicuous.”

“So, who is he?” Asher asks. “Who ya got a little crush on?” he teases, his eyebrows wiggling at me. He’s trying to embarrass me, and it will not work. I curl my bottom lip in with determination.

“No crushes,” I say.

“Oh, I’ve seen her,” Mom says, joining in on making me as miserable as humanly possible. “She’s in love.”

Love.

What a strong word. Goose bumps run down my spine, the memories of Keaton making me breakfast, calling me “baby”, and texting me little “Good mornings” all too invasive. This isn’t love. It’s me living out a teenage fantasy. This is a fling, and I’m accustomed to flings. They’re fun until they’re not. It happens a lot in my industry. Just because I moved back home doesn’t change the type of relationships I put myself in.

Except I’ve never felt my heart drop like it does around Keaton. It’s always been that way. He’s always been different from any other man. When relationships start to fail, it’s weird how my mind always defaults to Maybe it wouldn’t be like this if it were Keaton. Call it an obsession after all these years, but my heart belongs to him. It always has…so maybe it is love.

“We’re going off the rails now,” I say, raising my hands in the air.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” Mom says.

“Stop, please.”

“Is it Lily?” Asher asks.

“Yes, it’s Lily. Mystery solved five minutes ago. Now leave me alone.”

The stairs behind the couch creak, and I groan as my dad calls down, “Someone in love down there?”

“No!” I yell.

“Don’t tell me your mom has finally left me,” he says, faux disappointment in his tone.

“You silly man.” Mom climbs the stairs, attempting to take two at a time, sending drops of coffee flinging from her cup. He shields himself from her weak, playful punches with his arms, and they fall into a fit of laughter.

Love—there it is. It’s how they joke together. It’s how they can kiss and play even after all these years. What else is love? It’s Keaton’s dimple when he laughs. It’s how passionate he is about his work. It’s how perfectly he makes omelets—and I promise you, I’ve never eaten an omelet that good before in my life.

My phone buzzes on the side table next to me and I wonder if it’s him, saying something, anything, but when I pick it up, it’s an email from Sean and Dean. There’s no greeting or signature. They don’t type that way, just one-sentence responses. The only indication it’s them replying is the email address and the verbiage.

Yes. Gr8 edit. Contract tmrw.

Perfect. I sign away my soul tomorrow.

Asher looks over my shoulder as I continue to stare at it.

“You submitted it?” he asks.

“Are you mad?”

“No,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

There’s silence followed by a heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry we got upset,” he says. “We were just…shocked, I guess.”

“You don’t have to apologize for Keaton,” I say.

Asher pauses. I shouldn’t have mentioned Keaton so quickly. I know my brother. I can see the gears turning. He knows I care about Keaton. He must know after my stupid outburst.

“You know…I see how he is around you,” Asher says. Oh no, here we go. “He’s not normally like that. I’ve asked him to be nicer, I swear.”

Okay, never mind. Asher seems to have no clue. For once, I’m happy Keaton gives me the cold shoulder when we’re in a crowd. All the times he ignored me weren’t for nothing after all. He’s always known how to handle situations.

I should have discussed the changes to the movie with him beforehand. He probably would have given me decent advice—in other words, he would have stopped me from changing it—but would that have been the best anyway? Then I wouldn’t have a signed contract coming tomorrow, nothing to show for my hard work…my immoral hard work.

I shrug, following his lead. “It’s alright. He’s not that mean.”

“He’s not a bad guy.”

“I know he’s not,” I say. “It’s Keaton, for Christ’s sake. Mom would adopt him if she could.”

“Well of course she would. He’s the best. But I don’t know…maybe it’s because you’re my annoying younger sister.”

I gasp, and Asher grins.

I shove him. “Jerk.”

“Whatever. Come on,” he says. “Let’s watch marathon runners and feel bad about ourselves.”

“Hang on—don’t you run marathons?”

“Hush, I’m trying to be a decent brother.”

I smile. “Don’t worry about that. You are.”

* * *

I wake up the next morning on the couch, drool coating part of the cushion and sunlight beaming in through the windows. Mom must have already opened the blinds for the day, which means I’ve definitely overslept.

I check the time on my phone: ten o’clock. Much later than my usual morning routine—I try to avoid getting into the double digits—but Asher and I stayed up late watching documentary after documentary. I don’t even remember him leaving.

I flip through my notifications, seeing more group texts with the camping crew. There’s nonsense talk about some movie coming out soon, a pesky thing the twins did, and Joey’s overall love of sports, which doesn’t get much reaction aside from Asher.

Weirdly enough, right below that group text is another group I haven’t seen before. It’s between me, Kayla, and Lily.

Kayla: I need a girls day ASAP.

Lily: You know I don’t do nails.

Kayla: I was hoping Violet did.

This was around eight o’clock, and only fifteen minutes ago was there a follow-up.

Kayla: Okay, for real. Violet. Nails. Today.

A girls day? I don’t know the last time I had one of those, if ever. When I was little. my mom and I would garden together, but I never had much of a green thumb. Plus, our nails would get dirtier rather than painted. However, I quickly type out a response.

Violet: Give me some time to shower and I’m on my way.

Kayla: Good. I hope you guys are up for walking. This puppy poops fifty times a morning, and if I listen to one more true crime podcast, I’ll be too scared to ever walk him again.

Lily: We’ll protect you.

I drive the short distance to Kayla’s house, donning a small backpack as opposed to my crossbody purse to prepare for our adventure. I’m not sure what I expected, but a walk around the block definitely wasn’t it.

“Who do you think I am?” Kayla asks when she sees me in running shorts and a racerback tank.

“Clearly not a long walk kind of person?” I say.

“I do Pilates, and that’s where I draw the line.”

Lily laughs. She’s also dressed like Kayla in simple white shorts and a branded t-shirt, Lily’s from our old high school since she still teaches there and Kayla’s with Joey’s company logo.

The dachshund puppy is bounding around, much more excitable than Kayla, though she at least tries to keep up with him. I’m satisfied with the brisk pace. It’ll be the most exercise I’ve gotten since leaving California.

We discuss everything from the dog’s chewing habits to Lily’s excitement that school will be out soon and then deciding what facemasks Kayla has for us—assuming the puppy hasn’t gotten into them yet. She hasn’t checked.

“How’re you, Violet?” Lily asks. “I feel like you haven’t talked much.”

I’ve kept quiet, but for good reason. I don’t feel much like discussing my current predicament. Keaton, the shitty movie…it’s all something I’d like to ignore on this sacred girls day.

“Just life,” I say. “Nothing exciting.”

“Movie going good?” Kayla asks. “Haven’t heard about that in a while.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t they read my mind and know I don’t want to talk about it?

“It’s alright,” I say.

“You sound like Eeyore,” Lily says, stopping at the street corner as we wait for a car to pass.

She leans forward, trying to meet my gaze, and I laugh. “What?”

“What’s going on?” she asks.

I almost lie again, but it seems like the lies are catching up to me nowadays. So, instead, I tell them everything—at least, the stuff relating to the film. The original idea, how Dean and Sean didn’t like that, and how I changed it into some warped version of how I even view this town.

“I just…I feel like I sold out,” I admit. It’s the first time I’ve put it into words, but that’s exactly what I did. I sold out.

They’re both quiet with just the patter of our shoes hitting concrete until Kayla exhales with a very nonchalant shrug.

“Well, you don’t have to do anything they say.”

I laugh. “Thanks. My problems are solved.”

“No need to be a jerk,” she snaps, curling her lip. “I’m serious. You funded yourself before—why not do it again?”

“I don’t have the money,” I say. “I only have a little bit in savings. It’s expensive to do it all on your own.”

“Yeah, so?”

I laugh again, unable to figure out how to form a counterargument.

“It’s not that simple,” I say.

“Yes, it is,” she states matter-of-factly. Her tone doesn’t waver. Her expression is blank, as if this is the most obvious answer in the world.

“I wouldn’t be able to eat or have a roof over my head,” I say.

“Don’t you have one now?” she asks.

“I mean, yes, but I can’t live with my parents.”

“Why not?”

“Because—”

“Not even for a year?” Kayla asks, deadpan and unbothered even as she bags the puppy’s poo. “They’d probably love to have you in town for a while after you’ve been away for so long.”

“I know we would,” Lily chimes in.

“I can’t,” I say again. “I already sent my proposal.”

“Did you sign a contract?” Kayla asks.

“No, not yet.”

“Then quit. Do what you want. Make your movie. It’s hard, but what isn’t?” she says. “You know what I’ve done since high school?”

“Um…”

“Busted my ass. You think Joey runs his company? Hell no. It’s me. I do the paperwork. I figure out the taxes. I kept my body tight while raising two hellions—after birthing said hellions. I look like this, run a fucking business, and love the shit out of my family. Is it easy? No. Do I do it? Yes, because I love it. So, do you love this?”

I can’t think of a proper response. To say she unloaded a can of whoop-ass on me and my self-pity would be an understatement.

“Yeah,” I stammer out. “I love this.”

“Then just do it.”

I look to Lily, who sheepishly smiles back. “I mean, I’m not gonna say it like that, but yeah, I agree. If you can do it, do it.”

I exhale, leaning over to rest my palms on my knees, catching my breath and feeling like I ran a few miles even though we can’t have walked more than one. “Didn’t exactly expect a pep talk today.”

“Well, you needed one. You were depressing me.” Kayla groans. “Joey told me about your weirdness with Keaton yesterday.”

I halt in my tracks, heels catching on the sidewalk and almost sending me tripping forward.

“What weirdness?” I ask.

“Oh, please,” she croons. Even Lily laughs in response.

I narrow my eyes. “What?”

“We all know about you and Keaton.”

I suddenly get lightheaded. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Girl, give it up. My kid is a menace, but he isn’t a dummy. He saw you sneak into the bathroom with someone at our party, and I figured it was Keaton. Sure wasn’t your brother, and Joey would get a stiletto up his ass if he cheated on me.”

I knew that kid was trouble.

“So, you should probably resolve that too while you’re at it,” Kayla says, curling the leash around her wrist. Why do I feel like that leash right now?

“Spitting all kinds of truth today, aren’t we?” I say, putting my hands on my hips and exhaling.

“I’m feeling feisty,” she says. “Plus, I just picked up poop for the third time this morning alone. This bugger is lucky he’s so darn adorable. Ugh, I need to wash my hands.”

I didn’t notice we’ve made it around the block and back to Kayla’s house. She and the puppy run up the perfectly manicured lawn, complete with stone steps into the garage entrance.

“She’s right,” Lily tells me. “Nothing worth having isn’t work. Isn’t that how it goes?”

“Pretty much,” I mumble.

I pull out my phone as Lily crosses toward the house and schedule a calendar event with Dean and Sean. This time it’s happening on my terms.

Twenty

Keaton

Asher and I spend most of the day in my living room, him grading papers and me trying to parse through everything in my mind.

We order pizza because I’m too braindead to make any food. I don’t want to get up from the recliner, and I can’t even tell him why. Even so, it’s like he just knows. He doesn’t leave my house, just keeps supplying beer and junk food. There’s no reason for it, but he’s intuitive like that. It’s not until I close my eyes and think of Violet leaving that I feel the urge to say anything.

“I love your sister,” I blurt out.

He pauses mid-scratch on the paper, his pen drooping to the side. “Didn’t expect to hear that.” He sets down his pen. “Wait a second—you love her?”

“Yeah.”

He scratches his head. “I didn’t know you loved her.”

“I would say I’m sorry, but…geez, I’m not, Asher.” He says nothing, and I almost expect a fist to careen toward my face any second.

Instead he tilts his head and lets out a small “Huh.”

“What?” I ask.

“Just figured she was the one who had a crush on you,” he says. “She always has. I didn’t expect… Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head, a slow smile spreading over his face, something I definitely didn’t expect as a reaction. “So…you’ve just been sitting on this? When were you gonna tell me?”

I shrug, tossing my head side to side. “Now?”

He laughs, and relief rushes over me. “Have you told her?”

“Well, I mean, not that I love her,” I say. “But I’m not gonna lie…we’ve definitely had a thing going on—”

His hand shoots up in protest, waving back and forth to emphasize his point. “No, I don’t need to know anything else. Thank you.”

I laugh and he joins in, both of us laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation and out of pure awkwardness.

“But seriously?” he asks, lowering his hand back to the armrest. “You love her, huh?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly, nodding. “I think so.”

He barks out a laugh. “You better know so.”

“I do, I do.”

He exhales, twisting his lips to the side as if considering before shrugging and picking up his red pen again, letting it hover over the paper in front of him.

I tense. He is no doubt contemplating the fifty ways he could kill me in my sleep. He knows where I live. We’re here, for God’s sake. He’s quiet…too quiet.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” he says. “You’re both adults.”

I laugh. “You punched the last kid who liked her.”

His face hardens. “Who, Peter? Yeah, because he said he was gonna screw her in the back of his car. Said that to my face. You’d punch the guy too.”

I chuckle. Then laugh. Then full-on roll out into a fit of laughter. “You’re kidding. That’s why you punched him?”

“What?” he asks, laughing back. “Do you think I didn’t want my sister to date anyone?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. This all feels…anticlimactic.”

“I mean, do you want me to do the older brother thing? Yell a bit?”

I chuckle. “It might make me feel better.”

“Alright,” he says, twisting back toward me. His face contorts into something resembling a bear rearing back to maul its victim. His brows furrow, his lips curl back into a snarl—he even extends an index finger like a scolding parent, angry and disappointed.

“Fuck you,” he says, sharp and harsh. “I’ll kill you if you hurt her.”

It all happened so fast I didn’t realize I flattened myself against the recliner, gripping the armrests as my heart races.

His face relaxes, and he sniffs and gives another shrug.

“Wow, that was good,” I say.

He smirks, grabbing his water off the side table and chugging some down before settling in his chair once again. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, man.”

We go back to our tasks, me picking up the remote and feeling satisfied. That could have gone a lot worse, and I feel much better having that off my chest. He didn’t punch Peter because he wanted to date Violet; it was because he was an asshole. I want to kick myself for thinking otherwise for over a decade.

Asher clears his throat. “But seriously,” he says, still looking at the paper and facing away from me. The position is almost sinister, like any second he’ll turn around with his fluffy white cat and quizzical brow. “You’re my best friend, but shit yeah, I’ll fuckin’ kill you if you hurt her. She’s my sister.”

I nod in understanding even though he can’t see me. “I’ll make this right.”

“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 specifically 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?”

“That isn’t how it works, chica.”

“Yeah, I know. But I put my heart and soul into that house.”

“Well, even that beautiful house couldn’t save your relationship, I’m afraid.” Ramona exhales, pulling away and scanning me up and down.

Wes shifts some items in the back of the truck and calls down to me, “Sorry he’s a cheating asshole, Grace.”

I shrug. “Any surprises there?”

“No, not really,” Wes responds without skipping a beat, and a weak smile pulls on my lips. “He wore a flipped-up collar”—Wes hops down from the back—“who does that?”

“Joe,” Ramona and I chorus in response.

Thankfully, it has no edge to it that could instill some form of confidence in the human being attached to the name.

Ramona runs her hands through my thick red locks and cringes. “Geez, you look like you haven’t washed your hair in a week.”

“Rude.” I laugh, then run my own hands through the knotted mess, which halts my sense of humor. Yeah, okay, it’s been a couple days… “I was gonna do it today.”

“That’s what we all say,” Ramona says, touching her flawless curly black hair.

I narrow my eyes. My gingery red hair betrays me every time I so much as sweat for a minute like it’s shouting, “Hear ye! Hear ye! Girl with unwashed hair!”

“Hank was supposed to remind me,” I mumble. Dog traitor once again! “And hey, this doesn’t have to do with Joe!” I say, defensive the second I get a side-eye of pity from Wes. “I’m over him.”

“It was a long time coming,” Ramona says with a reassuring head nod, looking away from me.

Although her face was turned away from me just so I honestly can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. She knows her expression will give her away every time.

“It was!” I call up to her as she hops on the back of the truck to grab a box and hand it down to me. “I think.”

I am over Joe. I’m pretty sure. Listen, after months of not sleeping together, it’s like the post-mortem had come and gone, and the only thing I had left to focus on was getting the heck out of there as soon as I could before my soul ripped apart even more.

Lesson to all ladies: Love is a lie. Men will find some way to seek out other women. Let’s all just get dildos and call it a day.

“Fuck him,” Ramona shrugs then laughs. “Well, don’t, but… screw him.”

“I get your point.”

We spend the next few hours going up and down the staircases to my new second-floor apartment with everything from living room side tables to a decorative giraffe that has wide eyes and kind of makes me uncomfortable.

“No,” I say, shoving it into her arms the second I pull it out the box. “Absolutely not. Either you take it back or it will be going in the kitchen cabinet before I find it in the doorway of my bedroom at two in the morning.”

“Oh, we got that in Africa!” she says clapping her hands together. “It’s some tribal…”

“Yep, gonna cut you off there.” I shake my head.

“Guess we won’t be using the camera we installed in there.” Wes winks at me.

Ramona sighs. “So much work down the drain.”

I place the box I’m carrying down next to the crisp black new TV. “I’m beginning to think this isn’t just hand-me-downs.”

Ramona and Wes cringe at each other. They try to hide it, and I know they’re being nice.

“I’ll take you to some fancy restaurant,” I say. Well, given that my bank account statement nearly made me sob, I’m not sure that’s a great idea—even if my pride is bleeding at the thought of being a charity case.

I’m sure they can see the hesitation, though, and I want to kick myself for my emotions showing on my face so easily. The last thing I want is for them to feel bad.

“Just pizza works for us,” Wes says. “No need to bother.”

“I’ll at least order a really fancy takeout pizza,” I offer. “None of that commercial chain-restaurant stuff. I’ll get real classy.”

“Perfect!” Ramona says with a hand clap. “Pineapples too, please!”

“Girl, you know it.” We high five as Wes groans.

That no-good pineapple pizza-hating man.

“So, how are the interviews coming along?” he asks.

I groan. “On a scale of one to natural disaster, it’s about a hurricane of a billion killer whales. There’s only been one so far, actually.”

The interview was for a company looking for printing press operators, which I am definitely not. Screen printing classes were never my forte, as I’m also the kid that screamed when I touched glue during arts and crafts in preschool. How I pursued and loved paints instead, I’ll never know.

Given a fight or flight situation, such as, oh I don’t know, my horrible unemployment dilemma, I like to think my redheaded tenacity has always guided me in the right direction. I am a fists-up, bring it on, baby! fighting kinda gal. When I settled for a simple customer service job—which eventually developed into a collections role—my days were filled with “Please pay your balance or else your account will be on hold,” statements and I decided after five years of that junk, all I really wanted was to pursue my true passion. I quit my collections job, instantly upgraded my resume, took some new designs I’ve been perfecting and some old paintings from college (conspicuously erasing the year I actually created them), and then sent out my portfolio to the world.

“Ian said they’re hiring over at his job,” Ramona says, placing a papasan down. “A design position, actually. I think they just promoted someone and need a replacement.”

Ramona’s older brother Ian is just like her: Successful, incredibly in tune with health and working out (which, admittedly, I need to get better at), and bit of an asshole. But like, a lovable asshole. Needless to say, we actually get along quite well.

“I’m willing to take any interview at this point,” I say, lugging in a box filled with who-knows-what.

“Oh yeah,” Wes chimes in, “he’s at Treasuries Inc.”

“Treasuries Inc.?” I gawk, almost tripping over the threshold and knocking into Ramona. “Treasuries Inc. as in the upcoming marketing firm? The marketing firm we went to that mixer at? The one where they were all like, ‘Yeah, every Friday is Beer Friday because we’re super cool and hip?’ The start-up culture-beast darling of the city, and I’ll be damned if I don’t try my shot at it? That Treasuries Inc.?”

“Holy overload of information, Batman.” Wes laughs. “How much stalking have you done on that company?”

“Don’t even get her started.” Ramona rolls her eyes.

“How are you just now telling me about this?” I’m almost offended this is the first I’m hearing about the opportunity. How could she! Withholding information from your best friend is a federal crime!

“Get your panties out of a wad,” Ramona says. “I already told him you’re interested.” This elicits a slow grin to spread across my face as she starts mocking my missing reaction. “Thank you, Ramona. You’re such a wonderful friend. Oh, no, you are, Grace. I’m happy to be of service.”

I bolt toward her and jump into her arms, legs wrapped tight around her waist. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“We got you covered,” she laughs.

My head is swimming with possibilities: A place with a future. A place where they give promotions. An actual design gig in some cool, trendy job with progressive people who probably eat kale salads and do hot yoga. I’d kill to be one of those people. Literally, murder someone.

I decide right then and there the position that “may or may not exist” is totally mine.

2. Grace

A typical Thursday night. Yet instead of lying on my empty apartment floor, I’m relaxing belly down on my mom’s couch, laptop propped against the armrest, Hank chilling on the other side. His paw hangs off the end and twitches as a result of his deep sleep. I feverishly sift through my emails—ignoring those from Joe—and refresh the page over and over before realizing just how desperate I seem.

Ramona’s brother, Ian, must have been feeling gracious a couple weeks ago when she sent him my resume. Two days later, Ian sent me an application, which I’d like to say I completed in record time. Instead, I spent two more days mulling over how to word my cover letter, fretting about which art to put in my portfolio, and taking maybe a bit too much time on my signature for the paperwork itself. First impressions are everything; I don’t need my calling card looking like a crayon doodle.

Though maybe that’s “in” now? Design trends are so weird.

“Will you get off that laptop for one second and help me?” Mom asks, holding a slightly threatening knife and waving it over as an invitation to join her in the kitchen.

My mom has the same flaming red hair, thin figure, and short fuse that I have, so it’s no surprise where I got it all from. But at her core, she is the loveliest woman alive, trust me.

“Are you finally gonna use that kitchen of yours?” I ask, raising an eyebrow and sticking out my tongue.

Her own eyebrows raise up as she points the knife at me once more. “That mouth is going to get you into trouble one day, missy,” she says. “And yes, I refuse to let this house go to waste.”

I definitely inherited my love for redecorating homes from Mom. She’s spent years since my dad passed away redoing the entire house. She pulled up the carpet, stripped the paint, and spent way too much money on an entirely new kitchen, despite her rare desire to actually cook.

“I’m sure the kitchen appreciates the love,” I snark, and she shoots me another menacing look.

On the flip side of the equation, my mom and I have always butted heads. We’ve always blamed it on our red hair. We said we’re feisty and fire doesn’t mix well with fire. Whatever that means. It’s cooled down since I’ve gotten older, but I was mostly just a little shit of a teenager. Teachers always commended my parents for raising such a lovely girl, but that’s just because I saved all my angst for my parents.

What was it that Usher said? Lady in the streets, complete heathen she-devil behind closed doors? No, that’s not it…

I was a force to be reckoned with. At least I thought I was. Mostly I just stayed out at friends’ houses until four in the morning—especially once I’d gotten my beat-up old Volkswagen; a car I still drive to this day. My parents were obviously worried, but I was just so damn cool with my car.

Yeah, I still cringe thinking about it, too.

Bless my mom for still being with me today.

I close my laptop and walk across the open floor plan to the kitchen island where I pull up a bar stool and lean my elbows on the counter. It’s the one part of the kitchen that doesn’t quite match her more modern décor. I run my hands along its scarred wood surface and memories of Dad wash over me. I used to sit on it and watch him cook here. He never really said much, but occasionally, he’d throw me a homemade French fry or two while I doodled. I miss being near him; I’m glad she kept the island.

“So, what’s on the menu?” I ask, reaching to grab a piece of a sliced cucumber. She bats my hand away.

“Tacos.”

“Ooh yum.” I say, wiggling my shoulders. “And why tacos this time around?”

“They seem easy,” she says with a sigh. “If I’m going to learn, I’ve got to start simple, right?”

“Well, it’s good to know that after renovating everything that can possibly be renovated, you’ve decided to conquer the art of cooking,” I say, trying my hand at stealing another slice; she catches me again. I laugh and she winks.

The kitchen shelves are lined with cookbooks containing lofty recipes, but unfortunately for me, when she’s normally done cooking, the outcome isn’t nearly as appetizing as the pictures.

In our small lull of silence, I start to get itchy with anticipation of hearing about the job again. I unlock my phone and look at my emails, pulling the screen down to refresh.

“Leave it alone,” Mom says with a chuckle. “If you get an email from them, you’ll get an email. It won’t go anywhere.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say through a heavy exhale. “But I’m not exactly the most graceful person.”

With her mouth half open, I know my mom is about to make some clever come back about how “Grace is always graceful,” but I point at her to stop before she can start.

“The HR person asked how I handled stress and I totally lied,” I say.

“Did you say you handle it well?” my mom asks, still chopping. Why is she asking if she knows the damn answer?

“Yeah.”

“Definitely a lie,” she says without missing a beat. She tries to wink at me again, but I twist my mouth into the corner, undeterred by her teasing.

“Well, the creative director and I talked about my history in design and eventually discussed my ambitions,” I say. “I think that’s where I nailed the interview.” While I say this, my anxiety gives me a thousand reasons as to why maybe I actually didn’t nail it.

My mom lets out a small breath of air. “Wait, do you remember that time you wanted to go to that concert… oh, what was it…”

“The Backstreet Boys?”

“Yes!” she says, throwing her hand in the air. “Backstreet Boys. And you insisted your father buy you tickets.”

“He didn’t.”

“Well of course not. You were six. But you being the spunky girl you are, off you went! Backpack full of stuffed toys and one peanut butter sandwich. You were determined to make it to that concert.”

“Blindly walking in no direction at all,” I comment with a smile. “Not much has changed.”

“Yes, but I firmly believe that if you put your mind to something, you will do it. It may not be this company, but you will be a designer.”

My mom has always been a glass half-empty woman, and my dad was the family optimist. When he passed, I think his positivity somehow osmosed into her and now her sunshine and rainbows outlook on life is like a full glass of water I could drink in every day.

We exchange smiles and she returns to chopping. Me, on the other hand, I can’t help but whip out my phone again.

“In my day, we had to wait on calls and if we missed it, poof, you missed it.” She nods matter-of-factly before slicing into a cucumber—nearly chopping her fingers off. She’s still learning.

“Mom, you know I lived during those times too, right?” I say, putting my phone down after another glance yields zero responses.

“Millennials don’t know how good they have it,” she continues, pretending I didn’t say anything rational at all. “And will you please grab that pepper and help me out?”

I lean forward on the counter to withdraw a knife from the block and scoot the green pepper toward me. But before I can even start, my phone buzzes. I look down to see an email from a sender using an address ending in treasuriesinc.com.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, ignoring Mom’s immediate reply of “Language, young lady!”

I gulp—almost a cartoony sound that makes my mom’s disappointment in my choice of words switch to excitement.

“Well, are you going to open it?” she asks.

“Just… give me a second, Mom,” I say.

I stare at the unopened email, trying to come to terms with how let down I will be if it holds bad news. Taking a deep breath, I click the message.

Grace Holmes,

We are pleased to offer you the position of Junior Designer with Treasuries, Inc. Attached, you will find your offer letter and background authorization form. Please complete and return both documents to our HR Manager, Nia Smith. She is copied on this email.

We look forward to working with you.

Regards,

Cameron Kaufman, Creative Director

The biggest childlike grin spreads across my face and my fingers go from shaking to practically dancing off my hands.

“Mom!” I scream, causing my poor old, sleeping dog to bolt upright on the couch, wide awake. “I’m in!” I jump up, run to my mom, and grab her hands. “I’m a designer!”

“That’s fantastic!” she yells, joining me as I jump up and down in excitement. “See? I knew things would turn around for you.”

I smile and rush over to my phone to look down at the email once again and read out loud, “Regards, Cameron Kaufman.”

“Who is Cameron Kaufman?” Mom asks, returning to her haphazard vegetable cutting.

“I think he’s the guy they just promoted?” It’s a question more than a definitive answer. “I don’t know. It says ‘creative director’ in his signature, but I definitely didn’t meet with a dude named Cameron.”

It’s impossible to forget the old man who actually interviewed me. I think he could cough dust into his handkerchief.

“Sounds proper,” she says.

“And professional,” I muse, looking down at myself and realizing I haven’t changed clothes in a couple days… nor have I showered.

“I need a new outfit,” I say, and Mom squeals.

Clothing is the only thing she hasn’t had to revamp in her life because her style has always shifted with the times. In seconds, she’s redirecting me on my phone to some fancy online shop.

The clothes are strictly within a price range that starts with a fifty dollar minimum (because hey, I can totally support that now), so we buy the exact well-tailored outfit the model is wearing on the front page from their “#GirlBoss” collection. I look down at my own shirt and realize that “#GirlBoss” sure beats the hot pink “#BlessThisMess” shirt Ramona gave me.

The website’s cart reads well over a price range I can afford, and the price is bumped even higher when I select two-day shipping. But the spiffy suit just screams, “I have my life together!” so I click “purchase,” ignore the sinking feeling in my gut that knows I spent too much, and scoot myself back into the bar stool.

Mom begs me to “please finish cutting the darn pepper, Grace!” but I just keep smiling while I look at the email. While I may not know much about clothing, budgeting, or helping in the kitchen, I do know one thing: This is my new start.

3. Grace

My hands haven’t stopped shaking since I received that email. They shook when I turned off my alarm clock this morning, they shook when I packed my laptop bag, and they continue to shake while I turn the wheel into an empty parking lot in an effort to get back on the road in the actual direction I’m supposed to go.

“Rerouting… turn left onto State Boulevard—”

“Shut up,” I groan to my phone’s GPS. It’s been trying to direct me to Treasuries, Inc. for nearly thirty minutes in what should have been a ten-minute drive. I thank my lucky stars I had the good sense to leave as early as I did or else this could have been an entirely different day.

“Rerouting… turn right onto State—”

“Stop!” I furiously tap my phone to exit the app and reopen it.

Everyone knows that always solves the problem.

After turning left then right then left again, swerving into grocery store shopping center, and making a quick stop at a gas station to break up the nervous energy (yes, I may have looked in the mirror and said, “You can do this, Grace! You are a super hero!” but we don’t need to talk about that), I’m finally facing the front of a warehouse building with the words “Treasuries, Inc.” displayed in bold, beautiful letters across the garage door entrance. All with ten minutes to spare.

My old-fashioned yellow VW bug normally sticks out in a business car park, but in this lot full of eclectics, it fits in nicely. I spy on some other individuals walking into the building. They’re all wearing blue jeans, casual shoes, band t-shirts, and some women are even wearing those flowy skirts that seem to say, “Sure, I could live in a van and go on meditation retreats.” I look down at my own attire and groan.

I definitely overdressed. What woman in this day and age goes into a new graphic design position with the notion of, “I must dress my best?” Nobody. That’s who. You know what women do now? They go to Anthropologie or, hell, Goodwill and make themselves look “chic.”

Is that the word? Oh, hell.

Tons of unnecessary money I do not have just went right down the drain.

Wait—no! I am a confident woman. I overdressed because I mean business. This shows I’m serious, dang it! I’m taking my life by the balls and squeezing it into submission.

I snatch my phone from its holster on my dashboard, slam the car door shut, and lug my bag right up to the front door. But with confidence. Obviously. Always with confidence. Because I am a suit-wearing female with a plan.

The double doors slide open the second I walk in, and before I can mentally make some snarky comment about whether this is some renovated grocery store, a woman at a beautifully curved front desk raises her eyebrow at me, scans me up and down, and smirks.

She’s just as trendy as everyone else I’ve seen so far. Her platinum blonde hair is perfectly curled and a piercing hugs the curve of her nose as if it’s always belonged there. Dang, she even looks super cool with her choker necklace and collared tee that seems both professional and like it’d be right off the back of a mannequin in Forever 21. But more impressive than the receptionist’s beauty is the building itself.

The interior is already massive, but it appears even larger with its exposed ceiling fifty or so feet off the ground. The desks are gathered in clusters, but it doesn’t feel crowded. There are no cubicles. There is no musty carpet. Just clean, open space. Where there aren’t conference rooms closed off by clear windows, there are walls coated in vibrant colors with designs blended in both graffiti and pop art styles. Painted on the central back wall is a giant treasure chest surrounded by a circle of the repeating statement: Work Hard, Play Hard.

A bit cliché, but I can get behind it.

I had no idea that an office space could look this cool.

The girl behind the counter clears her throat.

“May I help you?” she asks.

She has this weird mix of both irritation and an obligation to sound as nice as she can for her job. No clue how she pulls that off. I think it’s her stunning beauty that gives her an edge.

“Y-yes!” I stammer. Goddamn it, who really stammers? Not confident women. That’s not who stammers. And I am a confident woman with my too-high heels and my too-sharp suit. “My name is Grace Holmes. I’m here to see Cameron Kaufman.”

The girl peers behind her cat-eye turquoise-tinted glasses (God, can she get any cooler?) and swishes her eyes over to her laptop screen, rapidly clicking on the keyboard.

“He’s not in yet,” she says, her tapping fingers settling. “But take a seat over there. He should be in shortly.”

She points to a set of very stiff beanbag chairs in varying colors of orange, and I choose the one that will expose the least amount of thigh when I plop down into it. But I was mistaken. They may look stiff, but the bag swallows me whole the second my butt hits the seat. So much for not having my skirt ride up too much.

After I’ve sufficiently taken in the remaining scenery and the couches where employees casually complete work while wearing massive headphones over their heads, I start to feel like a significant amount of time has passed.

Am I in the right place? Of course I am. This is Treasuries Inc., and by golly, I’ve made it here. I work here!

But I look at my watch and, yes, time surely has passed.

9:20.

Yikes. Is this guy kidding? I’d pictured this Cameron Kaufman guy as a prompt man: He arrived at 7:00 in the morning, on the dot—maybe earlier. He wears suits sharper than mine and way less comfortable, if that’s even an option. But so far, I see no promptness and no sharp suit. Zero for two, Mr. Kaufman.

I glance over at the sliding glass door and watch as more employees trickle in. There’s a blonde man with a bag slung over his shoulder bobbing his head back and forth under his headphones, a young Asian woman wearing a t-shirt dress and popping gum to the beat of every third step, and finally an older man that comes in, waves to the trendy receptionist, and keeps walking.

Was that Mr. Kaufman? He walked right past me. Would the girl have told him I was sitting here? I’m honestly not sure, given her attitude.

I look down at my watch again.

9:30.

More happy employees walk in, with me wishing I was one of them instead of my current role as the lone dope chilling on the beanbag I’m slowly sinking into.

This beanbag is my destiny, and my soul is the uncomfortable sewn edge now making a mark into the side of my thigh where the skirt has rolled up.

While I’m focused on making sure my skirt returns to an appropriate length, footsteps squeak across the laminated concrete, and if this weren’t my first day on the job and I wasn’t trying to maintain my professionalism, my jaw might have hit the floor when I see the man approaching.

I’m pretty sure it’s absolutely unfair to be that good looking.

His jawline can probably cut glass, but it’s lightly covered by a layer of stubble that softens his features just enough that I can imagine running my hands over his chin. His hair is shaved closer on the sides, but it’s thick and mussed up at the top with just the slightest bit of gel—or maybe it’s still wet from the shower.

His denim shirt is tucked into cream-colored chinos, and he wears dark leather oxfords, which add just a bit of business sense to the otherwise casual look. But unlike other employees, his clothes are slightly more well-fitted, as if he’s gotten them tailored. Or maybe he’s just built exactly how the designers imagined a perfect man to look.

He stops at the front desk and the girl directs him over to the prison of beanbags where I’m sitting. She looks equally as distracted as I am by his presence. As he approaches the corner I have thus begun to claim as my own desk area, I find myself starting to sweat and I pray to the good lord above that my black suit won’t reveal armpit stains.

He sits in the beanbag next to me, crossing his ankle over his other leg. His pants come up just enough to reveal corgi-patterned socks peeking out.

Be still my heart.

This body connected to a jawline turns to me, as if he’s going to speak, but I nervously blurt out, “Is this your first day, too?” before he even has the chance to get any sound out.

Wow, dummy. What are the odds? But I’d rather have the first word in this conversation where I know I have only an eighty-percent chance of looking like a fool rather than my usual one hundred percent chance of looking like a complete moron.

He stares at me for a second, squints a bit as if considering, then smiles. Boy oh boy, if I wasn’t dead yet, those dimples would have just done me in.

“Uh, no, I’m here for”—he pauses, glancing at his watch—“an interview, actually. How long have you been waiting?” His voice is deep, but it’s equally smooth and calming.

A voice that feels familiar; like he’s the boy next door you’ve been swooning after your whole life. Unattainable, but welcoming.

I break my gaze away to glance down at my own watch.

“Thirty minutes,” I say, and then I shrug. “Which if you ask me is a bit too long.”

Great job, Grace. You really can’t filter your thoughts right now? Seriously? I’m kicking myself knowing that I’m completely incapable of hiding the frustration at how long I’ve had to wait.

But come on! Half an hour? On my first day? What is this, the DMV?

His eyes widen in surprise and he laughs. “Won’t be a secret if you say it much louder.”

I smirk in a knowing glance, even arching my eyebrow as if testing him.

“So, thirty minutes, huh?” he asks. “Who are you waiting on? Some hot shot exec, I bet.”

As he talks, his eyes slip down to the part of the beanbag that’s tugging on a corner of my pencil skirt and exposing an immodest amount of thigh. I awkwardly adjust and he averts his gaze.

“Cameron Kaufman,” I say.

He cringes. “Does this guy know he’s incredibly late? Did he remember it’s your first day?”

“Well, that’d be irresponsible if he didn’t, wouldn’t it?”

“Very. You know,” he says, leaning in a bit closer and lowering his voice, “if that’s how they act around here, then I sure as hell don’t think I want to interview.”

I can’t help but let his scent of body wash waft over me. Is that some type of artificial campfire? Maybe mahogany? Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure I have a candle with that scent.

I can tell he’s joking by the way he smiles wider, and I find myself attracted, rather than off-put that he was willing to walk out here and talk to me on a whim. Maybe it’s the risk of it all; a man taking risks isn’t the worst thing that’s happened in the world.

He looks down at his watch again and shakes his head. “9:45. They’re really pushing their luck with you.”

“Thankfully I’m fairly patient,” I say.

He looks down at my bouncing leg that I was unaware of until just now and laughs, “Clearly.”

I cave. “Okay, so sure, I’ve got a bit of a patience issue, but forty-five minutes? Get real.” I’m not trying to trash this Cameron guy, but I’m totally trashing this Cameron guy, despite the fact that part of me knows I should be thanking my lucky stars I’m even here to begin with. That calms me down a bit.

“Well, you’ve convinced me.” He stands up, clapping his hands as if announcing his imminent departure, and I instantly long for him to stay. He’s so wildly impulsive.

No, don’t abandon me with these lonely beanbag chairs, Mr. Gorgeous Man.

He holds out his hand to me. “It was nice to meet you, Miss…?”

“Grace. Grace Holmes.” I shake his hand.

“Are you related to Sherlock Holmes?” he asks with a grin.

Not the first time I’ve heard that, but he’s just so damn good looking that I’ll give it to him.

“Distant cousin.” I smile. “Always second best. But hey, I try.”

He nods. “Well it’s nice to meet you, Grace.”

I refuse to let this man leave without getting a name, a number, an address, a hand on those forearms…

“I’m sorry—what did you say your name was?” I ask.

“I didn’t. I’m Cameron Kaufman.” The most shit-eating grin flashes across his face and my heart sinks. “But most people just call me Cam.”

Shit.

* * *

In Too Deep is now available on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited HERE!

Acknowledgments

Thank YOU, reader! I’m so appreciative and humbled by the wonderful people who keep checking out my books. I cannot believe you’re still tagging along for my silly, sexy adventures, but I am so happy that you do.

Thank you to my wonderful editor, C. Marie! Endless number of thanks for your flexibility! You took this small town book and made it shine bright like the big city! Not sure what I’d do without you.

To my own hometown of Paulding County. I’ll live many places throughout my life, but there will always be something special about late night drives playing Elliott Smith and sneaking onto the local farm, even if I was always too scaredy-cat to follow through. Thanks to John, Dani, Cody, Kristin, Daniel, and Robbie for making my coming-of-age experience memorable.

To my beta readers, Jenny and Kolin. Thanks for double checking that my main character isn’t an accidental jerk and that Keaton has proper sanitary gear for a health inspection.

Always last in the acknowledgements, but never least: Thank you to my fiancé. Maybe one day I’ll release the crazy side narrative you wrote on Joey being a wild man in the woods.

Also by Julie Olivia

FOXE HILL SERIES

Match Cut

Violet returns to her small town of Foxe Hill ready to make her next big documentary, if only her brother’s best friend wasn’t such a sweet distraction.

Present Perfect

COMING EARLY 2021

Preorder today!

***

INTO YOU SERIES

In Too Deep

A sexy, secret workplace romance with a hot boss and the sassy designer that isn’t afraid to put him in his place. Also with puppies!

In His Eyes

A love story ten years in the making. Frenemies-to-lovers vacation romance between a silver-tongued lawyer and the woman trying to resist him.

In The Wild

COMING LATE 2020

Preorder today!

***

STANDALONES

Across the Night

Sadie spends her nights as a hotel manager. Work is all she knows—that is, until Aiden Wrenn. Destiny has a weird way of bringing two sleepless people together, but maybe fairytales aren’t so far-fetched.

About the Author

Julie Olivia loves spicy stories with even spicier banter, so she decided to write them. Julie lives in Atlanta with her fiancé and their very vocal cat. She appreciates a good pair of boots and fresh lemon-filled donuts. She is easily bribed with either.

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