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

by Julie Olivia

  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 o
f 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 kn
ow 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.