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

by Julie Olivia

  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.”