by Julie Olivia
“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 i
n 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.