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.