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.