The Summer at Cedar Cinemas (free Preview)

Chapter 1: Saturday Night at Cedar Cinemas

Bryan wiped his hands on his apron, the faint scent of butter clinging to his skin no matter how many times he washed. The hum of the popcorn machine, the faint hiss of soda fountains, and the muffled echoes of movie trailers playing behind closed theater doors were sounds he’d grown so accustomed to that they blended into the background like the rhythm of his own heartbeat.

Working at the theater every summer felt like stepping into a familiar, worn-in pair of shoes. He’d been at Cedar Cinemas since his junior year of high school, and even now, two years into his nursing degree, it still felt like a second home. There was a strange comfort in the sticky floors and flickering neon lights, in the smell of synthetic cheese and the sound of people debating whether to get a large or ‘just stick with a medium’.

His manager, Erin, had greeted him with a warm smile when he’d returned for the summer. Erin had this easygoing vibe—stern when she needed to be, but always with a soft spot for Bryan. Maybe it was because of the nursing thing. Erin’s mom had been a nurse for over thirty years, and she knew how intense the studying could be. So, when the theater was quiet, Erin let Bryan pull out his flashcards or his thick pharmacology textbooks. No one else got that perk. And trust Bryan—everyone noticed. But Erin would just shrug and say, “You’ll thank me when you’re saving lives instead of slinging popcorn.”

But right now, saving lives felt far away. Instead, Bryan stood behind the counter, watching as a Saturday night crowd trickled in. The concession stand was its own kind of theater, each customer a character, each transaction a scene. He reveled in it.

There were the Teenagers:

A group of high schoolers spilled into the lobby, their energy buzzing louder than the trailers playing in the background. They were here for the latest horror flick, giggling nervously as they debated whether they’d actually survive watching it without covering their eyes.

“Can I get a large popcorn with extra butter?” one of the girls asked, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Her boyfriend nudged her, adding, “And two large cherry Cokes. Oh—and the nachos. Gotta have the nachos.”

Bryan smiled politely, his hands moving on autopilot. Teens always ordered like they had bottomless stomachs and even deeper pockets—piling on greasy nachos, oversized sodas, and candy that would melt before they even hit the previews. But Bryan didn’t judge. He remembered being that age, thinking nothing of downing a giant soda and a bag of Sour Patch Kids in one sitting.

Next, there were the Date Night Couples:

A slightly older couple approached next—early twenties, probably college students home for the summer like him. The guy hesitated in front of the glass case, biting his lip.

“Do you want to share a popcorn?” he asked his date, who shrugged noncommittally.

“Sure, but get the medium. I’m not that hungry.”

Bryan held back a grin. The classic dance. They’d both pretend they weren’t hungry, but he’d bet anything they’d come back for a refill halfway through the movie. He handed them their medium popcorn and single drink with two straws, resisting the urge to say, ‘You’ll be back’.

Then, The Parents with Kids:

The chaos came next. A mom wrangling two hyperactive kids under the age of six practically slammed her wallet onto the counter.

“Hi, can I get two kids’ combos—no, Liam, put that down—and a large Diet Coke for me?” She sighed heavily as one of the kids grabbed a candy display, nearly knocking it over. “Actually, make that a large popcorn too. Butter. Lots of butter.”

Bryan smiled sympathetically as he rang them up, sliding the popcorn across the counter while the mom juggled snacks and sticky little hands. He didn’t envy that struggle. Not yet, anyway.

The Regulars:

And then, there were the regulars—the ones who came like clockwork, their orders memorized down to the last detail.

Old Mr. Halverson, who’d been coming every Friday night for as long as Bryan could remember, shuffled up to the counter with his usual slow pace.

“Evening, Bryan,” he greeted, his voice gravelly but warm. “The usual.”

Bryan smiled, already reaching for the small popcorn—no butter—and a box of Raisinets. Mr. Halverson always bought the same thing, always sat in the same seat in the back row, and always left with a nod of gratitude. He wondered what he’d think of him becoming a nurse. Maybe next time, he’d tell him.

By the time the rush settled, the lobby was quiet again. Bryan leaned against the counter, stretching his arms. His textbook peeked out from under the register, calling to him, but before he could reach for it, Erin’s voice chimed in from behind.

“Busy night, huh?” Erin grinned, wiping her hands on a rag as she walked over.

Bryan laughed softly. “Same circus, different summer.”

Erin chuckled. “Yeah, but admit it—you missed this chaos.”

Bryan nodded, her eyes drifting over the empty concession stand and out toward the dimly lit lobby. He had missed it. Not just the work, but the people—the little moments between customers, the stories hidden in their snack choices, the familiarity of it all.

“It’s weird,” Bryan admitted, “but yeah. I did.”

Erin patted him on the shoulder. “And soon enough, you’ll be out there swapping out Sour Patch Kids for stethoscopes, and this’ll just be a fun memory. Just promise to visit us once in a while if you work local.”

Bryan smiled, his heart swelling a little. But for now, he was content with this. The buttery smell, the flickering lights, and the steady hum of a place that felt like home.

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