Page 1 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

TAYLOR

I stand on the sidewalk in front of Tony’s, the most popular local bar in my hometown, and wonder—not for the first time—what am I doing here?

Not in an existential crisis sort of way. There’s no debating the meaning of life or my purpose on the planet. This is more a question of why haven’t I left Skylark, Colorado ?

Wouldn’t I be happier somewhere I could create who I want to be from scratch instead of staying stuck as the me everyone thinks they know?

My teeth chatter as the January wind whips along the street. The buildings of Main Street are encased in winter frost and most of them are closed for the day. Except for the one I’m staring at.

It’s half past eight on the first Sunday of the new year, and the old Victorian structure, with its chipped gray paint and faded white shutters, is lit up with colored twinkle lights, flashing like a beacon in the darkness.

A wreath hangs on the door, adorned with empty shot bottles—don’t want to tempt the local teens.

The words painted on the front window wish everyone a Merry Beer-mas.

This is stupid, and it’s only going to get worse inside. I should be at home, polishing off the last of the stale holiday cookies I baked with my nieces and watching BBC America. A British accent makes everything better.

As I’m about to scurry away, Molly McAllister and Avah Harris pull up in Avah’s BMW. She parallel parks the compact SUV like it’s her job. Avah does everything well, which is kind of annoying if I’m being honest.

“Come on, Barbie, let’s go party,” she calls as her head appears above the top of the vehicle.

How does she keep her car so white when round-the-clock plowing after a recent storm has left a border of dingy snowbanks on either side of the street?

I lift a mittened hand to acknowledge the greeting, even though no one is going to confuse me with Barbie. Avah’s the one who looks like the anatomically impossible doll with her shiny hair, perky boobs, and tiny waist. I’m more Linebacker Barbie. Substantial and sturdy.

“Are you freezing?” Molly places her gloved hands on my cold cheeks. “Why didn’t you let us pick you up?”

“I’m only a couple blocks away. It’s easier to walk. Besides, whoever moved into the apartment across the hall from me is playing their music way too loud. There’s only so much old-school metal I can take in one evening.”

Avah joins us on the sidewalk, shimmying her hips. “Maybe your new neighbor isn’t a card-carrying member of AARP like everyone else in your building.”

“My neighbors are nice and quiet. We look out for each other.” Both statements are factual, but also a weak argument.

“Your hallway smells like Bengay and cough drops.”

“Muscles get tight when it’s cold. It’s a Colorado thing.”

“It’s an octogenarian thing.” Avah shivers against the cold air. “Seriously, you look like a human popsicle. Let’s get inside.”

I know what cold does to my face. My nose turns red like Rudolph while my eyes start to water. It’s not pretty .

“I might take a raincheck.” I glance toward the bar. “I see my brother and his friends through the window. I don’t know why Toby is out when I’m sure he’s still nursing a hangover from New Year’s Eve.”

“Relatable.” Avah links her arm with mine. “Jon and I went to some fancy corporate party at the Four Seasons in Denver. We stayed the night, and since neither of us was driving home and the champagne was complimentary…midnight is a bit of a blur.”

I snort, thinking about the takeout and Netflix binge I indulged in two nights ago to ring in the new year. “Are you trying to make me jealous? Because it’s working, and I want to punch you in the face.”

“I don’t condone physical violence,” Molly says with a laugh, a strand of red hair blowing into her face thanks to another wind gust. “But I do support you getting your drink on tonight.”

“And you don’t want to punch me in the face,” Avah says, trying to tug me forward. “You’re too sweet for that, Taylor.”

My booted feet remain planted on the sidewalk.

At five-eleven, I’ve got six inches and probably forty pounds on Avah.

My dad used to say I’m a “solid piece of work”, until my mom told him it hurt my feelings, which baffled him since he meant it as a compliment.

But still…the upside of solid is that no one is dragging me anywhere I don’t want to go.

“Can we try somewhere else? My stupid brother’s going to make a big deal about seeing me out at a bar.”

“It’s not an exclusive club,” Avah reminds me. “And Toby is not the boss of you. Tony’s is for everyone.”

“An indiscriminate dive bar,” I mutter. “Imagine that.”

“We don’t have to imagine.” Avah tugs on my hand again. “We get to experience it in all its dive bar glory.”

“ But why exactly do I want to experience that glory?” I ask as I allow her to lead me forward.

“Because you go back to work tomorrow. This is your last hurrah.” I can tell Molly is trying to sound enthusiastic, but her voice is pinched.

“A hurrah . Since when do I need a hurrah?”

As Avah opens the giant wood door, the typical bar noise and the scent of stale beer and roasted peanuts spills out. At least it’s warm inside. “Let’s discuss it over a drink.”

I don’t like the sound of that, but despite being physically capable of it, I’m not one for standing my ground.

I’m more the type to step in quicksand and be swallowed up by the whims and wishes of the people around me.

I used to make a New Year’s goal to get a backbone, but it was always such a giant failure that I don’t bother anymore.

This year my goal is to read more. Easy-peasy.

“Can we at least go to the back so my brother doesn’t see us?” I do my best to shrink down behind Avah’s svelte form.

Toby’s voice booms from across the bar. “Tink, over here!”

My stomach clenches and I heave a sigh familiar to tormented little sisters everywhere.

“Can we talk about why your brother calls you Tink?” Avah asks.

“Not even a little,” I answer.

“We’ll get a table while you say hi.” Molly gives me a thumbs up.

There’s something weird happening with my friends, and I wish I knew what it was.

I’m also wishing—or at least hoping—my visit with Toby, who is eight years my senior, will be short and sweet.

“What are you doing in a bar, Taylor Marie?” he asks as I approach, hands on hips and scowling in a convincing imitation of our father.

“I know you know I’m twenty-six, Toby. Plenty legal. And you’ve seen me in Tony’s before.”

He makes a show of looking past my shoulder. Toby is six-three, while our older sister, Elise, is six foot one, making me the smallest of my siblings. Which isn’t saying much .

“I haven’t seen you with Avah Harris. She’s hotter now than she was in high school.”

“She’s also got a fiancé,” I inform him. “So don’t make an ass of yourself and embarrass us both.”

“Engaged isn’t married,” he says with a wink. “It’s nowhere near married.” He slaps the back of the man standing next to him. “Am I right?”

I practically swallow my tongue as the man—who has at least an inch on my brother—turns, and a pair of all-too-familiar dark chocolate eyes stare down at me.

“Anderson, this is my sister, Tink.”

“Taylor,” I correct automatically, surprised I can form those two simple syllables, or even remember my name, with the object of most of my girlish fantasies standing directly in front of me.

There was Eric Anderson and there was Mr. Darcy.

The Colin Firth version, of course. Classics are classics for a reason.

“You probably don’t remember her,” my brother continues like the big oaf he is, and I run a finger across my bottom lip to confirm I’m not drooling. “She was a pipsqueak when she used to come to our college games.”

Eric lifts the hand holding a beer bottle and points in my direction. “You sat in the stands reading a book.” It sounds like an accusation.

I feel a little flattered that this tall, dark-haired god of a man remembers twelve-year-old me. Eric was my brother’s roommate and captain of the hockey team at Colorado College. But he left before his senior year to turn pro and eventually moved to Germany for a spot on the Munich roster.

As all-encompassing as my teenage crush felt, I didn’t keep track of him after he left. But I know he doesn’t live in Skylark. He must be passing through. Which explains Toby’s night out—showing off for his buddy.

A couple of the other firefighters from Toby’s crew greet me, and I’m grateful for a break from the intensity of Eric’s gaze .

“I wasn’t into hockey,” I say when I finally return my attention to him.

“Sacrilegious coming from Marty Maxwell’s daughter.”

My dad is a legend in the hockey world, right up there with Wayne Gretzky and Mario Lemieux. He retired when I was a baby, which might explain my lack of interest in the holy grail of sports. Of course, Toby used to tell people I got dropped on my head as a kid.

“The sports gene kind of skipped me.”

“Tink was adopted. Left on our front porch by a band of roving book nerds.”

Another one of my brother’s favorite explanations. I flip him the bird.

Eric rubs a hand against the back of his neck like he’s not sure how to respond. “You were adopted by a wonderful family.”

The dark blue sweater he’s wearing makes his skin look golden, like he spent Christmas in the south of France.

For all I know, he was on a yacht with his supermodel girlfriend and the son of some Russian oligarch.

Okay, maybe I’ve been hitting the dark romance section of the library too hard lately.

“I wasn’t adopted,” I mutter.

“Dude, I’m messing with you.” Toby smacks Eric on the shoulder. My brother is touchy-feely in the most annoying ways. “Tink looks exactly like our mom. She’s just weird.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Eric answers casually.

He casually thinks I’m weird. Lovely. There goes my childhood crush, crashing and burning in a fiery death. Thank god I still have Mr. Darcy.