Page 17 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)

TAYLOR

The next few days pass in a whirl of activity, affirmations, and rehearsing. By audition night, I’m confident enough to believe I can do this. Almost.

It’s one hundred percent on me if I can’t because Eric has pulled out every trick in his playbook to make me a success. His methods aren’t exactly what I expected, but they’ve worked. He treated this week like a run-up to game one of the playoffs and me his star athlete.

He showed up at my door after work on Monday and told me I needed a strict routine. Something to help shift into the mindset where my only focus is meeting the goal. For the past three nights, my across-the-hall neighbors have been part of that routine.

Rhett and I work together for an hour before dinner.

Then we eat together—some delicious Eric Anderson special recipe.

The apartment always smells amazing, the savory scents wrapping around me like a hug I didn’t realize I needed.

He also stocked my fridge with healthy breakfasts and balanced lunches to take to work.

I’m not sure what feeding me has to do with audition prep, but the care he’s slipped into each detail has lodged itself stubbornly in my chest .

My mom always used to tailor her cooking to Toby and Elise’s various sports seasons, and I was expected to get what I got and not throw a fit about it.

Maybe that’s why I never enjoyed cooking or tried very hard to be good at it, even when I started living on my own.

I wasn’t in training or doing anything where I needed to treat my body like a temple, so what did it matter if I ate a bowl (or two) of Lucky Charms for dinner several nights a week?

Apparently, it matters to Eric. To be honest, it’s nice having somebody care for me like I’m special. I can already feel myself wanting to lean too hard into it, which makes it more dangerous than nice.

It’s not just the healthy food. He has me on a strict diet of positive thinking and affirmations that he’s recorded and sent to me in a voice note file.

I listen to them in the shower, when I’m getting ready in the morning, on my way to both of my jobs, and at night before I go to bed.

Eric’s words of encouragement have become the steady beat that drowns out every moment of doubt.

It’s a little disconcerting to have that deep, rumbly voice in my head all day, but I can’t deny the power of his message. Somehow, hearing and saying them along with his voice makes me believe them more than if I were trying to coach myself—which obviously hasn’t worked before now.

He’s also made me sing my audition song for him and Rhett each night, and the way they sit in rapt attention every time is a shot in the arm for my confidence.

I’ve chosen “Send in the Clowns” because it was the song that made me fall in love with musical theater. After I finished my first go at it Monday night, Rhett gave me a wide-eyed nod and a high-five before disappearing into his room. It felt like high praise.

“Clowns are creepy as hell,” Eric told me, “but you almost convinced me to like them. That’s what you need to do. You’re convincing a whole bunch of people in that audience—and limp-dick Bryan Connor—that even if Pennywise and his red balloon came calling, he needs clowns in his life. ”

No matter how many times I ask Eric to stop referring to Bryan as “limp-dick,” he refuses, the stubborn glint in his eyes daring me to make him stop. I’m letting that slide because of what he’s done for me.

Even with his coaching and the encouraging texts and calls I’ve gotten from my friends this week, I still find myself sitting in the community theater parking lot with sweaty palms, my heart hammering in my chest. The building looms before me, more intimidating than any Broadway theater.

I try to conjure my inner alter ego. The one who believes I can do this. But now that it’s come down to the wire, even my alter ego doesn’t seem to believe in me.

My phone beeps, and I glance down at the new text.

Sloane: Just told the docs and my brother that I’m getting out of here for your opening night. Can’t wait to watch you shine!

I swallow back tears, because it’s almost impossible to sing and cry simultaneously, but her message humbles me. A knot forms in my throat, thick and heavy. I won’t have my brave friend set a goal and then let her down. At least not without trying.

I walk into the theater and greet the other potential castmates. I know many of them are regulars in the local productions. There’s an easy familiarity among them that reminds me I’m the outsider here, the underdog.

I check in and then head backstage, almost plowing into Bryan as he comes around a corner.

“Oh, Taylor, hey. What are you doing here?”

“Trying out,” I tell him, butterflies fluttering through my whole body, wings slamming against my ribs.

“You didn’t mention that.” His tone isn’t exactly critical, but there’s something there—surprise laced with the faintest edge of disapproval. Like he can’t quite picture me stepping into his world .

I offer a bright smile. “I wasn’t sure my schedule would allow me to be here…” Without meaning to, I raise my hands and shake them. Jazz hands, Taylor? Seriously? “But here I am.”

“Brilliant.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Good luck out there. It would be great to spend more time together.”

Yes, it would. It’s encouraging that he thinks so, right? Yet the words only make me more flustered than I already feel.

I find my place in the casting call, then take a seat in the darkened auditorium to watch the first couple of auditions.

After a few minutes, I realize my knee is bouncing so much it’s making me a little bit out of breath.

This level of anxiety isn’t good. Damn it, I need to focus and control my breathing.

I know I have a nice voice, but it’s not super powerful, and with my nerves, I’m liable not to project enough for anyone to even hear me.

I head behind the curtain to pace, hoping the movement will help relax me. By the time my name is called, I’m so nervous I can barely move. Well, I don’t move. I’m rooted in place in the shadows on the side of the stage.

Bryan calls my name again, and I eventually walk out, trying to ignore the fact that people can probably see me shaking.

Then I notice some movement in the auditorium. Oh my God, the people watching from the front are moving back a few rows. Bryan, who’s sitting with Myrna—she’s helped coordinate local theater productions for decades—looks confused. Myrna leans over and murmurs something in his ear.

He grimaces and seems to measure the distance from the third row to the stage, maybe wondering if any projectile nerves will reach him.

“Are you going to start with your monologue or the song?” he asks.

Eric and I have discussed this. My inclination was to start with the monologue, hoping my nerves would lessen before I had to sing. He insisted the song is the way to go and–weirdly–I trust him .

“Even if you screw up the monologue, they’ll give you a part based on your voice,” he’d said. While not exactly a resounding boost from my confidence coach, it made a strange kind of sense.

“Song,” I say, my voice hoarse. I nod at the accompanist. And while it’s not quite as bad as my previous double-P disaster, my mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I can’t make a sound.

A wave of hushed murmuring ripples through the auditorium, and I feel my face flame.

“Everything okay, Taylor?” Bryan calls, sounding almost impatient.

I clear my throat. “Yep. Can we start again?”

I silently repeat the mantras Eric assigned me, but they aren’t working. I can’t do this. Why did I ever think I could? I’m going to make a fool of myself again, disappoint Sloane, and even more, myself.

A loud crashing sound cuts through my swirling thoughts. It’s coming from the back of the theater, like someone knocked over a chair or prop table.

“Sorry,” a deep voice booms.

A voice I recognize.

I squint against the lights shining in my eyes because this can’t be right. But there, at the very back of the theater, stands Eric.

He lifts his shoulders and arms, mimicking how he showed me to take a deep breath, and I follow suit. I don’t know why it makes a difference, but it does. He makes a flapping motion in front of his crotch like he’s got a limp dick, and I laugh out loud.

Bryan looks over his shoulder then back at me, his features pinched like he just sucked on a lemon. “Do you need more time?” He’s definitely impatient now.

“I’m ready,” I say, and while I’m still not certain, I feel a little steadier. And as ready as I’ll ever be.

The piano music starts, and I close my eyes and imagine I’m in Eric’s apartment, singing to him and Rhett.

My voice is shaky initially, but I find my footing a few lines in.

I might not sound as good as I do in the privacy of my shower, but at least there’s no need for front row splash jackets.

The piano—and Eric’s belief in me—become my guide.

No matter what happens with the casting or who is chosen for this production, I did it. I took the first step in conquering my fear and my bucket list challenge.

There’s a smattering of applause as I finish.

Okay, maybe not the standing ovation I hoped for, but I didn’t embarrass myself.

I shift my weight, and other than a little residual anxiety sweat, I’m delightfully dry.

No pants peeing, no puking. The bar for success is admittedly low, but I’ll take the win.

“Thank you,” I murmur and start to walk off stage.

“The monologue,” Bryan’s voice rings out. He doesn’t sound annoyed anymore. That’s a good sign, right?