Page 44 of Someone to Have (Skylark #3)
TAYLOR
I thought I could manage this, but the knot in my stomach on opening night tightens with every passing second.
As I sit in front of the long row of lighted mirrors in the communal dressing room five minutes before the show is scheduled to start, the butterflies in my chest feel more like a stampede.
Sydney Tomlinson, the crew member Bryan tapped as my potential replacement, comes to stand behind me.
“I don’t mind going on in your place if you need me to,” she says, which clearly means she—and everyone else—can read my anxiety. “Bryan told me to check on you.” Her words have an edge, like she expects me to crumble. Same, girl. Same.
“Back off, Sydney. And tell Bryan to back off as well.” Ellie Seidel, the female lead—just as I’d predicted during auditions—approaches from the far side of the dressing room.
The weight of a dozen pairs of eyes on me feels suffocating. I can almost hear the whispers hanging in the air.
“I’m just trying to be helpful, and so is Bryan,” Sydney argues. “He’s the director, Ellie, not you. He has a vested interest in making sure no audience member is puked on.”
I manage to choke out a laugh as I place my head in my hands and focus on my breathing the way Eric showed me. His dark eyes flash in my mind, calm in this storm of panic.
“The only thing that’s going to make someone in this cast puke,” Ellie announces, her voice loud enough to puncture the cloud of anxiety engulfing me, “is more unnecessary and unhelpful notes from our esteemed director.”
My head snaps up. A decade ago, Ellie was a working actress on Broadway—actual Broadway—where she was in the chorus and understudied for several successful shows, including Cats and Wicked .
With her talent, she could have—should have—made it big.
But when her mom was diagnosed with Parkinson’s about seven years ago, she came home to Skylark to care for her ailing parent.
I assumed she would leave again when her mom passed away last year, but she stayed. We haven’t exactly gotten close during rehearsals, but I have a lot of respect for her. I’ve also never heard her say a negative word about Bryan, or anyone for that matter.
“She can’t do it,” Sydney insists, then pops her gum.
“She can, and I told you to go away,” Ellie says.
“You’re not the boss of me.” I can practically hear the hip pop in Sydney’s scoff.
I peek through my fingers as Ellie moves directly in front of her—so close that the tips of her black shoes nearly touch Sydney’s boots.
“Go. Away,” Ellie whispers, but she might as well be shouting the command. Tension crackles between them.
I can tell the other cast members in the dressing room are pretending not to care, but they’re glued to the scene like they’re watching a Tony-nominated production.
Sydney rolls her eyes but turns away. “I’m sure glad I told my family not to buy seats in the first row,” she calls over her shoulder.
It’s a low blow, but I’m immune to that particular barb by now.
“What a bitch,” Ellie breathes as she looks at me in the mirror .
“She might not be wrong,” I mutter softly enough that no one else can hear.
I can’t seem to let go of the need to apologize for being me.
“You’re going to be great, Taylor,” Ellie insists. “You’ve gotten better at every rehearsal.”
“But Bryan says?—”
“Screw Bryan Connor,” the woman playing the production’s villain calls from three seats down. “He’s a dick.”
A smile plays around the corners of Ellie’s mouth as I gape. “Does everyone think that?”
A chorus of murmured assents, dramatic nods, and a few eye rolls ripple through the dressing room.
The male lead mutters, “We’ve got a Bryan Connor support group forming.” The laughter that follows is like a salve rubbed over my frayed nerves.
“We thought you were into him,” Ellie explains. “I hoped you had better taste than that.”
“I do,” I say, then add, “At least I do now.” Maybe I’m not the fraud I’ve convinced myself I am. I sit up straighter, squaring my shoulders as my breathing finally steadies.
She gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Better late than never.”
“I hope so.” And that hope has nothing to do with the play.
“Just remember,” she says, her gaze landing on each of us in the room.
“We’re not going to let him steal our joy.
He’s had enough chances to pull his head out of his ass.
We get through this production, and when the weekend ends, we’re done with him.
And we’ll make sure he’s done with community theater in our town. ”
The room erupts in clapping, whoops, and the stomp of heels against the wood floor. The energy shifts to something electric, and as the other cast members return to their preparations, Ellie pulls the empty stool next to mine closer.
“Are you shocked?” she asks with a smile .
“A little bit,” I admit. “I know he’s intense, but this is my first production, and I don’t have anything to compare it to.”
“I hope it won’t be your last,” she says, patting my hand. “I can guarantee he won’t be back if us regulars have anything to say about it. Bryan Coooper is for sure a dick.”
“A limp dick,” I whisper under my breath, causing Ellie to throw back her head and laugh.
“I can’t speak to that,” she says with a grimace.
“Me neither. It’s an inside joke with a friend of mine.”
“Your friend has good instincts.”
Myrna pokes her head in and announces the five-minute call. My stomach swoops and dips in response. “Ready or not,” I whisper.
“You’ve got this,” Ellie assures me as she stands.
“Why do you sound so sure when I’m anything but?”
“Not my first rodeo. Just remember—we’ve got your back.”
“Thank you. I think I needed to know that.”
It’s not a team like my family thinks of one, but her words mean I won’t be alone out there, and that changes everything.
Myrna re-enters the dressing room, bringing a bouquet of roses to me. “I never thought I’d see the day when Marty Maxwell darkened the door of our little community theater.” She sets the flowers in front of me. “You’ve got quite the cheering section.”
I press my nose into the fragrant blooms before reaching for the card, which is signed by every member of my family.
“No crying with your stage makeup on,” Ellie says gently.
“They’re ready for you,” one of the stagehands calls to her before I can respond.
“You’ve got this,” she tells me again.
“Break a leg,” I answer, and she grins.
“Every single time,” she assures me before walking away with Myrna following.
Another crew member approaches. “You’re Taylor, right?”
I turn and meet the teenager’s anxious gaze. “That’s me. ”
“Some guy asked me to give this to you.” He thrusts a small box into my hands. “He was in a terrible mood about it, so I hope it’s not a bomb.”
“Yikes, me too.” I manage a shaky smile. It feels too light to be a bomb. “Thanks,” I say, but the kid has already turned and dashed in the other direction, clearly wanting to be far away when I open it—just in case.
Inside the box is a small glass bottle with gold flakes. I shake it, watching as they shimmer against the edges of the glass. Beneath it is a card.
Not that you need it, Tinkerbell, but here’s some good luck pixie dust. Don’t break a leg because that would suck.
Eric and Rhett
Rhett drew a hockey stick next to his name.
My heart seems to skip a beat. The flowers my family sent are thoughtful, but pixie dust takes it to a whole other level. Is it any wonder I lost my heart to this man?
I pull the cork stopper from the bottle and tap a few flakes onto my wrist before setting it down next to the flowers. Everyone needs a little pixie dust now and then.
The fact that Eric went to the trouble to choose such a thoughtful gift has to mean something. I want it to mean something.
I’ve let my own fear gaslight me for far too long, making me distrust my instincts and what I know to be right. But the fact that my castmates believe in me bolsters my confidence. And Eric showing that he cares…it feels like this night will change everything.
I glance at myself in the mirror and press my palm to the glass in a gentle high- five.
“You’ve got this, Tinkerbell,” I tell my reflection.
If I make it through this evening without puking, peeing my pants, or publicly humiliating myself to the point that I need to change my name and move to Antarctica, I’m going to tell Eric how I feel.
The sharp pang of panic that shoots through me has nothing to do with the play.
Okay, maybe I’m not going to straight-up declare that I’m in love with him, but I vow to tell him I want more.
I want to try. Whether it’s for a few weeks until he leaves, or something longer, our connection is worth fighting for.
More importantly, I’m worth it. I deserve to go after what I want. I deserve my happily-ever-after.
“Places!” someone calls.
I stand up and follow my fellow cast members to the wings of the stage. The flutters in my stomach remain, but now they feel as much about excitement as fear.
So what if Bryan is right about my wooden delivery? This isn’t Broadway. It’s Skylark freaking Colorado. Even if I squeak out my lines or deliver them with as much inflection as the GPS voice navigator, I’m still doing it.
Starting right now, I’m taking back my power. And it feels good.