Someone To Have
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 someplace where 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 encased in winter frost. All 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 something on 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. It’s kind of annoying that Avah does everything well. Heck, she could make scooping cat litter look cool—not that she’s a cat lady. That’s my area of expertise.
“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 a brunette version of the anatomically impossible doll with her shiny hair, perky boobs, and tiny waist.
“Are you freezing out here?” 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 the rest of 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, why didn’t you go in? You look like a human popsicle.”
I know what cold does to my face—my nose gets red like Rudolph, and my eyes start to water. It’s not pretty.
“I might take a rain check.” I glance toward the bar. “I can 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 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 and he’s not the boss of you,” Avah reminds me. “Tony’s is for everyone.”
“But why exactly am I here?” I ask as I allow her to lead me forward.
“Because you go back to work tomorrow. This is your last hurrah.” Molly tries to sound enthusiastic, but her voice is pinched.
“A hurrah . Since when do I need a hurrah?”
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 I’m not one for standing my ground despite being physically capable. 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!”
“Can we talk about why your brother calls you Tink?” Avah asks with an eye roll.
“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—that the visit with Toby, who is six 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 tonight.”
He makes a show of looking past my shoulder. Toby is six-three, while our older sister, Elise, is six foot even, making me the smallest of my siblings. That’s not saying much. “I haven’t seen you with Avah Harris. She’s hotter now than she was back in high school.”
“She’s also got a serious boyfriend. They’re practically engaged, so don’t make an ass of yourself and embarrass both of us.”
“Practically,” he repeats with a wink. “That’s not fully engaged and 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 school girl fantasies standing directly in front of me. There was Eric Anderson and 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 Colorado College hockey team for two of the four years my brother played there. He’s a couple of years older than Toby and left school early to turn pro in some European league.
As all-encompassing as my girlish 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 in 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.
“Sounds 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 the year I was born, which might explain my lack of interest in the holy grail of sports. 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 his 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.
The irritation must be written on my face, not that I’m trying to hide it, because Eric visibly cringes.
“I didn’t mean you’re weird. I remember your parents coming to games. You look like your mother.”
It’s the nicest compliment a person can give me, and I guess it’s true. I have the same dark hair, pale skin, and clear blue eyes as my mom. I look like her, but the resemblance stops at the surface.
My mom had this way of making people feel like they mattered. Where she was fearless, I hesitate. She filled a room with laughter, while I shrink into corners, awkward and unsure. Although she died four years ago in a car accident, the mention of her still causes a tight ball of emotion to clog my throat. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I know Eric notices because he looks like he wants to bolt.
Why can’t men handle a crying woman? They’re emotions, not the clap.
My brother orders another round, then turns to me again. “Seriously, you think I’ve got any chance with Avah?”
“About as much as a snowball in hell, and leave my friends alone.”
“How are you and Avah Harris friends?” he demands but hands me a beer when the bartender places a bucket of them on the scarred wood bar. “She was the ultimate cool chick in high school.”
“Are you being more of a dick than usual on purpose or am I just lucky tonight?” I assume my brother knows it’s a rhetorical question.
To my horror, he answers anyway. “Don’t get your granny panties in a twist.”
I can’t believe he just told Eric Anderson, who’s now looking less like he wants to escape and more like he’s trying to bite back a smile, that I wear granny panties.
“They’re hipsters, Toby. If you’d fix your washing machine, you wouldn’t need to bring your laundry to my place.”
“I’m not complaining, Tay-tay. First, you buy those beads that make me smell like spring. Second, I don’t like to think of my little sister getting any, and I know for sure you’re not while wearing those things.”
He holds out his hands, indicating to Eric the giant girth of my underpants. I’d be much obliged if the ground could swallow me up whole at that moment.
“For the record, I’m going to tell Avah you still suck your thumb,” I fire back.
Toby lifts his hand to give me a high-five that I don’t return. “Maybe she’ll ask me to call her Mommy.”
This time, Eric doesn’t hold back. He laughs heartily, tipping up his head to reveal the strong column of his throat. If I were another type of woman—or not standing in front of my brother and a guy too hot to give me the time of day—I might lean in and drag my mouth across it. Press my lips to his Adam’s apple and?—
“Tink, stop,” Toby commands. “Gross.”
I blink and touch a finger to the side of my mouth. Still no drool. “How is standing here listening to you be a sexist pig gross?”
“You’re staring at Anderson like you want to take a bite out of him. Trust me, I’ve seen that same look on dozens of faces back in college—and even tonight. Pretty sure Malone has dibs.”
Megan Malone is a firefighter on my brother’s crew. She has dark eyes, naturally wavy hair and curves for days. She’s also funny, sweet, and a total badass. Megan and Eric Anderson would make beautiful babies together, that’s for sure.
“I’m not looking at him like anything,” I say.
“He’s a man-whore, Tay,” Toby announces. “A man-whore with a heart but not anywhere close to right for you.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, man.” Eric seems to take the insult in stride although his smirk goes a little tight around the edges.
“Dude, you can’t help it—it’s pheromones.”
Toby jabs a finger in my direction. “You can help it. Be gone with you and your granny panties.”
“I hate you,” I tell him, then switch my gaze to Eric Anderson, who’s still smirking with a tiny bit of glower added into the mix. While the combo is sexy as hell, it’s also just as annoying. “I hate you by association.”
I offer my middle finger once again. “I’m giving this conversation zero stars. Would not recommend. Have a lovely night, gentlemen.”
Both of them salute as I turn away and weave through the crowd of firefighters, greeting several of them, until I reach Avah and Molly at the table in the back.
“Who’s your brother’s friend?” Avah asks. “Talk about easy on the eyes.”
“He’s a conceited hockey jerk, and you’ve got a boyfriend.” I take a long swig from my bottle of beer.
“I was looking for Molly. It’s time she got back out there.”
Molly chokes out a laugh. “I’m a single mom of twins who lives with my late husband’s mother.” She ticks off items on her fingers like she’s reciting a grocery list. “I haven’t shaved my legs since Thanksgiving, and I’m pretty sure my bra is a holdover from when I was still nursing my kids.”
“Girl, that’s sad.” Avah shakes her head. “Even for you.”
“Why am I the sacrificial set-up lamb?” Molly asks. “Taylor is more single than me.”
“No need to make it a competition,” I protest. My siblings and dad like to make everything a competition. Since I never have a chance of winning, I don’t bother to try—in most areas of my life, if I’m being honest.
“Tall, dark, and could-be-a-Hemsworth-brother isn’t Taylor’s type,” Avah says. “She likes guys with small hands.”
“Bryan doesn’t have small hands.” I roll my eyes. None of my friends understand the crush I have on Bryan Connor, one of my co-workers at the high school. But they’re wrong about him and how perfect he is for me. Nothing like Eric “Hemsworth-look-alike” Anderson. “Just because he isn’t some ’roided-up hockey meatstick that bags every puck bunny who steps in his path doesn’t mean he isn’t attractive. Call me crazy, but I’m not looking to add an STD to my New Year’s bingo card.”
“She didn’t mean that how it sounded.” Avah stares at a spot past my shoulder as Molly cringes.
“I had blood work done last month,” a deep voice says from behind my chair. “Got the all-clear. Those puck bunnies better be on their A-game.”
I shift in my chair and find myself once again staring into Eric Anderson’s dark eyes. He’s definitely not smiling now.