Page 13 of Someone to Have
“Do you know how lucky your nephew is to have a teacher of my caliber his freshman year?” Connor asks. I’m not sure he meant it as a rhetorical question, but none of us answers.
“I think he’ll be fine in Mr. Connor’s class,” Suzanne assures me. “I’ll keep an eye on things.”
Rhett’s sigh lets me know he’s not convinced, and Connor’s scowl communicates the same thing. Just what I need.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll make sure he does his homework.” It’s a promise I have no idea how the hell I’m going to keep. Homework wasn’t exactly my strong suit.
“If you decide he needs extra help, Ms. Maxwell is also a tutor,” Suzanne offers.
“Mostly for elementary school age kids,” Taylor says quickly.
“And several of our student athletes,” the administrator adds.
“Good to know,” I say as I avoid making eye contact with Taylor. It’s not like I should care what she thinks of me or Rhett, but I do. “Thank you all for your time.” More than anything, I want this meeting to be over.
Bryan Connor pushes back from the table and stalks out of the room. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass, I mentally call out.
“He’ll be at the library tomorrow morning,” I tell Taylor.
“Coach Toby invited me to varsity practice,” Rhett protests.It’s the most emotion I’ve heard in his voice since I arrived in Colorado.
I think about Marty’s words. “You haven’t earned practice with Coach Toby.”
Taylor cocks her head to study me like she recognizes her father’s insight. “Reading hour starts at ten,” she tells Rhett. “If you could be there twenty minutes early to help set up, that would be great.”
Before he can open his mouth—because I’m pretty sure he’s ready to argue now—I place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “He’ll be there.”
And with that, I lead my troubled—and now troublesome—nephew out of the high school, wondering why I thought I’d be able to handle any of this.
4
TAYLOR
I’monly home for an hour when the music across the hall starts blaring. It’s hard to tell whether the pounding is coming from the speakers or my head.
I wasn’t lying when I told Eric I hadn’t heard the conversation between Bryan and Rhett. I hadn’t even spoken to the kid before the incident this afternoon, although this was the second day he’d spent his lunch period in the library.
Plenty of students do that, but most are at tables with friends, whispering in hushed tones as they pretend to do homework. I had no idea Rhett was Eric’s nephew, but it made me sad to see him alone both days. Skylark is great, but it can be challenging for a new kid to find their place, especially as a freshman.
The school’s hockey culture is generally inclusive, largely due to my brother’s coaching style and values. Being part of the program will help a kid like Rhett feel like he belongs. For that reason, I probably would have let him out of volunteering tomorrow so he could skate with the team.
I’m also a pushover that way, and the way Eric looked at me with such intensity made me keep the offer to myself.
Rhett didn’t mean to hurt me, and I truly believehe hadn’t wanted to hit Bryan either. The book would have landed on the floor without incident if I hadn’t taken two steps to the left at just the right moment, but I appreciate Eric wanting his nephew to take responsibility. It’s what my parents would have done with Toby or Elise.
I take the bag of frozen peas off my cheek, which still hurts like hell. But there’s a decent chance part of my lingering headache stems from grinding my teeth to nubs when I walked into that conference room and realized Eric was making the joke about Colonel Mustard.
He’s last on the list of people I expected to see at the high school. Even more disorienting is the fact that he’s obviously going to be in town for a while. I have no clue why he’s acting as guardian for his nephew, but the whole thing goes against my preconceived—or at least quickly conceived—notion about the type of man he is.
That bothers me. A lot. But not as much as the music that’s practically shaking the paint off my walls. Normally, I’d keep my mouth shut. I’m known for keeping my mouth shut, but I can’t take the music. Not tonight.
I march across the hall and rap on the door before my courage deserts me, which could be any moment.
The music stops, but no one answers. I knock again because I’ve come all this way—figuratively anyway. When the door finally opens, I’m shocked to see Rhett Anderson standing on the other side.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“What areyoudoing here?” a voice calls from the end of the hall.
