More Than Maybe

by Erin Hahn

  “You going to reschedule your dinner?”

  I shrug. “I’m not sure it matters. He’s not giving me money.”

  He straightens. “But you’re going to ask him.” The music blessedly changes as the band on deck cues up their set.

  “Yes, Phil,” I respond dryly. “I’m going to give him the chance to break my heart and ruin my dreams. He deserves that much.”

  He presses his lips together, and his eyes glint behind his frames. Phil’s what would have happened if Kevin Smith hadn’t made his fortune making cult slacker films. Thick, dark beard and smudged glasses, Red Wings jersey paired with faded jeans. He’s as revered as this venue in the eyes of the locals. Phil has what’s known in the music industry as a “knack.” He can tell from one listen if a group is going to make it big.

  He’s my mentor and one of my favorite people. Some kids have an old soul. I have a middle-aged, overweight, receded-hairline soul.

  “Where’s Kazi?” he asks, wisely switching the subject.

  I grunt again. “Running late. Called an hour ago to say Whole Paycheck was getting in a shipment and needed all hands on deck.”

  “And you offered to stay.”

  I sigh, tossing my cup in the garbage. “I couldn’t leave Captain Hook on his own with the ruffians.”

  Phil huffs, eyeing the skankers like they’re something stuck to the bottom of his Vans. “They aren’t even doing it right.”

  I narrow my eyes, following his. “Is there a right way to do that?”

  He snorts. “Just ask,” he insists, back to Marcus. He’s lucky I speak fluent Phil and can follow along. “You have a plan B.”

  Yeah. Plan B. See, I have this plan. When I was sixteen, I begged Phil for a job. I couldn’t work in the bar yet since it was illegal, so Phil let me hang around his office as an administrative assistant of sorts. I took over his music review blog, Behind the Music, and sometimes, we snuck me into shows on a strictly “journalistic basis.” When I turned eighteen, the real work began. I still blog, but I also work the bar, so I’m here for the shows. Phil’s teaching me everything he knows and lets me tag along to meetings if I’m not in class. Which, high school is pretty inconvenient, but whatever. Three months left. This summer, Phil is even allowing me to take over production of one of the shows during our annual concert series, Liberty Live.

  All because my dream is music journalism. You know those reporters who follow musicians around on tour and get the inside scoop and create lists of the top artists of all time and whatever else? That’s my passion. I was made for it. I’ve already been accepted into the music journalism program at UCLA, but I need more. Everyone in California was born into the industry. I need a leg up.

  Phil and Liberty Live are my in. It would be easier if the sperm donor in my life would help with the loans, but I can’t even get the guy to tip when he spends all afternoon with his worthless butt on one of our stools.

  Phil’s watching the dance floor with glassy eyes. It’s been a long weekend, and by Sunday night, we’re all tired.

  “Go on. Me and Ben got this. I’ll drop in before I head home.” We both know I mean I’ll wake him before I take off, since he’s dead on his feet and has an old, cracked leather couch in his office begging him for a nap.

  Phil yawns into his elbow and ruffles my hair. “If Kazi’s not here in thirty minutes, let me know. I’ll fire him. For real this time. And don’t you be taking any more of his shit.”

  “I don’t mind—”

  His eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Uh-huh. Don’t think I didn’t notice how relieved you were to be needed here. I appreciate it, but you can’t hide forever. Your mom is going to want to make sure you’re okay after this afternoon.”

  Phil closes his office door behind him just as a door in the back opens, and a few beats later, Cullen Greenly saunters up, leaning in the spot Phil vacated.

  “Greenly.”

  “Carsewell,” he says.

  “What’s the topic tonight?” Cullen and his brother, Luke, rent Phil’s sound booth to record their weekly podcast, The Grass Is Greenly, in return for advertising. It’s a pretty good gig, in all honesty. The sound booth sits vacant the rest of the week, and the podcast has really caught on with college students in the last six months, bringing a younger crowd in for our shows.

  “Remember the viral video of the kiss-cam couple at the Pistons game where the woman kissed the mascot instead?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “That.”

  I grin. “You’re gonna fill fifty minutes with that?” I can’t say I’ve ever understood talk radio.

  Cullen scratches nonexistent scruff. “Usually do. We’ll layer in the rest with my brother’s latest dating disaster and a bit of nonsense filler using our ‘disgustingly hot British accents.’”

  It’s embarrassing, but he’s not wrong.

  My phone buzzes, and I leave Cullen to Ben, who’s meandered over to show off his new beard balm, probably.

  MEG

  $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$I know you won’t get this until after, but I’m sending you good vibes for the father-daughter talk $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

  I inwardly groan. Speaking of too pure for this world. Meg would offer grace to Trump.

  VADA

  Save your vibes. It’s off.

  MEG

  Oh, man, really? Tell me he didn’t forget! You’ve been planning this for over a month.

  VADA

  More like he showed up three hours early.

  MEG

  NO! Again?

  VADA

  Again.

  MEG

  Are you still at work?

  VADA

  For a bit. Waiting on Kazi’s sorry organic ass to show up.

  MEG

  I’ll be at your place in thirty. New epi of America’s Funniest tonight. Chinese or Mexican?

  I grin. One of Meg’s best qualities is how well she can read a situation. I don’t need to rehash the shitty afternoon, and I don’t feel like a hug. What I need is food and AFV.

  VADA

  Chelas. Extra hot sauce, please.

  MEG

  You got it, babe.

  I slip my phone back in my pocket, and the door opens again, causing my heart to flip-flop in my chest. Luke Greenly walks in, looking wet and harried and straight from my nerdiest daydreams, carrying his longboard under his arm and a cardboard coffee cup in his hand. Luke and Cullen aren’t identical twins. Cullen is tall and wiry with dark hair. Luke’s broad shouldered and fair with longish pale blond hair, currently plastered to his forehead despite the hoodie under his black leather jacket. He’s also got light gray-blue eyes behind bold black frames, contrasting his twin’s un-spectacled dark brown ones. Yet somehow, when they’re together, they look the same. They move in a similar way. And, yeah, their accents are yummy.

  (I would never, ever admit it, but I play their podcast recordings before bed. Luke’s voice is extra soothing. Deep, lyrical, and crisp.)

  The owner of those golden vocals approaches, and I duck, prodding at my nearly empty cup in an effort to hide my flaming cheeks. The Loud Lizard is my territory, and I am cool and calm and not at all flustered by Luke Greenly. We’ve spoken exactly nine times since Christmas and I’m, regrettably, still nervous around him. Also, I’m still counting. So, that’s … annoying.

  “Hey-hey, Vada.” Luke clears his throat.

  “Thought we wouldn’t see you tonight. Didn’t you have plans?” Cullen asks.

  “I did, yeah. But Kazi didn’t show.” Thank God Kazi is reliably unreliable. No need to mention my Marcus drama to the Greenly twins.

  “Shocking,” Cullen says drolly.

  “Yeah, so I’m here. For a little longer anyway.”

  “Well,” says Cullen, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. The music dies down as the band wraps up their set. Unless it’s a special occasion, our live music usually ends early on Sundays, which is convenient for the Greenlys. The sound booth isn’t exactly soundproof in this
place. “D’you need a ride home?”

  I shake my head and lean into him. “Nah, I brought my mom’s car since I planned to meet my dad. Wanted a quick getaway.” That part’s true anyway.

  Luke’s full lips twist in a half grin, and he removes his frames to give them a swipe on the dry edge of his hoodie.

  I pull out the keys Phil left me and lead Luke and Cullen down a dark hallway, away from the noise of glasses clinking and instruments being loaded up. I unlock the sound booth and flick on a light.

  “All yours, boys.”

  Cullen leans down and smacks a kiss on my cheek. “Thanks, doll.”

  I don’t know the Greenly twins super well, but Cullen is definitely the outgoing one. He’s also very, very gay. He’s been with his boyfriend, Zack, for so long they won homecoming kings this past fall by a landslide. Maybe that’s why I can talk to him so easily. Or maybe that’s just Cullen. His superpower is making people comfortable.

  But it’s rare for me to see Luke without headphones or even hear his voice in person. I give him my best smile, but he only nods shyly as they pass. I inwardly sigh, all lust and longing and whatever else alliterative pining I can come up with. You know it’s bad when I’m the social one. I wait for them to get hunkered down at the mics before I close the door with a soft click behind me.

  Back on the floor, I fill another cup with cherries and settle in to people watch. We have the modern equivalent to a jukebox in the corner that can be fed off debit cards, and someone’s clearly coming off a bad break because a second loop of Demi Lovato’s “Sorry Not Sorry” has started. I skim the club for the culprit. My money’s on the black-haired beauty with Cover Girl’s Matte #5 stained on her one, two, three straws. “Get it, girl,” I mumble under my breath. Demi is a perfectly respectable breakup diva. See also: Sam Smith and Ray LaMontagne.

  The door flings open with a gust of icy air, and Kazi appears in his pale, full-on dread-headed glory. I glance at my watch. Ohhhhh, he’s late. Or, later. Phil’s not gonna be happy.

  I pass the keys to Kazi with a bored scowl. “You get to wake up Phil,” I say. He winces, and I don’t bother to hide my smile. “Also, he was expecting you half an hour ago, so.”

  Grabbing my jacket from behind the bar and feeling for my keys, I wave goodbye to Ben and head out into the night. My breath huffs out in front of me. I unlock my door with a beep and immediately lock it behind me, turning on the heater and heated seats full blast and letting the ringing in my ears from an afternoon spent in a noisy club dissipate.

  But I don’t like the silence. What I want is to walk back into the bar and perch on a stool and listen to breakup songs and banter with Cullen and let Phil preach at me. I want to help Ben pour drinks, cast dirty looks at Kazi, and wait for the moment Luke leaves and see if I can’t earn one last shy smile from him. I want to stay here. I want to delay the moment when I have to face my hurt feelings—or worse, my mom’s hurt feelings, because even after all this time, Marcus is still breaking two hearts with one drunken accusation.

  After a minute, I release a slow breath and reluctantly pull my seat belt across my lap, backing out of my space to drive home. My real home, and not just the place that feels like it.

  3

  LUKE

  “The moral of the story, dear listeners, is don’t date your mail carrier’s niece.”

  “Or nephew,” I add into my mic, shifting forward in my chair as quietly as possible.

  Cullen nods his dark head. “Cheers, Luke.”

  “I have regrets,” I admit. “And to whoever is now getting my packages, I hope you enjoy season 3, part 1 and 2 of Teen Wolf on me.” A lot went wrong with Lindsay and me, more than I would ever admit on our podcast. While I won’t let Cullen mention Instagram-Gate, I do make some allowances for humor at my expense, and I’m all in over how Lindsay’s aunt is our mail lady and my recent Best Buy packages have been coincidentally “lost.”

  “You could stream it like the rest of civilization,” my brother suggests.

  “That’s hardly the issue.”

  “No.” Cullen smiles, and it’s all bright white teeth. “The issue is you need to not let government workers set you up with their family members.”

  “I’m too nice.” I grimace.

  “You’re too nice,” he agrees, gesturing wildly even though no one else can see it.

  “Moving on,” I say, switching gears before Cullen accidentally reveals too much for polite podcasting. “We’re about out of time, and loyal listener Lola from Ypsi sent us her list of ‘Marry, Kill, or Kiss.’ To twist the knife in further, she offers Stiles, Derek, and Scott from … wait for it … MTV’s Teen Wolf. Hilarious, Greenly.”

  “I thought it clever.”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course you did. Why don’t you start this one off? I need to mull it over.”

  Cullen leans back in his chair. “Right. Well, so many good choices here. You know how I feel about Derek…”

  “Not a secret.” Cullen’s many, many celebrity crushes are steady filler on our podcast even though he’s been with Zack for more than three years.

  “But I’ve had some time to think on it, and I’m gonna snog Stiles, marry Derek, and kill Scott.”

  “Wow, no respect for the True Alpha! I’m gonna say, kiss Scott, marry Stiles, kill Derek.”

  Cullen gasps theatrically, his hand on his chest as if I’d mortally wounded him. “Why would you kill my husband?”

  “Jealousy?” I offer. “You know how self-conscious I am about my inability to grow stubble.”

  “I can respect that.”

  “All right, that’s all we have for tonight. I’m gonna leave you with a little Twenty One Pilots to kick off your week. Thanks for joining me, Luke, and—”

  “Me, Cullen.”

  “This has been The Grass Is Greenly.” I switch out to play “Heavy Dirty Soul” over the top and tug off my headphones, raking through my hair.

  Cullen taps around on his Mac screen. “And we’re out. Not bad for a light news week.”

  “How long?”

  “Fifty minutes, give or take. Should be plenty of material for the online version, including ads.”

  I roll back on my ancient, creaking chair and stand, stretching my hands to the ceiling and cracking my neck to the right and left.

  Cullen closes his Mac with a click and stuffs it away in his backpack. “You coming with me or…?”

  “Nah. If the rain’s stopped, I can use the air.” Cull’s always teasing that my board is attached to my hip, but he doesn’t now, and the look he’s giving me? It’s the same one I give him after he and Zack get into a fight. “It’s nothing,” I insist before he can start.

  “I thought you didn’t like Lindsay.”

  “I didn’t. Not much anyway.” I’m not lying. We barely went out. He lifts a single dark eyebrow.

  “But?”

  I tap my board against my hip, waiting him out. Thank Jesus Zack is loyal. The last thing I need is my brother meddling. “But nothing. I’ll see you at home.”

  He glances at his phone and scowls. “Shite. Forgot Zack’s coming over at eight.”

  I shake my head, smiling, and tease, “Please. You know he’s not there to see you.”

  Zack and Cullen have been together since sophomore year, but we all know it’s our dad, Charlie, he really loves. Or rather, his stories. Zack’s a history nerd, and our dad was the lead singer of a pretty hyped punk rock bank called the Bad Apples in the late ’80s and early ’90s. Zack’s the only one in the world who cares enough to listen to 1,001 litanies about his glory days “touring the countryside and sloshing through pints with my old pal Morrissey.”

  Shudder.

  From the look on Cullen’s face, his thoughts are mirroring mine.

  “I’d better get back. Cut him off before he can really get rolling.”

  * * *

  I take the long way home. It’s cold, but the roads and walkways are mostly dry as I wind my way from the Loud Lizard to
our cozy west-side neighborhood. Zack’s Jeep is already in the drive, and all the lights are on. I push open the front door to a deceptively quiet house and prop my board against the back of a closet. My glasses immediately fog up at the temperature change, and I swipe them up on top of my head to deal with later. I could get contacts, but it feels like the cold freezes them to my eyeballs when I board. I’ve tried Lasik. It worked for about a minute, and a year ago, I was back in glasses because of my super-healing, super-broken eyes. I’m a medical wonder of devolution.

  Shrugging off the rest of my things, I pile them by the door with all the various winter paraphernalia before heading to the kitchen where my mum is cleaning up after dinner. I walk over to the stove and pick up a slice of cold pizza off the stone and eat it while propped against the island.

  “How’d the podcast go?”

  I swallow and shrug. “Good. Cullen’s got to work his magic, obviously, but we should have enough material.”

  My mum grins, scrubbing at the counter. Her blue-black hair is pulled back in a barrette, but loose strands fall in front of her eyes. She tucks them away, turning to me. “Cull filled me in on the Teen Wolf kiss, marry, kill. I’m with him. Derek all the way; he’s scrumptious.”

  “Gross. He’s at least twenty years younger than you are.”

  She gasps, feigning hurt, flicking me with her towel. “Take that back! He can’t be more than fifteen years younger, tops. He’s got that beard!”

  “And now we see where Cullen gets his taste.”

  She resumes her scrubbing with a wink from behind her thin wire frames. “Well, he certainly didn’t get it from his father, or Zachary would be out of luck.”

  My brother is the hashtag pride and joy of the family. Not that I mind. Could have been utter shite. Can be, even at school and stuff. But with a beatnik former British punk rocker for a dad and liberal studies professor for a mum … let’s just say we wear our rainbows face-out in this family, and Zack’s upgrade from best friend to best friend and boyfriend of their children was welcomed with wide open arms.