More Than Maybe

by Erin Hahn

  “Mom, I told you, Vada’s got California in her blood. She’s going to rock their world out there.” Meg’s eyes meet mine, and we share conspiratorial grins.

  She’s all in, too. Meg’s a year younger than I am, but in homeschool years, she graduated over the holidays. She hasn’t told her parents yet, but she fully intends to join me out west; she wants to do a gap year.

  Meg is … well … exactly the kind of kid who takes a gap year. She’s tiny and effervescent. Her hair is multicolored, her nails are glitter, and she accessorizes with fairy wings. She teaches Sunday school, sings in the youth group worship band, and is a former competitive figure skating junior champion.

  And somehow, she picked me to be her best friend. I have no idea why. I’m like the Grumpy Cat to her Hello Kitty.

  “Still, we mother hens like our chicks close to the nest.”

  Meg shovels more food in her mouth, and I follow her lead, tearing a big piece off some extra buttery garlic bread. Poor Phil. Maybe I can smuggle some home for him.

  “That’s true,” I say finally. I’ve learned it’s best to not disagree with Meg’s mom. She had Meg super young and has basically made raising her daughter her life’s work. It’s admirable, and she’s done a bang-up job; Meg’s delightful, obviously. But I sometimes wonder if now that Meg is grown, it’s backfired on her. Like, what will she do when Meg moves away?

  Of course she doesn’t know Meg wants to move away, so there’s that. Instead, she gets to project her fears onto me and my mom, and Meg gets to watch. Which I bet freaks the hell out of my best friend.

  I’d hide behind my fairy wings, too.

  “Done?” Meg asks, and I’m already on my feet, even though I’m not sure where we’re going. She turns to her mom. “Vada and I have to run.” She flutters over to kiss her parents on the cheek, and her dad looks up from where he’s been immersed in his reading on his tablet, surprised. Surprised dinner is over? Surprised to see us here? Who knows. In my fourteen years of friendship with Meg, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard her dad speak.

  “Thanks for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Hennessy!” I say as Meg tugs me by the arm. We pull on our coats and are out the door.

  I let her into my car and turn on the heat, giving it a chance to warm up. I turn to her, my expression amused. “And where are we running to?”

  Meg rolls her eyes, the sunset catching the glitter on her lids, making her look like something out of a Tolkien novel.

  “I needed out. Sorry.”

  I sink back into my seat. “Haven’t told them yet?”

  “I can’t!” she moans. “She’ll take it as a personal slight! I’m not trying to escape, I just want to see the world!”

  “As you should,” I agree, noticing, not for the first time, that she says she and not they.

  “But she’s terrified I will see too much and decide I want to embrace a life of sin.”

  I press my lips together, trying not to laugh. It’s not funny, exactly, but pure-as-snow, won’t-even-wear-spaghetti straps, and hasn’t-seen-an-R-rated-movie Meg is the furthest thing from sinful.

  “Shuddup,” she says, her lips twitching.

  “You have to tell her eventually. You can’t just leave.” I pull out of the driveway, figuring we can cruise around for a bit.

  Meg nods, resolute. “And I will. But not yet. Movie?”

  “Can’t. I have to be home early since I’ll be out late tomorrow.” Ergh. I didn’t mean to say that.

  “What’s tomorrow? Did you grab another shift?”

  I hedge, taking my time fiddling with the satellite radio. I put on some new wave. “Ah, no. I’m headed downtown. For a show. Of sorts. With Luke Greenly?” I finish like it’s a question, and Meg is silent for a full minute. When I pull up to a light, I peek at her.

  “Luke Greenly?” she asks.

  “Y-yeah. Why do you say it like that?”

  “Why did you say it like that?”

  “I didn’t!” I insist.

  “Neither did I.”

  I roll my eyes, accelerating when the light turns green.

  “Is it a date?” she asks.

  “No!” I practically shout. “It’s for an assignment.”

  “Luke Greenly.”

  “Yeah. What?”

  She shrugs. “Fine. I’ll say it. Luke Greenly? The Luke Greenly? The one you’ve had a massive crush on since freshman year?”

  “What? What are you talking about? I have not!” My face burns, and I loosen my scarf, tossing it at her, and stab the Off switch on the heated seats.

  “Oh, so you don’t fall asleep to the sweet, soulful sounds of his voice?”

  Wow, do I regret telling her that. “It’s a soothing podcast.”

  “Okay, sure,” she says knowingly, wrapping my scarf around her neck and checking her reflection in the mirror. “Let’s get some Starbucks. I don’t want to come back empty-handed.”

  “You can’t avoid your mom forever,” I say. I head toward the farthest Starbucks in town, giving us a little more time.

  “And you can’t avoid your feelings for Luke. But I’m glad you’re hanging out. Even if it’s only homework,” she says, a too-knowing tone in her wording. “It’s about time you figure out what he’s really like.”

  I don’t say anything. She’s right even if I’m not ready to admit it.

  7

  LUKE

  Glancing at the clock for the hundredth time—Now I’m only fifteen minutes early—I finally turn off the car engine and check my phone compulsively before dropping it into the center console and rubbing my sweaty hands down my pant legs. This is only a homework assignment. Be cool, Luke. I walk up Vada’s driveway and rap a knuckle on the door before shoving my hands in my pockets. An older version of Vada answers the door. Youthful looking, but softer, as though through a slightly off-focus lens, and with wavy dark hair half pulled up off her smiling face.

  “Welcome, Luke! Come in!” She opens the door the rest of the way and reveals Vada behind her.

  “Hey, you’re early.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Mum’s rule. Show up early and always introduce yourself to parents.” I turn to Vada’s mom. “I’m Luke Greenly. Nice to meet you, Mrs.—uh—shite. Shoot. Carsewell?” I finish.

  “You started off well,” Vada quips, eyes dancing.

  “You are too cute,” her mom says, and my face is officially on fire. “Call me Mary. Everyone does. For the record, though, I go by Carsewell. Just easier.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Luke. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “You have?” I ask, surprised.

  “Of course, Vada’s always—”

  “Mom,” Vada interrupts. “We should go. Traffic.”

  “Another time,” Mary says with a wink. “Drive safe, Luke.”

  “Of course,” I say. “We’ll be back before eleven.”

  “Yes, you will,” she agrees mildly.

  Vada grabs a long scarf off a hook and winds it around her neck before settling a small bag across her body and flashing me a giddy grin.

  “Ready?”

  “Definitely.” We walk out into the cool, damp night. It’s been steadily staying lighter as the spring days grow longer, and the sun is coloring everything in an orange glow.

  I cross to the passenger side and hold open the door. Vada presses her lips together but doesn’t say anything. We get in the car, and I pass her my phone. “You can, um, play deejay, but it has to be from my playlist.”

  “Oooooh,” she teases. “You don’t trust me?”

  I tighten my hands on the wheel so she doesn’t see them shaking and attempt to casually exhale a slow breath before saying, in a (hopefully) offhand way, “More like my phone is hooked up to the Bluetooth. I’m afraid the most I can offer is whatever I already have.”

  Vada immediately starts scrolling, and the only sound over my speakers as we wind through the streets and out of her neighborhood is the
clicking of her browsing. Soon enough, she chooses some Barns Courtney and lowers her window a quarter of an inch.

  “Too warm?”

  “Not really,” she says, rolling her head to face me. “I just really love the smell of spring. I don’t know what you call it … unfrosting? It’s so clean and … wet.”

  “Melting?”

  “No. That feels mushy. I like unfrosting better.”

  I pry each finger off the wheel one at a time and try to flex them into relaxing. “I’m definitely not laughing at you—inside, of course—so as to be polite, because that makes no sense.”

  She slugs my arm and turns up the music. I hide my grin. Contact. Yes.

  We don’t say a whole lot after that, but it’s not uncomfortable. Vada’s content to choose music, and though I’ve relaxed my grip, I’ve got both hands on the wheel, driving exactly two over the suggested speed limit in the far-right lane the entire forty-five-minute ride into the city. I’m so focused, I barely notice she smells like citrus and how it makes my mouth water. Or how the early-evening sun sets her hair on fire.

  “Is it weird to drive on this side of the road?” Vada asks idly after choosing some Max Frost and fiddling with the bass before turning it down to a conversation level. The girl is goddamn meticulous when it comes to our travel soundtrack. Even if we can’t fully hear every song, she makes sure it’s played to the best of its ability.

  I shake my head. “Um, n-not really. Not for Cull and me, at any rate. We learned in America. In London, we mostly used public transport.”

  “But your parents?”

  I consider. “Maybe for my dad. My mum has dual citizenship. She’s half-and-half, born in California, raised in England. My grandparents are academics, so she spent a lot of her life traveling between the States and Britain. My dad, though, he was a fish out of water for a long time. Still can’t drink cold lager—says it hurts his sensitive Kingdom gums.”

  Vada snorts. “That’s funny. Phil thinks anything less than frozen is stale.”

  “Not fit for a pub life, then.”

  “I imagine not. Have you been to many pubs?”

  I lift a shoulder, careful to keep the wheel steady. “As a kid, yeah. My dad used to do some low-key touring when we were really little. Then, as his record label grew, he started taking us along sometimes to the more hole-in-the-wall venues. Especially if Mum was traveling.”

  “I’ve always wanted to travel,” Vada says dreamily. “Like, out of the States. I bought a passport with my first paycheck, but so far the farthest I’ve gotten is Windsor, right over the border.”

  “I’ve never been to Canada,” I offer.

  She grins. “It’s a lot like Detroit. But the money is prettier on the other side of the tunnel.”

  “I’ll have to check it out. So, what does your mum—uh, Mary—do?”

  Vada picks another song by lovelytheband, clearly feeling alternative tonight. “She’s a principal.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, elementary.”

  “I can see that. She’s probably everyone’s favorite.”

  Vada’s smile widens. “She is. She’s always late getting home from work because of former students who like to drop by. It’s maddening and awesome. She loves it. She’s been offered other positions in the superintendent’s office, but she won’t ever leave her kids. Actually, a position is opening up for a third-grade teacher at her school, and I think if it weren’t for me, she’d be tempted to take the demotion and have a classroom again.”

  “Don’t you want her to have a classroom?”

  Vada nods. “More than anything. But we need the money. Or I do anyway. For college.”

  “Ah. Is that, um, why you were meeting with your dad?”

  “Yeah. He’s got a solid job in insurance. But I turned eighteen last fall, and he couldn’t wait to stop paying child support. My mom has an account set aside for me. Education is, like, so important to her, obviously, and if I went in-state, it would be fine, but the music industry is out west, so that’s where I want to be. And California is massively expensive.”

  “Your dad’s not helping?” I ask. I’ve guessed some of this from the things Vada’s let slip while talking to Cullen, but it’s nice to get the full scoop. To see what makes Vada tick.

  “Marcus hates the idea of me working in music and doesn’t feel like he should owe me more money.”

  “But he’s still your dad,” I say. I can’t imagine my dad cutting me off at eighteen.

  “Only when it’s convenient,” she says. “He’ll literally say, ‘I have two kids,’ referring to my half sisters, and I’ll be standing, like, right there. Oh, this is our exit coming up.”

  I flip on my blinker. “That’s … extra shitty, Vada.”

  “Yeah. It’s not great.” She’s quiet a beat, and then, “You’re very cautious, Luke Greenly.”

  “What do you mean?” A semi in front of us eases on its brakes, and I slow back a few hundred yards.

  “Is this why you prefer your longboard? Are you afraid of the road?”

  “What?” I ask, distracted. “I’m not afraid of the road. I just like my board. Gives me time to think and some quiet away from Cullen.”

  “You drive more cautiously than my nan,” she muses.

  “Nans love me, I’ll have you know.”

  “I have no doubt. We’re gonna make a right off the exit. The venue is a little way down this road, so we should find some parking.”

  I fight the urge to laugh. “I know. You realize it was I who invited you, right?”

  “I remember. I just get excited.”

  “I couldn’t tell,” I say.

  “This is either going to be super weird or the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”

  “Both, I imagine.” I chance a look in her direction, and she is glowing. She’s so beautiful. I clear my throat. “Thanks for doing this. Even if it is super weird and you end up hating it, thanks for being willing to try. I’ve always wanted to give it another go, and I can’t imagine anyone else being adventurous enough.”

  She blushes, hiding her face in her hair. “I doubt I’ll hate it. Thanks for inviting me.”

  We pull into a paid lot where a guy waits outside a booth looking bored. “Ten for the night,” he says.

  I pass him a twenty and wait for change before pulling forward into a spot and cutting the engine.

  “Ready for the weirdest, coolest night of your life?”

  Vada flashes me a megawatt grin, vibrating with anticipation. “Absolutely. Bring on the awkwardness.”

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, we’re milling around on a concrete floor, surrounded by hundreds of people holding giant headphones and making small talk. When the overhead lights dim and the giant red stage lights come on, we’re supposed to plug in. We have these little dials with endless music to choose from.

  “I feel like an air traffic controller,” Vada says, testing out the headphones.

  “You look like one, but cuter,” I say without thinking, because I’m an idiot.

  She blinks and pulls one of the sides away from her ear. “Sorry, what?”

  “Nothing.”

  She leaves one side of the headphones hanging off and sticks the dial in her back pocket, appearing utterly natural in this setting. I say as much, and one side of her mouth lifts.

  “Dim lighting, loud music, heavy crowds, concrete. It’s very much my comfort zone.”

  I feel my lips curl to match. “Mine, too.”

  The lights dim, and I pull on my headphones, tugging out the dial and clicking through the options. There’s something super freeing about this. Like, no one knows what is pumping through my speakers. It’s the feeling of being all alone in a crowded room. I take a minute to look around. With the flashing lights, it’s hard to make out much, and that was before the fog machines started. The tiny hairs on my arms stand on end, and something inside of me burns with anticipation.

  I have no idea what I’m looki
ng for until I find it. Something to match the giddy feeling of being here, in this place, with her. Never in a million years would I choose this song if anyone were looking, but no one can judge me here.

  I let my eyes slip closed, and I can’t be still; the backbeat is too strong. I’m on my toes before I decide to move, and I’m jumping. Like, jumping, jumping. Up and down with my hands at my sides and my head banging around and my hair flailing, and it’s incredible. I don’t even listen to the lyrics. I just jump and jerk and shake. My shoulders drop, my breath sharpens, my pulse flies away, and it’s goddamn perfect. I’ve never felt so self-absorbed, and I can’t make myself care.

  It’s three songs before I open my eyes, remembering I’m not alone. I knew—felt—the subtle brush of strangers against my skin, but if they apologized or wanted me to, I couldn’t hear it. There’s no room for common courtesy in this place.

  As the song changes, I see her next to me.

  And wonder if this was a massive miscalculation on my part.

  Instead of an escape, the song blaring in my ear becomes my soundtrack. The voice is pleading, screaming for a girl to let him go—to have mercy and let him be free—as the gorgeous girl in front of me is spinning, whirling, sucking me in, and for what the fuck ever reason, doing it in inexplicable slow motion. The fog machines blur her features, but when she opens her eyes finally, they pierce my own, and I’m frozen, struck dumb and stupid.

  She beams a smile and grabs my hand and tugs me toward her. She does a slow spin under my arm, and my other hand finds her waist, prompting her to turn and draw out with our arms spread between us. She doesn’t let go, instead curling into me and fitting. The music in my ears slows, and I slow to match. She doesn’t object. Her arms find their way around my neck, and I rock us together. She closes her eyes, and her lashes flutter over the tiniest, most perfect constellation of freckles spread across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

  Well.

  That’s it.

  There’s absolutely no coming back from this. Science has shown, once you start noticing constellations in freckles, you’re fucked. I need to put a stop to this before I do something mental like press a kiss to her bare shoulder or spout the lyrics to “Anna Begins.” (Which, by the way, is the best of Adam Duritz’s decades-long collection of works.)