More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn

1

LUKE

Spring rains, my arse. I shrug in my leather jacket, trying to simultaneously make my coat longer and myself smaller.

Growing up in London, you’d think I’d be immune to rain. You’d be wrong. Michigan in March is shite. I shift my longboard to my other hand and bury my fist in my pocket, working to get the feeling back in my fingers.

I should have called my brother for a ride, but I was downtown with Zack working on our English project at the library, and I’ve been itching to longboard since the weather started to thaw. It was barely a trickle when I left, swerving my way down the massive hill toward the club. But within minutes, I was huddled under a bus shelter, pouring rain beating down around me.

My phone buzzes, and I tug it out, willing my digits to work. I balance my board between my hip and the corner of the shelter, using the damp toe of my Converse high-tops to hold it in place. Someone next to me squeaks when I bump them with my backpack. “Bugger,” I mutter. “So sorry.”

I tap my screen.

CULLEN

Have you left yet?

I roll my eyes at my brother, composing something snarky in my head before tapping out:

LUKE

Yeah, but I’m stuck in the rain.

CULLEN

Where?

I wipe at my fogged-up glasses and squint, trying to read the sign. Useless. I turn to the college-aged girl I’d accidentally knocked into.

“Excuse me, what’s the cross street here? Bloody can’t see a thing.”

Her face does this comical annoyed-to-charmed thing that happens when most people hear my accent. I know it, and I use it. I’m not ashamed.

“Oh em gee. You’re British, right? We’re at University and Huron. I love—”

“I am. Thanks very much.” I cut her off. Which is rude, I know. But desperate times and all that.

LUKE

University and Huron.

CULLEN

Want me to come get you?

I think about it. I have no idea when the next bus comes or where it’s headed. The rain has me disoriented.

“Hold on, you look super familiar. Do I know you?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, the bus shelter feeling suddenly smaller. Two people sitting on the bench glance up from their phone screens.

“I don’t know,” I hedge. “Probably not.”

“Maybe something about your voice?”

“Maybe,” I start before she gasps theatrically, her hand going to her chest, where the symbols of some sorority dangle off a gold chain nestled between the layers of her Ravenclaw scarf.

“You’re Luke Greenly. The Grass Is Greenly! I thought I recognized your accent, but it’s the hair, too. I follow you on Insta!”

“Ah.” I scramble for more words, but all I can come up with is, “Thanks.”

“I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Lindsay,” she says.

“That’s…” Jesus. This. This is why I’d told Cullen I didn’t want to do Instagram. “Thanks,” I repeat dumbly.

A car honks out of nowhere, startling us. My board clatters to the ground. Through the murky shelter, I see my best mate’s familiar red Jeep Wrangler and give a sigh of relief.

Perfect timing.

“Sorry, I have to go!” I shout, grabbing up my board and dashing out into the rain before she can say more. I tug open the door of Zack’s car and swiftly shut it behind me.

“Thank Christ,” I say. I take off my glasses and unzip my coat so I can wipe down the lenses on something dry. “Did Cull call you?”

“Nah,” Zack says, flipping his blinker and pulling out into traffic. “After you left, I heard the rain beating against the roof and figured you were dumb enough to skate. And sure enough…”

His phone vibrates, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “There’s Cullen, I bet.”

“You’re a pair.”

“And you are welcome,” he says in a singsongy voice.

“Thank you,” I say, more sincerely. “You saved me from a sorority girl.”

He tsks, turning down Liberty and coming to a stop at a light. Even in the monsoon, hordes of bicyclers in full-bodied neon rain suits swoosh by in front of us at top speed. Typical Ann Arbor.

“She said she was sorry about Lindsay.”

His dark brows join in the middle as he looks at me. “Huh. Did you know her?”

I adjust my board between my legs. “Nope.”

His lips twitch.

“Laugh it up. Har har.”

“I told you Lindsay was bad news.”

“Barely. If I remember, you said, ‘You need a girlfriend, Luke.’”

“But I also said, ‘Not that one; she’s thirsty.’”

I grunt. “I thought that would work in her favor. At least in your eyes. You seem under the impression I’m a monk.”

“You are.”

“Just because I’m not in a