More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,1

sickeningly healthy, committed relationship at the moment doesn’t mean I’m celibate.”

He snorts. “Aren’t you?”

“Not totally,” I complain.

“Yeah,” he says dryly, turning down a side street. “I saw.”

I rub my face in my hands, knocking my glasses off course and readjusting them. A week ago, my ex-girlfriend secretly recorded us making out and posted the highlights in her Instagram story.

Which I didn’t even know was a thing until there it was. I woke to a hundred comments and a pit in my stomach. We ended on far-too-amicable terms, which she tearfully posted about the following day.

Cullen thought it was hilarious and good press for the podcast, of course.

“In my defense, I assumed you would go after—”

“Don’t,” I cut him off.

His fingers tap on the steering wheel.

“You haven’t told my brother, have you?”

He glances at me. “No. I swear. I told you I wouldn’t, and I won’t.”

I sink back into my seat, grimacing at the cold drips still easing down the back of my neck.

“But you’ve been doing this pining thing for-the-fuck-ever. Have you even introduced yourself yet?”

“Like, formally?” I ask. “We’ve talked. Sort of. She knows who I am.”

“Does she? You sure about that? Or does she know who Cullen is and therefore knows you’re the other twin?”

“Wow,” I say. “Wow. Just because you fell madly in love with Cull the second you met him and forgot for a solid ten minutes his twin was your best mate doesn’t mean everyone else does.”

Zack shrugs, flashing an easy grin. “You could have them falling at your feet just as easily, you know. If you could drop the sullen artist act for a night.”

“What sullen artist act?”

He doesn’t respond, turning in to the cramped parking lot of the Starbucks next to the Loud Lizard, where we record our show.

He points to his phone. “Cull asked us to pick something up.”

“Green tea latte?” I ask, amused. “I’m not ordering this time. He’s your boyfriend.”

“He’s your brother. You share DNA.”

“Yeah, but you share—”

He holds up a hand and unclicks his seat belt. “Enough. I’ll do it. But he’s getting full fat, and I don’t want to hear it when he’s a whiny bitch about calories.”

“I’ll take a cake pop,” I try.

“Fuck off.”

I watch as Zack runs through the rain. “Love is catching the flu to order an overpriced, high-calorie beverage for your boyfriend,” I say under my breath, digging out my phone.

I scroll through my Instagram, immediately deleting and blocking Lindsay. I can’t undo the damage, but I can stop it from perpetuating. I’m not a monk, but Zack and Cullen are right. I barely date. And this mess is exactly why.

Well, okay. It’s part of the reason. The rest is far more complicated.

I skim through the row of pictures, barely taking them in. They aren’t who I’m looking for, until—there’s the one.

It’s an anonymous shot. In the foreground, a plastic cup of cherries in some sort of mixed drink. In the background, a jukebox. Underneath, it reads, Cherry, cherry, chick-a-cherry Cola-*chef kiss*-BTM #sundayafternoon #damntheman #behindthemusicblog

My fingers hover in reply for a full minute. I almost respond at least twice a day. But responding on Insta would require me to open a whole new anonymous account, and that would be akin to admitting I’m lurking.

Which is why I don’t follow her private account, only her blog one. It’s a privilege I haven’t earned.

Instead, I scroll Twitter and answer a few podcast questions until Zack returns, shaking out his sandy hair like a wet puppy. A six-foot-three point guard of a puppy.

“What act?” I ask, not willing to drop the previous conversation.

He sighs, long suffering, and plops the steaming cardboard cup in the center console. I see Cullen’s name scratched in black Sharpie, followed by nonfat / no whip marked under preferences, and a knowing smile crosses my lips. We’re barely three months apart, but when it comes to relationship stuff, Zack acts a decade older. Like his relationship with my brother ages him in golden retriever years.

“Look,” he says, “you’re going to be late. It’s not a big deal. I happen to be very impressed by your artsy side. It’s gonna make you millions one day. But you do realize not everyone knows who Adam Duritz is? And that’s not a bad thing.”

“I never said it was,” I protest.

He glares.

“You know who he is,” I hedge, petulant.

“Because you’ve beat me over the head with his lyrics since the first day we sat together at lunch. At the time, I thought it was super weird. Still