More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,12
represent the downfall of emotional health,” I say because I am awkward and decidedly nervous about being alone with Luke. “Like, if I don’t want to face something, which is pretty much always, I just”—I motion to the little toggle on the wire connecting the earbuds—“turn it up. So loud I can’t hear myself think.”
He nods, wavy blond wisps falling across his black frames. He tucks them behind his ear, but they only slip back out. “Ah.”
My words tumble over one another, to fill the silence. “Of course, sometimes I don’t know what I really feel until I hear it sung. Have you ever heard that Flora Cash song? ‘You’re Somebody Else’? Like, obviously they aren’t singing about me. They’ve never met me. But it feels like they’re talking about me. I can pretend they are anyway, and before I know it, I’m crying into my Gatorade”—I wave the bottle in my hand—“and questioning my self-image.”
He blinks, no doubt overwhelmed by my verbal essay, but recovers, clearing his throat.
“I have heard it, actually. That line about seeing someone in a way they won’t until they are older, right?”
“Hm?” Now I’m the one struck dumb.
He shakes his head, his long fingers tapping. “At least … that’s the part that … erm … struck me.”
My mind catches up, and my stomach unclenches a little. “Yeah. It’s like everything you would hope for—” I almost say in love but cut off in time. It’s not like I know anything about that anyway, with my zero boyfriends.
He shoves at his lenses with his long fingers and tucks his free hand back into his pocket, and I realize I’m still holding his earbud, music beating out a tinny rhythm between us.
I hold it out and he takes it, rolling it up carefully and stowing it away in his pocket.
“They’re my mum’s,” he explains, changing the subject, thank God. “I lost my wireless ones somewhere on Fourth Street.”
“Hazard of boarding, I imagine.”
He glances down at the longboard at his hip. It’s covered in rainbow stickers in growing obnoxiousness. The one on top is a giant unicorn with rainbows shining out of its butt. His cheeks turn red, and he drops the board with a clatter and clears his throat.
“Ah, that’s Cullen. His idea of a joke. Not that it’s a joke. I mean, I fully support … obviously. It’s just … well, the unicorns are a bit … erm … over the top. One night while I was sleeping, Cullen snuck into my bedroom and covered it in rainbow stickers.”
“Naturally.”
“It’s fine. I mean, I don’t love the unicorn arse, and just now, seeing it through your eyes, it’s a bit humiliating but—”
“I love it.”
He winces. “Really?”
“Really,” I say, charmed by this kid who is so self-unaware. I clear my throat, remembering I need to get to work soon. “So, you want to collaborate?”
“Yeah.” He peers out through his frames, his cheeks still splotchy, and I wonder if I make him nervous. It’s probably just the cold. “Is that okay?”
It is now. “Oh, sure,” I say, trying to play it cool.
His face visibly relaxes, and it’s fascinating. “Brilliant.”
“I don’t really know how to go about this,” I start. “I’ve never collaborated before, and I don’t really dance.”
“I thought you moved marvelously,” he says, and I feel my face burn despite the icy wind funneling around the corner of the building.
“Thanks.”
He cringes, and this time he’s the one babbling. “I meant that in a completely not creepy way. I just … You seem to really feel the music, and that’s how I tend to write, so I thought we might be a good match. But I totally get it if you prefer to work solo. You probably already have a song picked out. You’re like this musical savant, and I’m still learning, but I’d like to try.” He seems relieved as he finishes, even capping it off with a little affirmative nod as if congratulating himself. Smooth, we are not.
“I’m willing to give it a shot if you are. When do you want to meet?”
His face is alight with relief, and I bite back a wistful sigh. “Sunday, before you work?” he suggests. “We could meet at the library. Or the mall. Someplace we can listen to music together.”
“How about the club? I have keys. Phil won’t mind me coming in early. That way, we’ll have a quiet space to work.”
“What time?”
“One thirty?”
“Perfect.”
“Speaking of work,” I say, regretful and grateful I need to leave, “I have to go.