More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,13
But I’ll see you then?”
He beams, nudging his frames so I’m gifted a clear shot of his gray-blue eyes. “See you then.”
* * *
It’s not a date or anything, this arrangement Luke and I have to meet up at the Loud Lizard. Alone. Or whatever. But it feels strangely loaded. Not as loaded as it might if we met at one of our houses, but I still feel the need to show up fifteen minutes early and, like, clean or something. Which is ridiculous because the club is covered in decades of grime that, according to Phil, speaks to the character of the place.
I peel open the blinds that face the back of the building to allow light in and turn on the real lights, the ones we rarely use since no one wants a brightly lit bar. If you want to see your date in halogen lighting, Phil says, take them to Walmart. We don’t do that shit here. We’re in the business of dark corners.
When I ask him in my cheekiest tone what happens in dark corners, he likes to ruffle my hair and tells me to ask my mom.
I glance at my phone. Twelve minutes. I jump behind the bar and pull a couple of glasses out of the dishwasher, placing them on a rubber mat, faceup. I dig around in the fridge and remove the cling wrap from a container of cherries left over from last night, still marinating in their pink maraschino juice, and scoop out a generous handful. I dump them in my cup before filling it with lemonade and dropping in a decorative sword.
Ten minutes.
I wish I knew what Luke likes. I could have it ready for him. Maybe I can guess based on what I know, though it’s admittedly not much. Punk-rock dad and composition class and gay twin brother. That feels a lot like things I know around him and not about him.
“Car Radio” song, though, I think, and Flora Cash. That alone tells me so much. I fill a glass with ice and water and throw in a lemon slice before moving to the modernized jukebox in the corner. I plug it in and tap around the screen looking for something in particular. As the front door opens, sending a miniature cold front into the air, I hit Play on Oasis’s “Wonderwall.” An oldie, but I think any respectable Brit would recognize the gesture.
Luke doesn’t disappoint. His face lights up, and he bobs his head a little. He clears his throat. “There are two kinds of Brits: team Noel and everyone who’s wrong.”
I blush. “When I was younger, I had a crush on Liam.”
He raises his pale brows.
“It’s not my fault! My mom was a massive fan. She poisoned my mind against Noel and his unibrow.”
He shakes his head, pretending to reconsider coming in, and I choke out a giggle. It’s unsettling; I haven’t giggled in a decade. He sits down at the bar in front of the water, pulling out a notebook and pen.
“Wow, are you really going to compose in front of me?”
“Definitely not. I’ve never done this with someone else. Actually, if you could not tell Cullen about this, that would be great. My family doesn’t exactly know I’m still writing music.”
That gives me pause. I sit down next to him, pulling my cup of cherries close.
“Still?”
He busies himself with his notebook, flipping pages until he finds a clean one. “Yeah. It’s … complicated. My dad would love nothing more than for me to follow in his footsteps, and I would love nothing less.”
“Not a fan of punk music?”
He pulls a face. “Not exactly. I like some. My dad was brilliant. I’m just not one for putting something out there for the world to judge.”
“A purist?”
“Something like that.” He grimaces. “That makes me sound stuck-up. I don’t mean that, necessarily. It’s like, all of a sudden, something you’ve worked so hard on becomes cheap. It turns into a judgment of you rather than the words. You had a crush on Liam Gallagher, for example. Was it his songwriting or his vocals or—”
“Definitely thought he was cute,” I say.
“Right,” he says, uncomfortable. “Look, I sound like a prick. I know that. I used to sing. Like at family parties and stuff. My dad would set me up on the piano in the backyard, and it was like this source of pride for him. He has loads of contacts in the industry, and they were all ready to sign