More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,19

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 looking 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.)

The song changes, and thankyouchrist