More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,2

do. Endearing,” he clarifies, “but weird. My point is, maybe tone that down around girls.”

I wouldn’t need to for her, I think but don’t say. He smirks.

“Or,” he adds. “Stop playing around with girls who don’t know who Adam Duritz is and”—he turns his gaze meaningfully toward the club—“ask out the one who does.”

“I don’t mention Adam Duritz that much,” I grumble. “I mean, yeah, he’s talented as fuck, but—”

“Don’t care. Get out.” Zack shoos at the door. “Don’t forget the latte.”

I grab the drink, and my free hand finds the door handle, pushing it open. I grapple for my board, dropping it to the ground. “Thanks for the ride.” I flip up my hood and hook my backpack over my shoulders while trying not to drop the drink.

“You’re welcome, sweetums!” he shouts as I slam the door in his face and push off into the rain.

2

VADA

Is it actually murder if it’s a coworker? Like, is there some kind of fine-print situation for that? Because I’m gonna kill Kazi. That hippie-dippy granola brain should be the one dealing with the drunk coeds pretending they know how to skank to the latest Interrupters song, but no. He had to pick up an extra shift at Whole Foods, and I’m stuck here on a Sunday night, cleaning something sticky off the perpetually sticky concrete floor.

“Oops! Shit! Vada, sorry!”

I stand, rolling my shoulder and glaring at one of the regulars. But taking in his bloodshot eyes and loose grin, I decide it’s pointless to gripe.

“No problem. I’m in the way.” Technically.

He starts waving his arms in circles over his head like one of those garden pinwheels and kicks out his feet in a disjointed beat. “Come on, Vada! Dance with me, darlin’!”

“Not now, buddy!” I try to smile. Fucking Kazi. I sidestep the group of terrible skankers and dodge a few guys failing at making a mosh pit before ducking under a drink tray and sliding behind the bar. I slap the dingy gray rag full of germs and sour beer into a bucket of lukewarm bleach water and scrub my hands in the small employee sink.

“Vada, I thought you’d left!” Bearded Ben is my favorite bartender. He’s a student at the University of Michigan and has wholly embraced the lumbersexual look. Like, he’s shown me his facial wax collection, and it’s ridiculous. Tonight, he’s curled the edges of his mustache Captain Hook–style, and I’m having a hard time looking anywhere else.

I sidle up to him and start to fill a plastic cup with my usual snack of maraschino cherries. “I thought so, too,” I say, tugging out the beverage gun and filling my cherry cup with lemonade. I prod it with a skinny straw and spear one of the cherries before popping it in my mouth.

“Kazi?”

I nod.

“Don’t you have a dance or something tonight?”

I make a face around the fruit. “Dinner with Marcus.”

“Ah,” he says, deftly flicking the caps off two bottles and sliding them down the dinged-up bar toward a couple.

“No biggie. Just my future.” Except my dad did show up today. Three hours ago. But not to discuss FAFSA forms. To drink and cause a ruckus. You know, typical Sunday-afternoon shenanigans. Poor Ben had the privilege of cutting him off. It went splendidly, thanks for asking.

Ben twists his mustache and takes a moment to reroll his flannel sleeves up his hairy forearms.

“Sorry,” I say. “I made it awkward.” He shakes his head, but I cut him off. “I did. It’s okay. I was being dramatic. Marcus cares about two things,” I explain, ticking my fingers. “Free booze and making Phil look bad.” I drop my hands, shrugging. “My dream of college in California and I aren’t even on his radar.”

I know he wants to say something, but Ben’s a trust fund kid. He works here purely for the aesthetic and because sometimes our boss, Phil, lets his bluegrass band play a set when we have last-minute cancels.

“That’s bullshit, Vada, I’m sorry,” he finally says before going to take another drink order. I feel my lips roll up, warmed by his cussing. It’s like when my best friend, Meg, lets one slip. They both try so hard not to swear because of their personal beliefs, so when one of them does let a fuck out, it feels earned.

Still, I want to pout about my asshole dad for a little longer, so I do. I grab a fresh rag, wiping down some tables and scrubbing a little more vigorously than the lazy