More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,22

handle it. It’s the horns.”

“You don’t like horns?”

“In moderation, I love them. But there’s something about ska that makes everything feel greasy and dirty.”

He raises a brow. “Do tell.”

“It’s like … day-old, tepid pizza slices and flat pop.”

“Interesting. Do you do this word association thing with all music?”

I grin. “Honestly, I have no idea. Try me.”

“Opera.”

“Blue velvet and icicles. Hot chocolate. Lace cuffs. Fillet.”

“Okay, too easy. Singers and songwriters of the ’70s.”

I press my lips together. “Scrambled eggs, moccasins, and espresso.”

“Two thousands’ screamo.”

“Black licorice, bondage pants, the smell of Sharpies, and broken glass.”

He settles back, his arms folding across his chest. “Bluegrass.”

“Dusty denim, carrot cake, strawberry Kool-Aid, and sunshine yellow.”

“Eighties hip-hop.”

For a minute, I’m stumped. “Gold chains…” He smirks, and I hold up a finger. “Silence, peasant.” I close my eyes, milking it, and roll my neck on my shoulders. “Gold chains, Dr. Pepper, miniskirt, Adidas.”

“Get the fuck out of here,” he says, smiling. “How is it possible you are right?”

I spread my hands in an “I just am” gesture and pretend to flip my hair, even though it’s in a knot on the top of my head.

The server returns with our food just in time to distract me from the things that Luke’s sparkling eyes are doing to my insides.

“Okay, extra credit,” he says, swallowing a bite of cheeseburger. “Grilled cheese is what genre?”

“Psh,” I say. “Sixties beach party, obviously.”

“You think they ate grilled cheese on the beach?”

I shake my head, swallowing the melty deliciousness that is buttered Texas toast and American cheese. “Of course not. That’s not how it works. The actual paraphernalia is irrelevant. It’s the feeling you get, Greenly. Like, the aesthetic or whatever. It’s not rocket science. Just your gut. Try one.”

“Fine. Give it to me.”

I feel the smile pulling on my lips. “Punk rock.”

He groans. “I walked into that one, didn’t I?” He takes a sip of coffee, wipes his hands on his napkin, and straightens. “Punk rock, to me,” he clarifies, and I wave him to go on, “is blackout curtains, sawdust, worn trainer bottoms, warm beer, and cold concrete.”

I narrow my eyes, tilting my head to the side. “Is that punk rock or your dad?” I immediately move to apologize, but he surprises me.

“Both. Naturally. Can’t have one without the other, I’m afraid.”

“Fair enough.”

“Did I pass the test?”

“With flying colors,” I say, feeling unsettled. I hadn’t expected Luke to reveal so much. Maybe he didn’t mean to, but he has.

“Now,” he says, picking up his burger, “if we were talking about my brother, we’d have to go with his all-time favorite glam rock and call it: rainbow, glitter, nachos, and Zack.”

“Too easy,” I agree. “Was Zack your friend first or Cullen’s—?”

“Soul mate?” he offers.

I feel my cheeks heat, but I don’t know why. “Sure.”

“Mine first. By like two months.”

“And how’s that?”

“Sharing my best friend with my twin?”

I nod.

He releases a long sigh. “Usually a nonissue. Zack is good at compartmentalizing. When he’s with me, he’s my best friend. When he’s with Cullen, he’s my best friend. He’s just also in love with my brother. Thank God it was returned, or it would have been very uncomfortable.”

“Do you ever worry about that?”

“About them breaking up?” He shrugs. “Not really. I can’t see a world where they wouldn’t be together, honestly.”

“So, it’s not odd for you at all, ever?”

“Oh, it’s definitely odd at times—like when they, uh, you know.” He coughs. “Consummated things.”

I snort. “I forget you’re British until you say something like ‘consummate’ instead of ‘sex.’”

“Yeah. Well. That got weird. Not that they meant it to, but they both wanted to talk about it to me since I am both the twin and the best friend.”

“Together?” I gasp.

“No! God, no. Not at the same time. I don’t think they even know they did it, which is sort of the issue. They confide in me and live in denial that they both might be doing it.”

“Maybe they need to find a new person.”

“Probably,” he agrees, dragging a french fry through ketchup. “I imagine they will next year when I leave for college.”

“Who do you confide in?”

He screws up his face, making his glasses bob on the bridge of his nose. He nudges them with a knuckle. “Yeah. That’s the issue. Zack. I mean, it’s not like I have a whole lot of secrets.” His ears turn pink at the tops, and he clears his throat. “But if I do, I have to tell someone not in my family because it usually has something to