More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,27

one, it’s never about me, and two, he means I would be too far away to babysit.

That’s some bullshit, if you ask me.

I turn up AJR’s “Sober Up” and tuck my earbuds carefully under my stocking hat. My feet pound the sidewalk with the increasing beat, but I draw my breaths in long and deep. Inhale through my nose and exhale through my mouth, pursing my lips.

The wind picks up, cooling my flushed face and the wetness on my cheeks. I swipe my tears away, determined not to give him a second more of my time.

I repeat my five-year plan like a mantra cycling in my brain. Work for Phil. Take over Behind the Music. Acceptance into UCLA’s prestigious music journalism program. Check, check, and check.

My next step is the most vital.

It’s been years in the making. Every summer, Ann Arbor holds a free lunchtime weekly concert series that has an enormous local following. Phil is like some kind of psychic wizard when it comes to predicting talent, and I’ve been studying under him for years, spending hours talking radio and music and genres, and I’m ready for more responsibility at the club.

This is it.

Athletes spend hours training their bodies to withstand competition. Scholars spend their days with their noses in books, absorbing knowledge in their chosen field. I’ve done the same in my own way. Music is my obsession, my life’s blood. It runs through my veins, coloring my skin. My natural inclination is to rock, but that’s not enough if I want to make music my career.

I listen to the greats, the not-so-greats, the once-had-potential-to-be-greats, and the will-be-greats. I memorize lyrics, listen to podcasts, read biographies, and correct Wikipedia pages.

Every waking minute I’m not doing stuff for school, I’m at the Loud Lizard absorbing it all. It’s better than any internship. It’s the real life down and literally dirty. It doesn’t matter if my dad gives me money for school. The experience is what they want.

No, the dad part is just for me. Phil says to give him a chance, and I’m working up to it. It’s like this dance of simultaneously hoping he won’t fuck this up and knowing he probably will and that it’s going to hurt like hell when he does.

But I have to know. I can’t leave here not knowing. Which is stupid because logically, he should be the one having this constant inner pep talk, and he’s not.

My mom’s church was having this whole series on forgiveness, and I tried to follow it. For her. Turn the other cheek and all that. Except I’m turning my cheek so much, I’m set to spin. How do you forgive someone who doesn’t think they’ve done anything wrong?

* * *

After school the next day, I get to work on the next part of my plan, the one that ends with me flying solo on Liberty Live. I talked my mom’s ear off over dinner at our favorite Ethiopian place, hashing and rehashing all the details, and we agreed everything starts with Phil (boss Phil, not her boyfriend, who happens to be my boss, Phil).

At exactly 4:00 p.m., I knock on Phil’s office door.

“Vada,” he says, peering at me over his smudged bifocals. “You don’t need to knock. You texted two minutes ago from the parking lot.”

I pull out the chair opposite his desk. Mustard-yellow stuffing is spewing out the cracked fake leather, and the metal is so rusted the wheels creak when you move it—like someone used it for an office chair beach race years ago. Knowing Phil, they did. I perch on the edge, straightening my mom’s button-down. My mom said it gave me a professional edge. I think it makes me look like an exasperated server in a Tide commercial, but whatever. Phil removes his frames, his eyebrows twitching as he takes me in.

“What can I help you with, Vada?”

My hands feel weird. Like, what even are arms? What do I do with them? I settle them in my lap. I want to check my phone for no practical reason.

Phil’s expression straight-up says he thinks I’m having a stroke.

I clear my throat. “Here’s the thing,” I say. “I’ve been working at the Loud Lizard for two years.”

He nods for me to continue.

“Well, you should give me a closing shift. As a manager. To, you know, manage.”

He leans back, resting his hands across his well-earned belly. He’s wearing his favorite gas station shirt today. The one that reads Phil’s 550 and has Bud Light and