More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,31

it’s good. Really good.”

“I’ve never thought of it like that. Is that how you write your reviews?”

“Oh no,” she says. “I’m veeeery professional and calculated when I blog.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“One eye-closer gets a mention,” she interrupts, grinning and holding up one finger. “Two eye-closers and I’m forever your girl.”

I laugh. “That is awful scientific.”

“Am I wrong, though?” she asks, her brown eyes twinkling in the flashing lights of the stage.

“No,” I admit. “You’re not. That’s accurate.”

“So, I don’t think I’ve ever asked … I’m assuming you play an instrument?”

“Piano since I was little. But once I decided I wouldn’t be pursuing music, I stopped taking lessons. My dad was not thrilled.”

“Ohhhh,” she says, grinning wickedly. “I bet you broke his heart.”

“You’d think,” I say lightly. “Consequently, he sort of hates the podcast.”

“Really?”

I affect my dad’s rough Cockney accent. “If’n yer not gonna use yer gift, don’t be fuckin’ with the podcast jes ter rub it in yer dad’s mug.”

Vada’s eyes widen. “But you’re with Cullen!”

“True, but Cullen can’t carry a tune. Believe me, if he could…”

“Oh, I believe you,” Vada says, her eyes crinkling.

“So”—I hold out a hand and let it fall to my side—“I will always disappoint my father, who is left saying things like, ‘I love both of my sons equally, but Cullen a little more.’”

Vada gasps. “He does not.”

“He does!” I insist. “He’s mostly kidding. I think. If it wasn’t for my mum’s insistence that I’m her best chance at blond grandbabies, I’d be sunk. Saved by the gonads.”

“Saved by the gonads,” she repeats gleefully. “That should be on a T-shirt.”

“I have one,” I deadpan. “Etsy.”

“You don’t!”

“I don’t.”

“You know, Cullen could always find a blond surrogate one day. Your gonads aren’t as precious as you think.”

“Well,” I consider. “That’s … true. Damn it, Carsewell.”

“Sorry.”

“Such a ballbuster.”

Her eyes widen, and she giggles. I’m not usually very funny. Is it possible someone can make you funny?

The band wraps up their set, and Vada yells for last call before they can return for a three-song encore.

We won’t technically shoo anyone out after the show, but it’s after 11:00 when Vada asks Kazi to raise the house lights to nudge people toward the doors. Kazi’s girlfriend, Tess, shows up to drive him home, and she helps wipe down tables and clean up trash off the floor while Vada and I straighten the bar and run the dishwashers so everything is ready to go in the morning. The band came up afterward, and Vada paid them and thanked them for coming, and I went to clear out the backstage area. The waters and Jägermeister were definitely appreciated.

Not bad for a couple of teenagers.

We leave everything in a reasonable state. Vada says Phil will be in tomorrow before opening with a janitorial crew to mop the floors and clean the bathrooms. She divvies the tips between the three of us and locks everything else in a safe in Phil’s office.

Kazi and Tess take off, and so does a security guard, leaving us with the other. He doesn’t speak, hasn’t all night, but as we’re walking out, Vada says, “Night, Mike! Thanks for the escort.” And he waves. He waits in his car until we pull out, so Vada doesn’t tarry, even though her car is freezing.

“Sorry, Mike’s got little ones at home. I don’t like making him stay out any later than usual. When Phil closes, he leaves at the end of the show. He only stayed for me. Or, well, us.”

“No worries,” I say. “Warmer than boarding.”

Vada huffs into her fingers before reaching into the console. “I think my mom keeps a pair of her driving gloves in here…” She pulls out a pair of skinny pleather gloves and tugs them on, flexing her fingers at the stoplight. “Not much better, to be honest.”

I reach into my bag. “Here, try these.” I pass her a couple of knit mittens with fleecy lining.

“Oh my gosh,” she murmurs. “These are the warmest ever.”

“I know. My mum found them. They’re a bit … colorful … but I don’t care.”

Vada rubs her hands together, holding the mittens to her face. “Totally miraculous. Thank you. I need to get some of these.”

“I’m on the west side,” I say.

“Hm?”

“I live on the west side, off Huron.”

“Oh! God. Sorry. I wasn’t even … I was just going home. Autopilot.”

We sit in companionable silence. I’m exhausted, and my feet kind of hurt from standing so long, and I feel like I could sink into the heated