More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,4
me to take over production of one of the shows during our annual concert series, Liberty Live.
All because my dream is music journalism. You know those reporters who follow musicians around on tour and get the inside scoop and create lists of the top artists of all time and whatever else? That’s my passion. I was made for it. I’ve already been accepted into the music journalism program at UCLA, but I need more. Everyone in California was born into the industry. I need a leg up.
Phil and Liberty Live are my in. It would be easier if the sperm donor in my life would help with the loans, but I can’t even get the guy to tip when he spends all afternoon with his worthless butt on one of our stools.
Phil’s watching the dance floor with glassy eyes. It’s been a long weekend, and by Sunday night, we’re all tired.
“Go on. Me and Ben got this. I’ll drop in before I head home.” We both know I mean I’ll wake him before I take off, since he’s dead on his feet and has an old, cracked leather couch in his office begging him for a nap.
Phil yawns into his elbow and ruffles my hair. “If Kazi’s not here in thirty minutes, let me know. I’ll fire him. For real this time. And don’t you be taking any more of his shit.”
“I don’t mind—”
His eyes narrow behind his glasses. “Uh-huh. Don’t think I didn’t notice how relieved you were to be needed here. I appreciate it, but you can’t hide forever. Your mom is going to want to make sure you’re okay after this afternoon.”
Phil closes his office door behind him just as a door in the back opens, and a few beats later, Cullen Greenly saunters up, leaning in the spot Phil vacated.
“Greenly.”
“Carsewell,” he says.
“What’s the topic tonight?” Cullen and his brother, Luke, rent Phil’s sound booth to record their weekly podcast, The Grass Is Greenly, in return for advertising. It’s a pretty good gig, in all honesty. The sound booth sits vacant the rest of the week, and the podcast has really caught on with college students in the last six months, bringing a younger crowd in for our shows.
“Remember the viral video of the kiss-cam couple at the Pistons game where the woman kissed the mascot instead?”
“Vaguely.”
“That.”
I grin. “You’re gonna fill fifty minutes with that?” I can’t say I’ve ever understood talk radio.
Cullen scratches nonexistent scruff. “Usually do. We’ll layer in the rest with my brother’s latest dating disaster and a bit of nonsense filler using our ‘disgustingly hot British accents.’”
It’s embarrassing, but he’s not wrong.
My phone buzzes, and I leave Cullen to Ben, who’s meandered over to show off his new beard balm, probably.
MEG
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$I know you won’t get this until after, but I’m sending you good vibes for the father-daughter talk $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
I inwardly groan. Speaking of too pure for this world. Meg would offer grace to Trump.
VADA
Save your vibes. It’s off.
MEG
Oh, man, really? Tell me he didn’t forget! You’ve been planning this for over a month.
VADA
More like he showed up three hours early.
MEG
NO! Again?
VADA
Again.
MEG
Are you still at work?
VADA
For a bit. Waiting on Kazi’s sorry organic ass to show up.
MEG
I’ll be at your place in thirty. New epi of America’s Funniest tonight. Chinese or Mexican?
I grin. One of Meg’s best qualities is how well she can read a situation. I don’t need to rehash the shitty afternoon, and I don’t feel like a hug. What I need is food and AFV.
VADA
Chelas. Extra hot sauce, please.
MEG
You got it, babe.
I slip my phone back in my pocket, and the door opens again, causing my heart to flip-flop in my chest. Luke Greenly walks in, looking wet and harried and straight from my nerdiest daydreams, carrying his longboard under his arm and a cardboard coffee cup in his hand. Luke and Cullen aren’t identical twins. Cullen is tall and wiry with dark hair. Luke’s broad shouldered and fair with longish pale blond hair, currently plastered to his forehead despite the hoodie under his black leather jacket. He’s also got light gray-blue eyes behind bold black frames, contrasting his twin’s un-spectacled dark brown ones. Yet somehow, when they’re together, they look the same. They move in a similar way. And, yeah, their accents are yummy.
(I would never, ever admit it, but I play their podcast recordings before bed. Luke’s voice is extra soothing. Deep, lyrical, and crisp.)
The owner of those golden vocals approaches, and I duck, prodding at my nearly empty