More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,41
go.
I’ve had the song in my head for a while, but it wasn’t until that class, and then at the silent disco—until I saw the way Vada moved, her shape backlit by the streaming, pulsing lights—that everything clicked into place.
I can’t get the picture out of my brain.
(I suspect I will die with it on my eyelids.)
Something inside of me came alive that first day in the studio, and it’s been growing and stretching free ever since. Every time I happen across Vada in the hallway at school. Every shift we work together, when she laughs at my inane jokes. Every song she sends, revealing tiny pieces of her that I’m not sure anyone else gets to see.
I hadn’t realized how much she’d gotten to me until the words began pouring out, my stomach clenching more and more with each line. This can’t be good. This is exactly why I’ve been okay with reading blogs and friendly smiles from a safe distance. This, whatever it is inside of me, is—is a lot.
That’s the thing about music; it’s the absolute maddening truth. It’s what makes the good songs so powerful. The more agonizing the truth, the better. I’m not ready to bare my soul like that. You can be damn sure this song isn’t going into the showcase. I scratch out a line, frustrated. I need something more casual … generic …
“Who’re you singing about?”
I jump with a crash of the keys, stumbling off the back of my stool.
“Fuck me, Cullen, don’t you knock?”
Cullen huffs out a laugh, bouncing once on my bed. “I did. You were lost in the moment, so I let myself in.”
“How long have you been sitting there?”
He shrugs. “Long enough.”
It’s full-on dark out. I glance at my watch. Nine thirty. I’ve been playing for two hours.
“So, who were you singing about?”
I rub at my neck, feeling how hot it is. “No one. It was just a song.”
“That you wrote.”
“Yeah, well. It’s been a while. Wanted to see if I still could.”
“That was really excellent, Luke. Why’d you give it up?”
I glare at him, incredulous. “You know why.”
He waves the thought away like a gnat. “That was before the podcast. Loads of people listen to you every single week.”
“Not live.”
“Everyone’s a little shy in front of crowds. You’d get used to it.”
“I like my privacy, thanks. I’m not like you guys.”
Cullen’s expression darkens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
My eyes dart around, grasping for a way to make him understand. “You and Dad and Mum, you’re all brilliant at commanding a crowd. You live for the attention. I don’t want anything to do with it. On the podcast, I can pretend it’s you and me talking. I don’t see the others. They aren’t real to me. I don’t want to sing for crowds. I don’t want anyone trying to guess who I’m singing about or picking the lyrics apart. It’s not for them.”
“But it is for someone,” he insists.
I shake my head.
“Bollocks. Fine. You’re too afraid to live up to your potential or whatever. Classic Luke. But you’re cheating whoever that was about from hearing it.”
I exhale sharply, dropping into my desk chair. “How d’you even know it was about anyone? Why can’t it be about no one?”
He pauses like he wants to say something else and has reconsidered, instead saying, “Because those weren’t imaginary feelings. That was some deep shit, and it was really good, Luke. And whoever she is”—he emphasizes the words—“she deserves to know someone feels that way about her.”
* * *
“Luke! I didn’t expect to see you tonight.” Phil slides behind the bar to where I’m leaning on a counter, my head bobbing to the low thrum of music playing over the speakers. It’s early yet, but the game-night crowd should be making its way in soon. It’s March Madness season, after all.
“Ben asked if I wouldn’t mind filling in. He had a date.”
Phil’s grizzled cheek twitches under his wire frames. “Ah yes. I hear you’re to blame for that.”
I lift a shoulder. “Perhaps. I was looking for more hours.”
“Well, you got ’em.” Phil pulls out a glass, shovels in enough ice to hit the rim, and fills in the spaces with iced tea. “How are you liking things so far?”
“I love it,” I say honestly. “It feels homey.”
Phil nods as if I didn’t just compare his bar to a log cabin in the woods.
“I mean,” I try again, “I’m comfortable.”
“There are two kinds of people in the world,” Phil says, taking a pull