More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,48

while they chop red peppers lengthwise because they know you like them better that way. It’s pulling the car in backward at night because your partner gets edgy when they have to back into morning traffic. It’s buying overpriced moisturizer in bulk because one time they mentioned they liked the scent.” Cullen’s lips spread into a slow smile, and I keep going.

“It’s noticing things. Seeing parts of them even they might not know exist because you’ve been studying them since the moment you first laid eyes on them. It’s memorizing their phone number even if you have it programmed because God forbid you ever lost your contacts. It’s reading their mood by the song blaring through their headphones. It’s experiencing something so extraordinary you can’t tell if it was just that mind-blowing or if it’s only because they were there with you that you were so affected. Like they make everything better. It’s an eighteen-year-old bloke spewing terrible poetry at his twin that we will most assuredly have to cut out because he’s clearly out of his head,” I finish.

“No way,” Cullen says quickly. “Not a chance, that’s all staying.”

“I don’t even know what I’m talking about,” I grumble. “I broke up with my last girlfriend over Instagram.”

“Having regrets?” Cullen asks shrewdly.

I wave a hand. “No, no, of course not.”

“So that”—he waves his hand in a flourish—“wasn’t about your ex?”

“What? No! That wasn’t about … I wasn’t talking about anyone real—”

Cullen’s expression is skeptical. “That sure sounded like someone.”

“It wasn’t,” I insist, sweat breaking out on my neck as I replay all the things I’d said.

Cullen leans forward, pressing his hand on either side of his mic. “All right. It wasn’t about anyone. But if it was, what would you want to say to that person? Hypothetically? Maybe like your future love?”

I scrunch my eyes closed against the flash of freckles and swallow. “Purely hypothetically, since that wasn’t about anyone real, I would say…” I straighten. “I would say I’m not the best guy. There are definitely better, taller, smarter guys who can grow facial hair and have big muscles and a car … but I would be the best guy for you. We’d fit, and I wouldn’t try to change you because that would mean we wouldn’t fit. And I would only ever want the best for you because that’s what love is. Love is the lyrics to someone else’s melody.”

I cringe and clear my throat. “That definitely has to get cut.”

Cullen shakes his head, amusement painting his features. “Get real. This is golden.”

“This is pathetic. I sound moony-eyed.”

“You might be,” he agrees. “But listeners will eat it up.”

I flip the switch on my mic and scoot away from the table. “I need some air.”

Cullen narrows his eyes before nodding. “Why don’t you head out? I’ll stick around to clean up the tape and be home soon.”

“Do you have enough to salvage?”

“I’ll manage. You have your board?”

I nod, already packing my Mac away. Two minutes later, I shove out the front doors into the dark night and drop my longboard to the ground with a sharp clatter, clicking my backpack straps together across my chest. I forgo music—my head is too full to hear anything—and push off, coasting the giant hill that leads from downtown out to the neighborhoods. I take the long way, winding up and down a few streets, letting the icy air whistle past my ears until the ache is too much. I turn onto my block and pick up my board, carrying it the last few feet up our drive. The lights from our house give off a warm glow, and inside, I see a near replica of the image I’d ranted about tonight. My dad, dancing around the kitchen with his wooden spoon and singing to my mum, who’s playing sous chef and chopping ingredients. I push open the door, the hot air making my cheeks tingle, and remove my coat, hanging it on a hook before kicking off my shoes.

I cover my ears and walk into the kitchen, teasing, “What is this?”

My dad grins. “This, m’boy, as you well know, is Goldfinger.”

“It’s torture,” I say, grabbing a carrot from the cutting board and popping it in my mouth.

“Your ma liked it well enough back in the day.”

“Yeah, well…”

My mum shoves another carrot in my mouth. “You don’t know. Their cover of ‘Just Like Heaven’ made me swoon in my Doc Martens.”

“Good for you, Mum.” I roll my eyes, but she knows I don’t