More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,61
tone, “Dad, you didn’t make any promises, did you?”
“Well, sure I did!” My dad blusters as he looks at me. “I said you were in the middle of your senior year, but I’d book a ticket after graduation, and we’d hear Eddie out. Maybe arrange for some collaborators.”
And looking at my dad, at the gleam in his gray-blue eyes, at the ruddiness in his cheeks, everything he passed down to me, for the first time, I see him as Charlie Greenly. As the former punk rock icon. As the man who found his worth in the music industry. I don’t see him as my dad, because as much as he might think it is, this isn’t about him being my dad. This is about me being his legacy.
And I don’t want it.
My brother looks at me, stricken. I can read his face perfectly. He finally, finally understands. That, somehow, is enough to propel me to say what I’ve needed to for a long time.
“Dad,” I say. My voice is firm. I’m tall in my seat. Not as tall as Cullen, but taller than our father. “I don’t want to go to England. I don’t want to meet with producers or collaborators. I don’t want to sing. This isn’t stage fright. This is a rejection of all that goes along with being a singer. I love music. I want to make it and write it and share it. But I don’t want to perform it. Ever.”
My dad shakes his head, the light reflecting off his white-blond hair, the hints of silver more apparent to me than before. “You’ll change your mind,” he says. “And by then, it will be too late.”
* * *
The following night, I arrive to work fifteen minutes ahead of my scheduled start. I didn’t bother stopping home, boarding straight from Zack’s house after school. As of this morning, my dad was giving me the silent treatment, and anyway, it’s Zack and Cullen’s three-and-a-half-year anniversary, whatever that means. When I left, they were baking rainbow sprinkle cupcakes together.
“I come bearing gifts!” I say, holding out a Tupperware with half a dozen cupcakes inside to Ben and Kazi at the bar. Ben takes one immediately, and I pull out another, dropping it on a cocktail napkin for Kazi.
“Everyone else in the back?”
Ben nods, wiping frosting from his beard. “Vada’s in with Phil, but the door’s shut. I wouldn’t go in.”
“What? Why? Did something happen?”
Kazi jerks his thumb to a guy at the end of the bar who is slumped on his stool and shouting at the TV. “Marcus,” he says.
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Vada’s dad,” Ben says in a low tone. “He’s been here all afternoon getting sloshed and cussing out Phil.”
“What? Why?”
Ben fiddles with his sleeve, unrolling and rolling it again. “I’m not a psychologist, but I would guess it has something to do with jealousy and Vada’s near hero worship, however warranted, of Phil. Also, about her mom. And Phil?”
“Oh, Jesus,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“But isn’t he remarried?”
Kazi nods. “Yeah. His wife is gorgeous.” He makes a face. “I don’t know why I said that. Not that it makes a difference. In his mind, dude peaked in high school.”
“Apparently, Marcus and Phil were in a band together,” Ben adds. “Marcus was the lead singer and got the girl. Then he blew it, became an insurance salesman, and has resented Phil ever since.”
I consider them both shrewdly. It seems Vada’s dad is common knowledge around this place. Right up there with mixing pitchers of margaritas and hitting the ice machine in the top-left corner when it’s sticking. I decide to forgo clocking in for now, since I’m technically early, and hop behind the bar, prompting Ben to count out his tips early. I grab a rag and start busing tables and wiping down anything sticky, a never-ending job around the bar. After Ben clears out and waves goodbye, I slide into his spot.
Kazi is taking care of a few people, and Marcus raises a finger for a refill, so I meander over. I can see where Vada gets her coloring. “What’re you having?”
Marcus shuts one eye, appraising me. “Did you have a beard before?”
“Nope,” I say cheerfully, not bothering to explain.
“Another Jack Daniel’s,” he says dismissively.
“On your tab?” I ask.
He straightens. “My daughter works here. Vada. Family doesn’t pay.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you knew Vada. I do, too. She’s one in a million. Can I start a tab for you? All I need is your debit card.”
Marcus’s smarmy