More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,63

the bit of cupcake I haven’t already stuffed in my mouth. “This helps.”

She licks frosting off her finger, and I swallow hard, tracking the movement. Twice.

“You didn’t just get to work, did you?” she says after finishing her cupcake. She doesn’t meet my eyes, instead folding her wrapper neatly into half and then thirds, pressing it flat with her fingers.

“Ah, not quite.”

She nods. “Did you meet Marcus?”

I decide on honesty. “I did.” And I tell her about our conversation, watching her face change from aggravated to hurt and finally, happily, to amused.

“I can’t believe you said that to his face!”

“Yeah.” I adjust in my chair, first sitting back and then uncrossing my legs and curling forward. “Should I apologize?”

“To me?” she asks, surprised. “Fuck, no. I’m just sad I missed seeing his expression when you asked for his debit card to open a tab.”

I sit back again, pleased and more than a little relieved. “Still, it wasn’t my business. It’s not like you can’t take care of yourself. I was just—”

She cuts me off, grinning. “It’s honestly fine. More than fine. Sometimes I wonder if I’m overreacting, you know? Like, maybe my dad’s not that much of a dick. He’s not physically abusive. He’s just neglectful. Like, to the extreme. It hurts me, obviously, but it’s sort of validating when someone else besides Meg gets all puffed up in my defense.”

“Phil was plenty puffed up, if that helps.”

She nods. “It does. But—and I know this sounds stupid— I feel like Phil gets to be defensive for my mom’s sake. Not mine.”

“Because he loves her.”

“Right.”

“But it’s okay for me to be defensive for you?” I check. I can’t help but sit a little taller at the implication—the idea that I could be that person for her. That she might need me to be.

Vada ducks her head, tucking some strands behind her ear and tracing the edge of Phil’s giant desk calendar with her fingertip. “Sure. I mean”—she allows her brown eyes to meet mine for barely a blink before they shift away—“if you want.”

Oh, how I want. I want so much I can taste it. Or her. Taste her. Stay on track, brain. I swallow again, trying to think of a response that isn’t creepy or weird. To play for time, I clear my throat and cross an ankle over my knee. Verrry casually. “Good,” I say. “That’s good.”

22

VADA

Late last night when I arrived home from work, it was to an unusually dark house. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one Marcus went after yesterday. Except, while I had Luke and Phil at the bar to run defense for me, my mom was alone. It’s interesting—and by interesting, I mean fucked to high heaven—how he doesn’t want anything to do with us until he remembers how disappointed he is in himself and then has to remind us how he holds us responsible for his many failures.

I found my mom sitting in our dimly lit kitchen, her Bible open in front of her and an entire kettle of Sleepytime tea resting on a crocheted hot pad. Her tears had already been spent, and she looked peaceful. “Had a little talk with Jesus,” was all she said before smiling generously and pouring me a mug of steaming liquid.

It’s obvious my mom’s way of dealing with Marcus’s shit is healthier, but she’s had more practice. Or maybe she hit the end of her rope, and at the end, there’s only God. I’m not sure. I haven’t tried everything else yet. Which sounds stubborn. I guess it is. Or maybe it’s just curious. All I know is I don’t want to borrow faith. I want something I own wholeheartedly, and I’m not in the business of buying yet.

Mom communes with a deity. I commune with music.

Which explains why, the following afternoon, when I enter dance class, Madame takes one look at me and cuts short our barre time. I’m pretty positive I’m in my fucking feelings is written in cursive between the creases on my forehead.

“It’s minutes till the weekend,” she says. “I’m too antsy for conformity. Vada?” she calls me over.

I fidget with the waistband of my leggings, tugging it higher before settling it down over my hips. Her face is a picture of beatific understanding, and I struggle to meet her eyes, not sure I’m in the mood for a poised sort of pep talk today.

“Have you ever heard of an artist named Ke$ha?”

I freeze. “With the dollar sign in her name? Sure.”

She bends