More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,74
write back before I lose my nerve.
VADA
Damn. Now you’ve officially done it. Just when I thought you couldn’t be sexier, you send me Duritz.
LUKE
You know Adam Duritz.
VADA
*fans self*
LUKE
Interesting. And what if I told you I might know how to play “Long December” on the piano?
VADA
I thought you didn’t perform in front of others.
LUKE
I might make an exception.
VADA
*fans self again*
LUKE
*runs off to practice on nerdy—I mean super cool—keyboard*
I click off my phone and see my mom and Meg waiting for me at the exit. When I catch up, Meg rolls her eyes at me.
“Kids and their sexting these days.”
I press my lips together to keep the smile from seeping out. Sexting is a bit of a reach, but Luke is definitely flirting with me. This time I’m sure of it.
And I’ve decided that I really, really like it.
25
LUKE
“Think, Luke, think.”
I’m sitting in a quiet, darkened classroom outfitted with better acoustics than my bedroom and far away from my brother’s secret recording skills. I still owe Vada a song. The absolute final final deadline for my portion is Friday—truthfully, I should’ve given Vada something earlier—and I’ve never written under deadline before. I’ve gone from refusing to write, to forcing it, and it’s absolute shite.
I start over at the beginning and try again. This may be for Vada, but it’s an expression of both of us. Not together, but it could be. It’s an anthem—about how we can ignore the rest of the world, parents and work and relationship expectations. We’re eighteen. On the verge of the rest of our lives. I can just see Vada onstage, with a back glow of soft light, looking as if she’s about to take flight, because she is. I am, too. It might not look the way my dad wants it to, but I’m finally walking toward the future I want.
That’s where I’m getting hung up. It’s easy to believe Vada can do this. She’s brilliant. She can do anything. It’s far more difficult to see myself as the kind of person who can shake free from my family and accomplish my dreams the way I want. I considered not adding lyrics. Composing only the melody. Lots of people do that. A million composers don’t sing a word of their own.
But that felt like a cop-out. A concession. I can sing, and I have the words I want to say. Words I want Vada to hear and that I hope will inspire her. Anyway, my voice is just another instrument. Playing it over piano adds depth to the track as it weaves over and under the bass line. Honestly, a drumbeat would be perfection on this. For me, and for Vada.
I’ve never played around with it before, but I have the software. Or Cullen does, and I’m using his laptop. Am I still taking advantage of his guilty conscience every chance I get?
Too fucking right I am.
I scroll through his software, looking for the drum tracks, picking a speed that fits the melody in my brain. It takes a few tries, but I lay it over, starting with the chorus, and the result gives me chills. I’m on the right track.
Over the heavy bass line, I layer on a cymbal track, and want to cry at how right it feels.
Drums. Who knew?
This, this will move Vada. It’s like the bass line is my heartbeat, achingly patient and consistent. My vocals are strained, but not in a bad way. In a slightly mad way. Because that’s how I feel. How she makes me feel. Off balance and slightly mad.
And devoted. Dedicated. Over the moon for the girl.
Yeah. This is good. Really, really good.
* * *
When I finally walk through the door that night, my parents are waiting in the kitchen for me. I halt at the sight of them, still holding my longboard.
“Am I late?” I ask.
My mom smiles reassuringly. “Not really. Though we did text wondering when you’d finally make an appearance. We ate without you. I was just putting it away.” She holds out a stack of Tupperware and a fork. I drop my stuff, grabbing them and sitting down at the island to dig in.
“After you’re done, we’re all gonna take a little drive. I want to show you the warehouse we’re remodeling for the Bad Apple.” I guess he’s talking to me again.
I choke on my bite. “You’re still doing that?”
My dad stares at me, dumbfounded. “What d’you mean? Damn right I am. Invested money and everything. Used your college fund, didn’t I?”
“You’re