More Than Maybe - Erin Hahn Page 0,81

mum pretends to be texting and giggles like a little girl. She looks up, shrugs, and says in a fake deep voice, “Oh, just something Vada said.”

“Vada said you sang better than Morrissey, Dad,” my dad pipes in.

“Of course you would remember that.”

“I think I’m just gonna pick up this Springsteen book for Vada.”

“For her blog,” I say.

“Point being,” my mum says, “you talk about Vada enough that we’ve noticed.”

“Fine. He’ll tell you anyway,” I say, gesturing to Cullen. “I wrote the song about Vada Carsewell. I really like her.”

“Just like?” My dad presses.

“I don’t know. For now. Probably.”

“Uh-huh,” my mum says, straightening from the sink and dumping the rest of her water out. “I’m getting in the shower.” She waggles her hips at my dad. “Wanna join me?”

“Ugh. Stop,” I say.

Cullen grimaces. “Gross, Mum.”

“Absolutely,” says my dad. “Be right there.”

My mum shuffles off, and my dad watches her go. I suppose it could be worse. My parents could hate each other.

“So, the copyright, Luke. Want me to look into it for you?”

“S-sure.”

He holds out his hands, placating. “Nothing more. No calls into contacts, no demo tapes, no nothing. This is purely to protect your interests. One day down the line, you may want to sell it or produce it or whatever, fine. That’s your choice. Scout’s honor.” He holds up his hand. “Mum made me swear.”

“Okay,” I say. Relieved for once that my dad knows about these things.

“Excellent. All right, lads. Don’t come up for at least twenty minutes.” He winks at me and slaps Cullen’s back. “Your old man’s not as good as he once was, but he’s as good once as he ever was.”

I pound my head on the table as Cullen makes gagging noises.

28

VADA

I’ve never been to a wedding before, so I can’t really draw a comparison, but I can tell you that a courthouse jam, with a giant fancy dinner afterward, feels right, particularly when you close out the night in a dive bar, and the couple has their first dance to a song played on a jukebox.

I can’t imagine anything better.

Well, except that we get to keep Phil now.

That’s pretty wonderful.

If I thought I was picky about songs for significant moments, Phil took it to another level. He literally loaded the entire jukebox with preapproved tunes, and “not a single drop of Stevie Nicks to be found.”

(There’re even three Britney Spears songs on tap: “Lucky,” “Baby One More Time,” and “Toxic.”)

It’s late, and Phil and my mom have been swaying slowly around the dance floor with eyes only for each other. Ben is manning the bar, but only casually. Aside from a champagne toast, no one’s drinking. I have a cupful of cherries and lemonade in front of me.

Phil doesn’t have a lot of family. His mom’s still bedridden in Ohio, so she couldn’t come. Mom and Phil have been talking about moving her into our place and setting her up in the downstairs guest room.

They aren’t traveling for their honeymoon, but they are planning to make a trip to Mackinaw tomorrow. Mom wants to tour the island and eat at the Grand Hotel.

Phil wants fudge.

I told him to bring me home some of the peanut butter kind. It has these swirls of melty peanut butter in every square. Yummmm.

Anyway, everything is low-key and perfect.

Well, almost perfect.

Luke’s been over at the bar talking to Ben for the last twenty minutes, and I want to dance. And sure, it’s great to see him talking with Ben like old friends. Ben’s awesome, and it’s good for Luke to have a friend he doesn’t have to share with his brother all the time … but Luke’s been smiling my way, and while I’m not super great at picking up cues, I’m pretty sure he’s giving me the signal.

The signal for what? That part is less obvious.

So, I need to choose my selection very carefully.

“Hold Me Now” by the Thompson Twins? Ugh. Stalker vibes, much?

“Do You Want to Dance” by Bobby Freeman is pretty on the nose. And adorable, but only in that teenybopper, bobby socks, french fries served by a girl in roller skates kind of way. So, that’s probably not good. Plus, fast music. I have two kinds of dancing: frantic contemporary and slow and swoony. Pass.

“I’ll Make Love to You” Boyz II Men. Ew, Phil. Gross.

“Lazaretto” by Jack White. WTF, Phil. How is that wedding appropriate? Like, “I Think We’re Going to Be Friends” would have been adorable given their past of growing up together.