by Erin Hahn
VADA
Yeah. Good memory!
LUKE
Phil might’ve mentioned it.
VADA
Riiiiiight. He’s worse than my mom.
LUKE
I’ve been meaning to ask you about that …
VADA
Yeah. Decades of pining + “Netflix and chill”
VADA
Don’t tell Phil what it really means. They think it means watching Netflix and falling asleep on the couch. What did he say? Boyfriend Phil is sort of adorkable.
LUKE
Nothing really, he just looked sort of fond?
I laugh to myself, settling deeper into my seat.
VADA
Fond? And how does one look fond, exactly?
LUKE
…
LUKE
…
LUKE
Besotted?
VADA
What.
LUKE
I DON’T KNOW, OKAY!
LUKE
He just gets this look on his face. Sort of like …
LUKE
I mean, it was obvious he feels strongly about your mom. And then he said you were going to dinner with your, uh, dad.
VADA
Yeah. It wasn’t great.
LUKE
Wanna talk about it?
VADA
Not really, but …
VADA
Maybe this. YouTube: Snow Patrol “Life on Earth”
LUKE
brb
I check my Snapchat while I wait for him to listen, but I’m distracted and vulnerable.
LUKE
…
LUKE
Sorry. That song is meant to be heard on headphones or not at all.
VADA
Accurate. You need to hear it in your throat.
LUKE
Yeah. I’m sorry, Vada. He’s a fucker.
I snort. That’s succinct and so perfectly fits my thoughts.
VADA
Thank you. He is. Anyway, I need to drive home.
LUKE
Hold on.
LUKE
Something for the ride. YouTube: Mt. Joy “Silver Lining”
I’m still smiling as I pull into my driveway.
* * *
Meg must’ve heard about my dad through our moms because on my way home, I got a text that she was on her way with Ben & Jerry’s and a couple of Redbox movies.
The doorbell rings, so I dash down the stairs. Meg flutters in wearing her ever-present fairy wings and pink extensions. She’s really like one of those pixie dream girls John Green characters are always following across the country, but unironically so.
She hugs my mom. “Aunt Mary! You look divine. Have you been drinking more water? Your skin is fabulous. Like a baby’s butt. Seriously.”
My mom grins, flipping her hair over a shoulder. “I’m glad someone noticed,” she says. “I have, thanks. A gallon a day.”
“You look radiant.” And she does. I haven’t been paying attention, too consumed in my own drama, but my mom looks really, really good. Fresh-faced and happy. Huh. Maybe she does know what “Netflix and chill” means.
“And Vada!” Meg throws her arms around me, squeezing tightly. “I brought ice cream and a little something extra. When childish sperm donors strike, we must retaliate with something rebellious.” She holds up a bag of temporary tattoos and propels me up the stairs.
We enter my room, and she plops me down on my bed before sitting crisscrossed facing me.
“What the actual frickery?” she starts.
I fall back onto my comforter and stare at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Am I being selfish? Like, am I asking too much and propelling myself into a debt-laden adulthood?”
“The truth?”
I shut my eyes with trepidation. “Yes. Always.”
“No.” She’s emphatic. “So stop. Remember that time I was supposed to come to your NHS ceremony last year and your dad brought that rando coworker along instead and used up the last ticket and I had to walk home in the rain?”
“Yes.”
“Remember the time your dad showed up to your dance recital late and missed your performance and didn’t even realize it?”
I close my eyes more tightly. “Yes.”
“Remember the time you went to the Dirty Harries concert with that kid from my youth group, and your dad showed up reeking of pot and drilled him about safe sex?”
“Jesus, yes. It was only like six months ago. Peter still won’t talk to me.”
“He’s not right, and you’re not selfish, Vada. It’s okay to aim high. You got in. That’s amazing. The money will come. Or it won’t, and you’ll take out loans and pay them back when you start writing for Rolling Stone.”
“Okay. You’re right.”
“Good. I can tell you aren’t convinced, but that’s eighteen years of Marcus’s wackadoo absentee fatherisms talking.” She raises her hands, plastic bangles clattering toward her bony elbows, and shakes them, banishing the negativity or whatever. “So, Five Below had a BOGO sale on tats.” She reaches into her bag. “I love you, but I’m claiming the Hello Kitty ones.”
I nod grimly. “Of course.”
“But you can have the Pokémon ones.”
“How about we just eat ice cream? I’m not feeling particularly rebellious tonight.”
Meg deflates, but quickly recovers. “Okay. But you have to start talking.” She passes me a pint and a spoon.
I tear it open and dig my spoon in, giddy that it’s a little melty. “About what? I already told you about the dinner that wasn’t.”
“Not about your dad,” she says impishly, scooping a bite of Cherry Garcia and crunching on a chocolate chunk. “About Luke Greenly.”
“What, why?”
She holds up my phone. “Because I accidentally sat on your phone, and he’s been sending you mad messages.”
I rip it away from her and tuck my phone away without glancing at it, even though it kills me. I pick up my spoon. “Make yourself useful and put in that movie, will you?”
When she turns away, I can’t help but let a smile slip.
13
LUKE
I don’t technically need an after-school job. My parents make decent money and have always told us education comes first. They didn’t want us to stress out about spending money. Since the sixth grade, we’ve gotten a weekly allowance so long as we’ve stayed on the honor roll and completed all our chores.
That I’ve willingly taken on a part-time job at a bar of all places is apparently beyond comprehension for my parents. You’d think they’d be complimentary about their eighteen-year-old son taking on a little extra responsibility. Instead, they’re wearing matching expressions of bewilderment.
“It’s just a part-time job, Dad.”
“I thought you hated interacting in public.”
“I don’t hate it. I just don’t love it. This is a good exercise for me. For personal growth.”
“Personal growth?” my mum repeats.
I can practically hear my twin’s eyes roll. “Jaysus, guys, let it go. Why does everything we do have to be rooted in psychological pathology? Why can’t he just want to work in a bar?”
“I don’t see why you’d toil away in a dive bar when you could be onstage making ten times as much.” It’s as though the man can’t help himself.
“I’m not even going to answer that, Dad.”
My mum shrugs, but my dad still looks puzzled. Fact is, I don’t really know why I want to work at the Loud Lizard so badly. Before I heard Vada freaking out at Ben, I didn’t. I don’t need the money. I don’t have a ton of spare time. But I wasn’t lying when I said I liked it for personal growth. My shyness is crippling some days, but when I’m there, I feel fine. It’s like wearing a hoodie the third day in a row. It’s comfortable and smells like last night’s dinner and reminds you of a time you fit in.
Whatever that means.
Eventuall
y, my dad picks up his slice of homemade lasagna and takes a bite, dragging the mozzarella from his lips where a bit smudges up in his salt-and-pepper goatee. I sink into my chair and pick up my fork, relieved. I hadn’t counted on the third degree. I wondered if they would object to the late hours, but I’m eighteen. They can’t technically tell me no. (Well, they could. I live under their roof. But they wouldn’t.)
My fingers itch to text Vada and let her know I’m good to work. More. Work more. Truthfully, I’m already on the schedule.
Off the record, Vada Carsewell might be a bit of the reason why. Not (just) because I have, like, deep-seated, years-long feelings for her or anything but because she’s cool. Interesting. Down-to-earth and not at all like anyone else I spend my time with. I hadn’t realized how little I see of her at school. Our paths rarely cross, and that seems wrong. We have a near constant text stream going, but I couldn’t tell you what her favorite shirt is.
Which is definitely something you would know if you were interested interested in someone, right?
She’s practically a pen pal when you get down to it.
Of course, I could just ask her about her favorite shirt. And then I’d know.
“You’ll need to get a ride from Cullen to work tomorrow, unless you plan to board,” my mum interrupts my thoughts.
I glance outside, which is pointless since it’s dark. “Would you mind?” I ask my brother.
“Nope. I can drop you off on my way to Zack’s. But can you get a ride home?”
“I think so.”
“From who?” my dad asks.
“Vada, probably,” Cullen says. “Right?”
I nod, quickly taking another bite of pasta.
“Vada a bird?”
“A girl,” I say after I swallow.
“A woman,” my mum corrects automatically.
“That,” I agree.
“She cute?” my dad asks.
“Ginger,” my brother replies.
“Really?” My mum perks up and sips at her glass of red wine.
I don’t bother responding.
“You’ve always had a bit of a thing for gingers,” my mum says, sly as a game show host.
“Have not!”
“Ginny Weasley.”
“Bonnie Wright is brilliant.”
“That bird from Pitch Perfect,” my dad offers.
“First of all, it’s woman, and in my defense, that shower scene was eye-opening for twelve-year-old me.”
“Fine, Mandi Simonson.” Cullen’s gleam is triumphant, and I snort.
“Whatever. She was my first kiss. And I have a feeling you arranged that so you didn’t have to kiss her and out yourself.”
“Like it was a secret. And you were super into her.”
“Freshman year, I was super into Bonnie Wright. Mandi was a fair candidate.”
“Fair candidate? Who are you? The crown prince?”
“So I like gingers! You people are maddening. That means nothing. I don’t even know if Vada is working tomorrow night.”
“Ten to one, she’s working, and she’ll drive you home, and twenty to one, you are texting her under the table right now.”
“Ha! I don’t even have my phone at the table. Manners, little brother.”
“By two and a half minutes, and that’s only because you left it in your room.”
“Boys,” Mum interrupts drolly. “Enough. You know I don’t tolerate bickering on a single glass of wine.”
Dad refills her glass.
“Two and I lose my inhibitions, Mr. Greenly.”
“That’s the plan, luv.” My dad winks in an overtly cheeseball way, and Cullen shoves away from the table.
“On that note, I have homework to do.”
I grab another slice to go. “Me, too.”
My brother is halfway up the stairs before he shouts, “Remember, dick pics are forever!”
My mum chokes on her sip. “He’s not serious.”
I gather up my plate and glass and grumble, “He would know.”
“Lukas Aaron Greenly.”
“Kidding, Mum.”
* * *
The next night, I’m behind the bar with a rugged-looking University of Michigan student named Ben. He’s the one I’d overheard backing out of his shift the first night I worked. I’ve never really talked to him before, but he’s pretty cool. Rolls his sleeves a lot. And keeps reapplying this beard balm stuff he carries in his back pocket.
Which is a bit weird, but we all have our quirks. I bite my nails, which is objectively more disgusting than smoothing essential oils in my facial hair. Not that I have any facial hair.
I watch as Ben carries on with a couple of college girls, friends of his from the look of things. One seems more smitten than the other, touching Ben’s arm across the bar and licking her lips like she’d like to taste him—and get a mouthful of beard balm, presumably—while her friend keeps scrolling through her phone, sipping at a generic lite beer, and looking bored.
“Kami and Liz,” a voice says next to me. I startle to see Vada leaning back against the freezer chest.
“Who’s who?”
“Kami’s the one devouring him with her eyeballs, and Liz is her wing girl who prefers EDM and body paint.”
I consider. “That doesn’t sound like Ben’s jam.”
Vada grins, her teeth flashing in the neon. “Not in the slightest. I have to imagine Kami returns the favor, but I don’t know when. They’re here every single one of his shifts.”
“He’s not interested? She seems nice.”
She gives a small shake of her head. “I don’t think he has a clue.”
I turn to face her, eyes wide. “You’re not serious.”
“Completely. I’ve even tried to help her out, but he’s a lost cause.”
“He’s fixed his beard a hundred times. He’s got to be interested.”
Vada nods, tucking a chunk of auburn behind her ear and revealing the multiple simple stud piercings outlining the delicate shell of her ear. Someone motions for a drink, and I jerk my gaze away from Vada.
“Two gin and tonics.”
I fix the drinks and slide them across the bar, accepting the payment.
“Have you tried to tell him?” I ask.
“Duh. But we’re our harshest critics, right? When Ben first started here, one of our customers was all over him. Totally dug the beard. She would wait for the end of his shift and try to talk to him at his car. Turned out she had a boyfriend, and the guy showed up to pick a fight with Ben, who, despite the sizable forearms, is more of a pacifist. Phil had to call the police and everything. Ben thought he was toast. More trouble than his two weeks of experience warranted.”
“But he’s still here?”
Vada nods her head. “Phil doesn’t fire anyone. Like, ever. I get the impression Phil was a bit of a fuckup as a kid, so he likes to offer grace whenever possible. Ben can’t help that he’s pretty.”
“You think he’s pretty?” Not that I care. I don’t. Mostly. Why can’t I grow facial hair?!
“I mean.” She squints and tilts her head as if she’s trying to be objective. “Sort of. If you’re into beards, which I’m not.” Thank God. “He looks like he belongs on paper towel packaging. Or starring in one of those Hallmark movies where the hero is this mountain man shut-in after his fiancée dies, and then some spunky elementary school teacher gets lost in a snowstorm and ends up marooned at his cabin, and he lends her dry clothes that are way too big for her, and they have hot chocolate by the fire and fall in love despite his jaded views and her besotted innocence. Then, her know-it-all sister-in-law turns up three days later in a giant snowplow and brings the minister with her because she had a dream that was assuredly gifted from their dead grandparents, who fell in love in the same cabin seventy years before.”
My mouth is hanging open.
She turns pink, her hair falling over her ears. “Or you know. Something like that.”
“Did you actually script a Hallmark
movie about Ben just now?”
It’s dark, but I think she’s cringing, and it’s kind of adorable to see her flustered.
“They have a very clear formula to those movies,” she says, her tone defensive.
“You don’t say. How many have you watched?”
“Listen, I have a low tolerance for murder shows. And anyway, am I wrong?”
I regard Ben. He’s pouring a couple of Moscow Mules into brass mugs for an older couple reliving their alumni experience. I could see it, actually.
“Fine. You’re not wrong. Possibly missing your career as a TV drama writer, but not wrong.”
“Hallmark wouldn’t know what to do with me.”
I take in her profile, the piercings, the oversized Pixies tee knotted in the back, the fuuuuuuck scribbled on the back of her hand in blue pen. “No. Probably not.” I shove off the chest, smirking, and grab a shaker off the shelf in front of me. “I have an idea.”
I pull together a couple of pink drinks, and when Ben turns to help another customer, I carry them over to the ladies.
“On the house. This one’s for Kami, and this one’s for Liz.”
“Thanks!” Kami says, immediately taking a sip. “What’s this called?”
“I like to call it caught in a storm, and that one’s wingman. Or woman, as it might be. Consider it a bit of liquid courage and ask the lumberjack out. He’s shy, but he’s been primping all night long.”
Kami’s eyes widen as she takes in my words, and she throws back the entire drink, eyeing up Ben. “On it.”
I walk back to Vada, and we watch Ben’s face flame behind his beard as Kami holds out a hand. He passes her his phone with zero hesitation, and she types in her number with a gooey smile before hopping off her stool and strutting away. Ben watches her before reaching for his phone and asking us for a minute away.
Vada waves him off, her lips twitching, as Kami’s friend Liz walks back in. She pulls a twenty out of her wallet and holds it up in front of me.
“This is for you. Thank you. Finally! Now maybe I can stop sitting here every Sunday afternoon while they lust.”
I accept it with a sheepish grin. “Glad to help.”
Liz leaves, and I pocket my bill before settling back against the chest. Vada shakes her head. “You are full of surprises, Greenly.”
