by Erin Hahn
“Why aren’t you home with your wife and kids?”
“I’m with my kid,” he says easily. Like he’s not breaking my heart. “Who is it?”
The light changes, and I slam on the accelerator with a bit too much force, slamming us both back in our seats. He curses under his breath and clutches his bag tighter.
“Jimmy Eat World. ‘The Middle.’ Came on to the emocore scene in the late ’90s. Their best song is ‘Hear You Me.’”
“That’s not a fact,” he says.
“Actually. It is. After Grandma Carsewell died, I played it until your CD disintegrated.”
“I always wondered what happened to it.” He’s quiet as I turn in to the upper-middle-class neighborhood he and Jane call home. It’s full of townhomes, the really nice kind. With high association fees and home security systems.
“Clearly, the student deejay is feeling their grunge tonight. Pearl Jam, ‘Daughter,’” I say as I put the car into park in his drive. Sometimes the radio game really gets to the heart of the matter. Marcus sits, staring at his hands as the opening strings of the electric guitar confirm my answer.
“Don’t think I’m too drunk to notice what you’re implying.”
“Oh, please. This is your game, Marcus. You taught me this trick.”
“If you’re going to wield lyrics that way, you’d better know what you’re talking about.”
“And if you’re gonna start lecturing me on music or life, you’d better know what you’re talking about. It’s the name of the song. That’s it. You taught me facts. Just facts. Know the facts. I know them. Thanks. Your job is done here.”
Marcus doesn’t bother saying thanks for the ride. He opens the car door, staggers up his front stoop and into his house without a glance back at me.
Which is for the best. That fucker doesn’t get to see me cry. I know “Daughter” isn’t about me. It’s about a child with a learning disability whose parents beat her for struggling. The story is awful, and I can’t relate to it. But sometimes it’s the feeling of a song you relate to. Marcus doesn’t understand that kind of nuance. He doesn’t get feelings. If he did, maybe we wouldn’t be in this place. His knowing I’m his kid and my not ever getting to feel like it.
17
LUKE
“The world would like you to believe that love is like an Ed Sheeran song. All bare feet in the grass, kissing in the dark, growing old together,” I say into my mic. “But it’s not. I mean. Look at Eddie. The man barely has it together, from the look of it. He’s a poor man’s Rupert Grint who gets revenge on his exes with breakup anthems worthy of TSwift.”
Cullen stares at me, his eyes wide. He opens his mouth to respond but shakes his head. Finally, he says, “Poor man’s Rupert Grint? I think the lad does better than that. What does Rupert have, millions of pounds and an ice cream truck to his name? I’m pretty sure Ed Sheeran has a lady in every district. Perhaps a fella, too, if he’s into that kind of thing, which I sincerely hope he is.”
“He’s married, but that’s not the point.”
“Allegedly,” he scoffs.
“The point is, love’s not like any of that. It’s not some prefabricated song meant for weddings, and it’s not a lay in every city. It’s deeper than that, and I resent the implication that males, regardless of their preferences, aren’t capable of being aware of the difference.”
Cullen leans back in his seat, pulling his mic to him. “So, you’re saying the flowers and the candles and the Hallmark holidays and fancy expensive restaurants aren’t romantic?”
“No, I mean, yeah. Okay. Those can be romantic,” I say, frustrated. “I guess I’m saying it’s not the actions themselves so much as the intention. Just because good ole Eddie sings those sappy songs and looks like he hasn’t showered, everyone thinks he’s so bloody sincere. But he’s not.”
“Okay. I’ll bite. What does make real, sincere love?”
I scrub my hand down my face, thinking. It’s not a hard question. It’s all there, boiling beneath the surface like one of my songs. “Love is … it’s bringing an umbrella when rain is forecasted, but, like, not for you.” I think of our parents. “It’s serenading someone off-key in the kitchen while they chop red peppers lengthwise because they know you like them better that way. It’s pulling the car in backward at night because your partner gets edgy when they have to back into morning traffic. It’s buying overpriced moisturizer in bulk because one time they mentioned they liked the scent.” Cullen’s lips spread into a slow smile, and I keep going.
“It’s noticing things. Seeing parts of them even they might not know exist because you’ve been studying them since the moment you first laid eyes on them. It’s memorizing their phone number even if you have it programmed because God forbid you ever lost your contacts. It’s reading their mood by the song blaring through their headphones. It’s experiencing something so extraordinary you can’t tell if it was just that mind-blowing or if it’s only because they were there with you that you were so affected. Like they make everything better. It’s an eighteen-year-old bloke spewing terrible poetry at his twin that we will most assuredly have to cut out because he’s clearly out of his head,” I finish.
“No way,” Cullen says quickly. “Not a chance, that’s all staying.”
“I don’t even know what I’m talking about,” I grumble. “I broke up with my last girlfriend over Instagram.”
“Having regrets?” Cullen asks shrewdly.
I wave a hand. “No, no, of course not.”
“So that”—he waves his hand in a flourish—“wasn’t about your ex?”
“What? No! That wasn’t about … I wasn’t talking about anyone real—”
Cullen’s expression is skeptical. “That sure sounded like someone.”
“It wasn’t,” I insist, sweat breaking out on my neck as I replay all the things I’d said.
Cullen leans forward, pressing his hand on either side of his mic. “All right. It wasn’t about anyone. But if it was, what would you want to say to that person? Hypothetically? Maybe like your future love?”
I scrunch my eyes closed against the flash of freckles and swallow. “Purely hypothetically, since that wasn’t about anyone real, I would say…” I straighten. “I would say I’m not the best guy. There are definitely better, taller, smarter guys who can grow facial hair and have big muscles and a car … but I would be the best guy for you. We’d fit, and I wouldn’t try to change you because that would mean we wouldn’t fit. And I would only ever want the best for you because that’s what love is. Love is the lyrics to someone else’s melody.”
I cringe and clear my throat. “That definitely has to get cut.”
Cullen shakes his head, amusement painting his features. “Get real. This is golden.”
“This is pathetic. I sound moony-eyed.”
“You might be,” he agrees. “But listeners will eat it up.”
I flip the switch on my mic and scoot away from the table. “I need some air.”
Cullen narrows his eyes before nodding. “Why don’t you head out? I’ll stick around to clean up the tape and be home soon.”
“Do you have enough to salvage?”
“I’ll manage. You have your board?”
I nod, already packing my Mac away. Two minutes later, I shove out the front doors into the dark night and drop my longboard to the ground with a sharp clatter, clicking my backpack straps together across my chest. I forgo music—my head is too full to hear anything—and push off, coasting the giant hill that leads from downtown out to the neighborhoods. I take the long way, winding up and down a few streets, letting the icy air whistle past my ears until the ache is too much. I turn onto my block and pick up my board, carrying it the last few feet up our drive. The lights from our house give off a warm glow, and inside, I see a near replica of the image I’d ranted about tonight. My dad, dancing around the kitchen with his wooden spoon and singing to my mum, who’s playing sous chef and chopping ingredients. I push open the d
oor, the hot air making my cheeks tingle, and remove my coat, hanging it on a hook before kicking off my shoes.
I cover my ears and walk into the kitchen, teasing, “What is this?”
My dad grins. “This, m’boy, as you well know, is Goldfinger.”
“It’s torture,” I say, grabbing a carrot from the cutting board and popping it in my mouth.
“Your ma liked it well enough back in the day.”
“Yeah, well…”
My mum shoves another carrot in my mouth. “You don’t know. Their cover of ‘Just Like Heaven’ made me swoon in my Doc Martens.”
“Good for you, Mum.” I roll my eyes, but she knows I don’t mean it, even though I have to swerve to avoid Dad, who’s still twitching and spinning around the island.
“Cull back?” she asks me.
“Nah. I boarded home. He was finishing up some things.” I slouch into the living room, flipping on the TV and turning it up to hear it over my dad’s rendition of “Here In Your Bedroom.” I find a rerun of Brooklyn Nine-Nine and lean back into the couch, resolving not to think about anything else tonight.
VADA
My blog post about our concert is up *bites lip*
LUKE
Are you hinting that I should read it right away?
VADA
Maybe. Idk why I’m so nervous about this one. It was just so incredible, I’m feeling inadequate.
LUKE
Full disclosure, I have a Google alert for when your blog updates.
VADA
YOU DO NOT.
LUKE
I comment on every single one. I’m obsessed. With the blog, I mean.
VADA
Shut up.
LUKE
You shut up. Ever hear of L8RSK8R?
VADA
That’s you?! Now I want to read back!
LUKE
*groan* Don’t judge me.
VADA
…
VADA
…
VADA
This goes back two years. I’m tearing up, Luke.
LUKE
Because I’m creepy and you’re scared?
LUKE
Please not that.
VADA
YouTube: Greg Laswell “And Then You”
LUKE
Oh. Well, then. I’m glad.
* * *
The following morning, I make a decision. Maybe Vada and her plans have rubbed off on me. The thing is, like Vada, I applied to school in California. Berkeley, to be exact. My mum’s an alum, so that helped me score early admission, but mostly, I wanted to be far away from my family. I need some space. I want the freedom to be who I want to be without my dad standing over my shoulder and making his own, overlapping plans. Berkeley also happens to have one of the most prestigious musical composition programs in the United States, and I sort of hoped the genius might rub off on me.
I thought I might apply down the line. Like, next year, or after I got my gen eds out of the way, but I’m starting to think there’s no real reason to wait.
I take a deep breath and click on the application icon on their website.
Worst they can say is no.
18
VADA
Behind the Music
by Vada Carsewell
The Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show.
Nirvana on MTV Unplugged in New York.
Carrie Underwood’s audition of “I Can’t Make You Love Me” on American Idol.
There are moments when the musical world stops turning for a split second and listens. Just listens. As if the entire population, all the damn genres, stand up as one and recognize a shift in the culture.
Recently, friends, I felt a shift. A mother-loving seismic imbalance that unseated me completely and threw me across the room before I could even think about finding a doorway. That shift is called (Not) Warren, and they were incredible. Five eye-closers for real, and y’all know I don’t give those freely.
The reason for the fanfare comes down to the magical pairing of Carl Andrews and Maureen McCarthy. I was smitten from the first jaunty, electronic mix, but by the end, I was ready to cry my eyes out. Experiencing the way their aching vocals intertwined. Like burning alive, but somehow worth it.
I’m afraid I can’t do them justice, but I can do this: get thee to your favorite (legal) streaming platform and check them out for yourself. In this very precise order, or I can’t be held responsible:
“All the Words”
“Kingdom of Now”
“Fallen In Like”
“What You Don’t Say”
Then take two Motrin for your inevitable heartache and comment in the morning.
—Vada
* * *
Sunday is easily becoming my favorite day of the week. After the rocky start, my Sunday crew has gotten our shift down to a science. Particularly when we’re all here. Things were busy early on for March Madness, but the game ended well before our usual 10:00 p.m. close, and since it’s the last day of spring break, I don’t have homework. Now it’s 11:00 p.m., and we’re sweeping the floor and the jukebox is blaring. We pooled our tips and set the machine to random and are playing a game of “Name That Tune.” Whoever says it first gets a dollar. I’m up, but barely. Top 40 isn’t really my forte. Luke is close behind, and Kazi is surprising us all in third. Ben is straggling neck and neck with Kazi’s girlfriend, Tessa, and our bouncer, Mike, refuses to compete because he’s a ride-or-die Journey fan. And only Journey.
I collect a dollar as I win another round and do a little twirl with the broom. “I think we need to sweeten the pot.”
“That’s because you’re winning,” Kazi grumbles good-naturedly.
I ignore him. “What if the loser has to empty the bathrooms’ garbage?”
“Not clean toilets or anything?” Luke asks, dipping a rag in solution before slopping it back on a stool.
“Nah, we have a crew for that. But we have to take the garbage out before—The Neighbourhood!” I shout, cutting myself off and swerving my hips, while holding on to my broom as a mic and belting the first lyrics.
Ben shakes his head. “Not fair! I was listening to you!”
I ignore him. This song is my jam. Tessa starts in on the chorus of “Sweater Weather,” holding the ends of her rag over her head and spinning in a circle in her high-heeled black boots. I swerve around to face Luke and Ben, belting it out while Kazi twirls Tessa in a circle. They can be really cute when I’m in a good mood, and the end of this song swings into the sweetest bridge, always putting me in a good mood.
“Sorry,” I say breathlessly once it’s over. “As I was saying, we have to take the trashes out or they can start to smell.”
Luke’s eyes are doing their twinkle thing sucking me in and I can’t look away. He doesn’t seem to mind. “Right.” A new song clicks over on the box, and before I can open my mouth, he says, “‘You’d Be Mine,’ Annie Mathers,” in a smooth voice.
“The Brit knows country?” I ask as Tessa squeals and moves to make it louder.
“Some. I like Cash and Chris Stapleton okay. Mathers snuck up on me, but you’ve got to admit, she’s got soul.”
“I like ‘Coattails’ a little more,” I admit. “When Marcus pisses me off, which is always, I like to crank it up.”
He grins. “I could see that. I might need to borrow that idea.”
“‘Beat It’!” Kazi yells, jarring Luke and me from our weird version of a staring contest.
I groan, shaking off the flutters in my stomach. “Damn it, lost focus.”
“Michael Jackson, may he rest in peace,” Ben says, making the sign of the cross. I snicker at his antics.
Everyone knows the lyrics to this one, and Luke does a surprisingly strong moonwalk. Kazi’s patchouli dreads swing all over the place, and Ben hops up on a chair, moving in a way that reminds me of a dad at his daughter’s wedding reception. I’ve got tears streaming down my face, and my stomach hurts from laughing so hard at this stup
id crew.
The music slows and turns melodic, and before I can skip ahead to something else, Luke elbows me. I follow his eyes to where Kazi and Tessa are slow dancing, wrapped around each other. Damn. They’re gross. Also, adorable.
Ben starts to gather up his coat. “Kodaline,” he says, taking his stack of dollars. “See you, guys.”
Kazi and Tessa move as one for the exit, and I lock the front door behind them. Before I can turn off the music, Luke tugs at my hand. “It would be a shame to waste it. Paid a dollar of hard-earned tips.” Even at his tug, it’s a question. If I didn’t want to, we wouldn’t.
Oh, I want to. Desperately so.
I pinch my lips together to keep them from smiling off my face. He spins me once and pulls me in. We’re sticky and smell like disinfectant and sweat, but his hand is dry and cool as it takes mine. His other hand is at my waist, and he’s singing under his breath and not hiding it from me.
It warms me down to my toes.
I cock my head to the side. “You knew this one.”
He shakes his blond hair out of his eyes, and his grin is only a little sheepish. “I was distracted.”
He releases my hip and spins me out gently, and my breath catches at the sweetness in the old-fashioned gesture.
“I did, too,” I admit.
“I figured.” We sway in silence for a beat. My chest is tight, but in a happy way. I’m not nervous around Luke anymore. We seem to have moved past that part and are ever so slowly creeping toward something new.
But the level of intentionality in this—our movements in sync and our faces, at times, only inches apart—it’s rife with expectation. I’ve never had this with anyone. Luke crept up on me. I was comfortable in my crush.
But it’s as if Luke wants something to happen, and I’d never thought about having my feelings reciprocated. I’m not sure how to proceed.
The song ends, and I release his hands to turn off the machine. Our shoes echo on the concrete floor. I check that Phil’s office is locked and turn off the lights so only the dim Exit lights are lit.
