More Than Maybe

by Erin Hahn

  I don’t cry this time. I walk right to the jukebox and put in a dollar, scroll to Brad Paisley’s biggest hits, and find the song I’ve waited my whole life to play. When “He Didn’t Have to Be” starts up, I meet Phil’s gaze from across the room, and even in the dim light of the bar, I can tell his eyes are misty. I blow him a big theatrical kiss and leave before I get carried away. He’s not going anywhere. I’ll see him later.

  23

  LUKE

  I’m at work when Zack finds me. I should’ve known something was up since it was my best friend, alone. The place is deserted, being early Saturday afternoon, and it’s only Ben and me at the bar.

  He sees Zack perch on a stool, and I wave him off. “Go to lunch. He’s not drinking.”

  Ben grabs his coat and heads across the street, and I turn to Zack. I pass him a glass of Sprite with a cherry garnish.

  “Classy,” he says, smirking. He picks out the tiny plastic sword and pulls all the cherries off with his teeth. I roll my eyes at his exhibition. “Sorry,” he says, still grinning. “Works on Cull.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Zack’s face grows serious, and he removes his messenger bag. He pulls out his laptop and opens it, turning it on the bar to face me.

  “Whatever it is, I don’t want to see it.”

  “You don’t, but you have to.”

  It’s an article. People.com. I dry my hands on a clean rag and tap the scroll. My stomach churns at a picture of my family, taken four years ago in England. The caption reads, “Punk rock legend and entrepreneur Charlie Greenly with his wife, Iris, and twin sons, Cullen and Lukas (14), outside Marigold Theater on 5 August.”

  “Okay…”

  “Keep going,” Zack prompts, chewing on an ice cube.

  Son of Former Punk Rocker Releases Viral Hit for a Mystery Girl

  Chances are, you’ve heard the viral hit “Break for You” from Lukas Greenly, podcast star and son of legendary lead singer of the Bad Apples, Charlie Greenly. If you haven’t, comment below with the name of the rock you live under. After releasing the insta-hit online, thousands of fans, mostly but not all, of the female persuasion (twin Cullen is in a long-term relationship with his boyfriend, after all) are clamoring for a hint at just who is the lucky girl?

  The interwebs have always championed a good love story, and this is no exception. Not long after Greenly released his song, polls cropped up all over, speculating as to the identity of the girl eighteen-year-old Luke is willing to break his heart over. The answers ranging from seventeen-year-old British child star Veronica Nelson, who is a rumored longtime love of Greenly’s—

  “Who?” I yelp.

  “Ah. I wondered about that. Keep going.”

  “Is that a real person?”

  “Keep reading.”

  —to ex-girlfriend, Lindsay Turton—

  “Well, she’ll be thrilled.”

  “Keep. Going.”

  —to his American coworker, an up-and-coming eighteen-year-old music blogger, Vada Carsewell.

  My voice is strangled. “Holy shite.”

  “There it is.”

  “How did they even come across her name?”

  “Journalists be nosy motherfuckers, man.”

  “Oh my god. This is going to kill her. She doesn’t want this.”

  “Hold on.” Zack closes the laptop with a click and sits back.

  “I didn’t finish.”

  “That’s all there was. Speculation. The point is, it’s not going away like you thought.”

  “And now it’s affecting Vada.”

  Zack narrows his eyes shrewdly. “I don’t know that it is. I mean, she might get more traffic on her blog, but that’s already been the case.”

  I grab at my hair and then remove my glasses, wiping them frantically on the edge of my T-shirt. “But she didn’t ask for this.”

  “True. But neither did you. And that’s not why I came here. I knew you’d be beating yourself up when you heard. And that’s bullshit, Luke.”

  “How?”

  “In every possible way. But think about it. The most recent photo they had permission to use was from four years ago. They couldn’t even get more than your blurry profile pic because you’re so private.”

  I think about it for a minute. “Are there comments?”

  Zack pulls his laptop out of the way before I can grab it, stuffing it back in his bag. “Always. You know how that kind of thing works. Nothing more than what you’re getting on the podcast, though.”

  “I stopped reading them,” I admit.

  “Well, Cullen hasn’t. He’s obsessed with redeeming himself and makes himself read and respond to nearly all of them in defense of your honor, and now Vada’s.”

  “Really?”

  Zack rolls his eyes, standing. “Yeah, really. You know, for two guys who share DNA, you can be pretty dense about each other.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Exactly why I came. You’re selling yourself short. Them, too. This is a sucky situation that can have excellent repercussions if you let it. I’m not saying you need to do anything. Stay private and keep living your life. But stop looking at everything as if it’s the literal end of the universe.”

  “Lindsay is loving it, I’m sure.”

  “No reason for her to be the only one.”

  * * *

  “Ladies and gents, as we wrap up, I want to take a quick moment to discuss what happened a few weeks ago.”

  I wince, shaking my head rapidly back and forth, mouthing, “No.”

  Cullen presses forward. “I promised my brother I wouldn’t bring it up, and I won’t, except for this: I messed up. More than that, I fucked up. I invaded my twin’s privacy, and I feel terrible. Yes, he’s massively talented, and I’m not ashamed every person on the planet knows. But posting a personal clip, unauthorized, was a violation of the worst kind, and I’ve apologized in private, but I also want to apologize publicly.”

  I exhale. “Thanks, Cull.”

  “Anything you want to say before we close the doors on the discussion forever? Call me out or anything? I offer you the floor,” he says.

  I think for a minute. This is my chance to turn something terrible into something good. “Only this: since I have everyone’s attention, you’ve heard Cullen and I say we record at the Loud Lizard in downtown Ann Arbor. This place is legendary, and we’re so grateful to Phil Josephs for letting us use the space each week. If you’re a local listener and appreciate good music, I highly recommend you check it out. And if you’re not local, our very own Vada Carsewell has a fantastic music review blog called Behind the Music that you have to check out. It’s my first stop for new music, and while I don’t love sharing my work on a public stage, I am passionate about finding good talent to support.”

  Cullen shoots me an amused look over his mic. “Okay, then. Do what he says, listeners. The Loud Lizard in Ann Arbor, and Behind the Music, our very talented friend’s music review blog. Believe me, if it’s good, Vada will tell you about it. Girl’s about as tough on the industry as she is easy on the eyes. She can be found manning the spigots at the Loud Lizard alongside my dorky brother. Two local celebs for the price of one.”

  After he logs us off, I drop my headphones and round on him. “Why’d you say that?”

  “Say what?” he asks, eyes wide.

  “That part about Vada being easy on the eyes. It’s irrelevant and offensive. She’s a goddamn genius, and you made it sound like they should all show up to see how she fills out her skinny jeans.”

  “Hm,” is all he says.

  “What d’you mean, ‘hm’? You need to go back and change that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I huff, confused at his easy acquiescence. “Okay. So, what was that about?”

  “Let’s just say it was an experiment.”

  “An experiment?”

  “Something I wanted to test out. A hypothesis of mine. And Zack’s, to be frank.”

  “You’
re telling me you were, what? Testing me to make sure I wasn’t a sexist asshole?”

  He waves me away, closing his laptop and gathering up his notes. “I know you aren’t sexist. I wanted to see if you’d rush to Vada’s defense.”

  I stare at him and blink once. “What?”

  “Come on, Luke.”

  “Of course I rushed to her defense. You’re setting her up to be visited by any number of creepy guys where she works, which is a bar, in case you forgot.”

  “I haven’t forgotten. Listen, Zack and I have noticed you getting closer to Vada is all.”

  “So?”

  “So,” he counters blandly.

  “We’re friends.”

  Cullen rolls his eyes, slinging his black messenger bag over his shoulder. “You and Zack are friends. You and Vada are clearly more.”

  “I didn’t write the song about Vada,” I blurt. “If that’s what you’re implying.” My brother freezes in his tracks and slowly turns back to me from the doorway.

  “Wow,” he says, dragging out the word into multiple syllables.

  “Oh, fuck off. I know you were thinking it.”

  “Maybe.” He grins. “You’ve been pretty insistent, but all signs pointed to the ginger music nerd. But now I know you wrote it about her. Holy shit, Luke. How long?”

  I shake my head and sink back down in my chair. “Go away.”

  Cullen hesitates and sits back down. “Are you going to tell her?”

  “No.”

  “You should tell her.”

  I glare. “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I already went over this with you.”

  “Yeah, but that was before I knew it really was about a girl, and not just any girl, but Vada. She’s amazing, Luke. You guys would be great together. Who else understands your music nerdiness?”

  I narrow my eyes but don’t respond. My brother’s lips crush to the side, thoughtful.

  “Fine. The song is off the table. But what about asking her on a date? Just because you aren’t dedicating a viral hit song to her doesn’t mean you can’t let her know you like her.”

  “Maybe. I might.”

  “Huzzah!” Cullen says. He’s about to leave again when he turns back, looking mildly outraged. “Zack knew all along, didn’t he?”

  * * *

  My dad’s (very mature) unending silence has only succeeded in making me more adamantly anti–music career, so first period finds me sitting outside the guidance counselor’s office. Enough is enough. If I’m not going to do a thing, I might as well commit to not doing it. Even though Phil’s words about writing music come to mind, I mentally give myself a shake. Better to cut it off completely—shove my composing back into a secret place until years down the line, when it will rise up again and become overwhelming.

  Hopefully by then, I won’t live with my twin, and he won’t be able to secretly record me and post it online.

  I’m sitting in a plastic chair, phone in hand, scrolling through Vada’s latest blog post when I feel a rush of air as she sits down beside me.

  “Hey,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

  I quickly close the screen on my phone and tuck it away. “Seeking guidance. You?”

  “Same. Well, sort of. I have an appointment to turn in some financial aid paperwork.” She holds a stack up.

  “Right.”

  “So … dropping Spanish?”

  “Huh?”

  She grins, and my stomach clenches when I realize she’s wearing some sort of lipstick that makes her teeth look blinding and her freckles stand out and God I love gingers.

  Her brown eyes crinkle in the corners. “Sorry. I have this theory that if you aren’t seeing a guidance counselor about college, you’re dropping Spanish senior year. Most colleges only require three years.”

  “Is that what you did?” I ask, mostly to keep the conversation going. Is it possible to never grow tired of talking to a person?

  “Yup. It’s why I’m in that embarrassing but therapeutic dance class.” She huffs out a small laugh and removes her backpack, dropping it on the floor between her Converse. “I think Madame finally caught on to me, too. She’s started bringing in a lot more angsty music. Who needs counseling when you can just wrench all the anger and hurt out?”

  I feel my lips quirk in a smile, and I push up on my plastic frames. “I never thought of it that way before.”

  “Really?” she asks, surprised. “I figured you’d know all about it. That’s what making your music is about, isn’t it? What’s that Annie Mathers’s quote? Something about not really knowing what she felt until she put it to music?”

  “Wow, that’s … profound.”

  “Country singers, man. They get to the heart of the matter.”

  “Yeah. So … I’m actually here to quit Senior Composition. I mean”—I hurry to assure her—“I’m still 100 percent writing your showcase music. If you want me to, that is. After, you know, the whole viral thing.”

  “Of course I do! I haven’t wanted to bring it up, but I would be honored.”

  I nod. “Good. I’m definitely still in. I just need to drop the class.”

  “But why?”

  I shrug, fidgeting with my frames again. “I don’t know. We have to perform live…”

  She nods.

  “Well, um. Yeah. After the aforementioned ‘Break for You’ thing, I don’t feel like it.”

  “You don’t feel like it?”

  “Well, okay, more like I don’t want to play for a crowd, and I don’t need my dad seeing it as a victory—”

  “So, don’t tell Charlie. I’m not telling anyone.”

  “But people will be there, and they’ll have cameras.”

  She sits quiet a moment. Finally, she says, “Okay. Tell me one thing. Have you already started writing something for the showcase?”

  The guilty look on my face confirms it.

  “That’s what I thought! You could have told me!” she says happily, smacking me on the shoulder. “What if you didn’t have to play it live?”

  “How would that work?”

  “Duh, record it. You don’t have to play it live. Just record something and send it my way. I’ll choreograph something worthy to it and perform the piece for both of us.”

  The idea is so appealing, I can barely breathe. “But you haven’t even heard it yet. How d’you know it will move you?”

  “Easy,” she says. “I know you.” Her cheeks flush a little, and she tucks a loose wave of fiery hair behind her ear. “And I know your gift. Think about it?”

  I already have.

  When the administrative assistant calls my name a minute later, I tell her I’ve changed my mind.

  I’ve been given a second chance. This time, Vada will know my song is for her and only her.

  VADA

  Hey, Greenly, I need a wedding date. You in? YouTube: Sheppard “Geronimo”

  LUKE

  Duh. YouTube: Vance Joy “I’m with You”

  VADA

  It’s the night of the prom. Do you mind?

  LUKE

  What prom? New phone who dis?

  VADA

  You’re a nerd. I like you.

  24

  VADA

  As previously explained, I’m not a church girl. But Meg is.

  Because of this, I am under certain obligations to attend some services. It’s in the friendship contract I signed when I first met Meg in the church preschool our moms brought us to. That sounds like an exaggeration, but it’s not. Meg literally drew up a letter of “Will You Be My Friend Yes/No,” and while it didn’t contain anything more than that, she’s added to it over the years.

  But it’s not terrible. Listening to worship music, especially sung by someone I hold dear and who believes so easily, feels different and easy. More powerful.

  Meg thinks it must have something to do with the emotion I attach to lyrics. But I think it’s that and the emotion I attach to her. Regardless, it’s a rar
e Sunday night that finds me in a dark theater instead of closing the bar. I listen to the message halfheartedly, but I’m itching for the moment the stage brightens and the opening chords start up. I can appreciate the darkness here. Have you ever noticed how concerts are always dark?

  Some might say it’s because darkness helps people hide and let go of their inhibitions and have a better time.

  I think it’s something else. It allows the person in the audience to experience the show as if it were meant only for them. One-on-one. No one ever looks around if they’re really having a good time. They don’t need to see who else is having a good time. They don’t care. They have eyes only for the performer. They have ears only for the music. And, yeah, if they are really doing the thing correctly, they can close their eyes and wish the rest of the universe away.

  It’s not different tonight. I can pretend it’s only me here, along with my hurt and frustration and insecurities. I can be real with God, and I can almost mostly believe that he’s listening and being real right back.

  Each time I come to one of these, it gets a little bit easier to want it to be real because wouldn’t that be amazing? Maybe it’s my desperation talking. Like a ten-year-old still clinging to the last Christmas with Santa Claus, I’m grasping for anything that could make me feel better.

  But, I don’t know, isn’t it objectively better to grasp for the supposed creator of the universe than for a fallible human?

  Anyway, Meg asked me along tonight because they are trying out a new song. I did my research, and to be frank, it’s not my scene. Pretty enough vocals, but breathless and Stevie Nicks-esque.

  I hate Stevie Nicks.

  But I love Meg. (I feel like now is a good time to reassess the sheer number of things I’ve done in my life out of love for Meg. Stevie Nicks, I tell you. Ugh.)

  The lights dim, and I hear the rustling of the band setting up onstage. As far as youth groups go, I’m not an expert, but I think this one is pretty well stocked. What I mean is, they aren’t just a group of kids sitting in a church basement talking about the dangers of slow dancing. I’m sure there’s some of that, too, but this Sunday-night service seems to focus on a message and music, and afterward, junk food.