More Than Maybe: A Novel by Erin Hahn
English | 2020 | YA, Romance | ePUB | 3.0 Mb
Growing up under his punk rocker dad’s spotlight, eighteen-year-old Luke Greenly knows fame and wants nothing to do with it. His real love isn’t in front of a crowd, it’s on the page. Hiding his gift and secretly hoarding songs in his bedroom at night, he prefers the anonymous comfort of the locally popular podcast he co-hosts with his outgoing and meddling, far-too-jealousy-inspiringly-happy-with-his-long-term-boyfriend twin brother, Cullen. But that’s not Luke’s only secret. He also has a major un-requited crush on music blogger, Vada Carsewell.
Vada’s got a five year plan: secure a job at the Loud Lizard to learn from local legend (and her mom’s boyfriend) Phil Josephs (check), take over Phil’s music blog (double check), get accepted into Berkeley’s prestigious music journalism program (check, check, check), manage Ann Arbor’s summer concert series and secure a Rolling Stone internship. Luke Greenly is most definitely NOT on the list. So what if his self-deprecating charm and out of this world music knowledge makes her dizzy? Or his brother just released a bootleg recording of Luke singing about some mystery girl on their podcast and she really, really wishes it was her?
In More Than Maybe, Erin Hahn’s swooniest book yet, Luke and Vada must decide how deep their feelings run and what it would mean to give love a try.
“That’s bullshit, Vada, I’m sorry,” he finally says before going to take another drink order. I feel my lips roll up, warmed by his cussing. It’s like when my best friend, Meg, lets one slip. They both try so hard not to swear because of their personal beliefs, so when one of them does let a fuck out, it feels earned.
Still, I want to pout about my asshole dad for a little longer, so I do. I grab a fresh rag, wiping down some tables and scrubbing a little more vigorously than the lazy Sunday-afternoon crowd warrants.
The Loud Lizard is an institution. In the early ’90s, Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins played here. The bar sits at the midpoint of the dance floor, and there’s a small raised stage at the front for bands. Along the sides and over the entrance sits a balcony that fits in a half circle facing the stage. It’s VIP seating, but I like to call it the “old folks’ lounge.” It’s where you go if you want to listen to live music but don’t want to stand. I can’t fathom it. I can’t not move when music is playing.
Anyway, this is my happy place. Sticky, sour-smelling, loud, and crass. These weirdos are my people. We speak a common language of lyrics and chest-thumping beats.
And outdated, ska-music dancing.
I slouch against the ice chest, another rag discarded, eating a maraschino as Phil rounds the bar and closes the flapping door behind him. He runs a thick hand through his receding hair and slumps next to me, crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“I should have called the police on him last time.”
I grunt, rolling my eyes, and take another stab with my straw. Phil’s lips twitch under his whiskers at my sullen display. We’ve been through this before. I would’ve called the cops the first time Marcus showed up, reeking of Jim Beam and self-righteousness, and I certainly would have called them any number of times since. Phil’s the holdout. For all his grousing, he’s too pure when it comes to my mom and her skeevy ex, a.k.a. Marcus, a.k.a. my dad. I suspect it’s out of affection for my mom. They’ve been dating for over a year, but he claims he’s been in love with her since high school. It’s why I can’t give him shit about being her boyfriend. That level of Captain Wentworth pining deserves a break. Besides, my mom’s a catch.
“No one ever dates the drummer,” he always says. Instead, my mom fell for the redheaded lead singer, got pregnant out of grad school, and is forever tied to a narcissistic insurance salesman with a fondness for free whiskey and making everyone around him as miserable as he is.
“You going to reschedule your dinner?”