Page 1 of Where Happiness Begins
Chapter 1
Ishould’ve prepared myself.
It’s not like I haven’t expected this moment to happen at some point. I just didn’t think it would come quite this fast. And while I’m usually a firm believer that there’s nothing that can’t be helped with good music and a short, cathartic crying session, with the email I just received, not even a bucketful of tears while listening to Lana Del Rey would cut it.
Around the bar, people are standing with drinks in their hands or sitting at the few tables scattered around the space as low ’90s alternative music plays from the built-in speakers. Wednesday nights aren’t usually this busy except tonight we have live music coming in. While the performers who play here are normally local, lesser-known artists, we still get swarmed on show nights, which means I can’t have a breakdown right now.
Get a grip, Lil.
With a roll of my shoulders, I force myself to put my phone away and get back to work. It’s not like I could forget what I just read anyway.
There’s a half-hour or so before the start of the show, so the line at the bar is still small enough that my colleague Leahhas got it under control. I pick up a rag and wipe the mess I made when pouring my previous drinks before new customers arrive.
The Sparrow is not a rusty hole in the wall, but it isn’t particularly chic either. The space is one large room that echoes when it’s half-empty like it is now, but that creates insane acoustics when bands come to play. The interspersed round tables are made of rough wood slats and decorated with rustic candles, the overhead lights are dimmed, and thick black velvet covers the walls and windows, making it impossible to know whether it’s noon or midnight. When I walk in here, it’s as if time stops until I exit at the end of my shift. Not being able to see the sunlight while working might not have been my first choice, but when I was offered this job, I didn’t have the luxury of being picky. By the time I was able to start working, at twenty-two years old and with no prior experience, it was either that or starving.
Once the bar is clean, I glance around once more to make sure no new customer needs to be served. Everyone has already spread out across the room, only one man sitting at the actual bar.
Of course the second I’m back to having nothing to do, I try but fail to keep my mind from running back to the image that will probably haunt my nights from now on. The email that popped into my phone just as I walked into my shift pulls at my attention like a lighthouse in the dark, unavoidable.
The inheritance account has been emptied out.
I’d been warned about it over the past two years. Mrs. Ibrahim, my accountant, had suggested on multiple occasions to invest the money instead of letting it sit in my account, but that option wasnever realistic. Not when I had medical bills, both past and present, that required imminent payment. Spending the money wasn’t a dumb youth decision. It was life or death.
That account had been my saving grace after losing my dad two and a half years ago. Before, we’d relied almost exclusively on the health insurance we were granted through his job, but when he died unexpectedly, I got stuck with mounting bills and no way of affording them, and it’s not like I could’ve stopped dialysis. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t find a job that offered benefits either. Thankfully, Dad had thought of getting life insurance, which allowed me to pay for my treatments and for the kidney transplant I eventually got.
Except now, I’ve used it all and I’m stuck with nothing. Nada.
My hand freezes over the counter, shaking. I’m going to be sick.
No matter how hard I try to find solutions and rationalize things, I can’t come up with a single good answer. Even if I asked to double the hours I do at the bar and did all the collabs I got offered on my social media accounts, I wouldn’t be able to afford all the drugs I still take on a daily basis.
My head spins as my heart rate picks up, images of pill dispensers and stacked-up bills hitting me from all sides. With my eyes shut tight, I lean against the bar and force a breath through my nose.
You’re alive. You’re as healthy as you ever could’ve hoped for. You’ll find a way.
The soothing words don’t work like they usually do. In fact, I only get more and more lost in my panic. I need to stop this. Lips pinched, I turn and do something I’ve never done.
I pour myself a shot.
I barely look at the bottle I grab before filling the tiny glass I picked from under the bar. Might be ironic for a bartender to be an almost alcohol virgin, but when you’re used to living with failing kidneys—and now with a single, precious one—you don’t go around messing things up by drinking.
However, today calls for desperate measures.
The amber liquid in the glass calls to me, and before I can remind myself what a stupid mistake this could be, I bring the drink to my lips and swallow.
Then proceed to choke on it.
I remember trying a sip of Tequila on my twenty-first birthday with my best friend Finn and it not tasting so bad, but this ishorrible. Why would anyone voluntarily drink something that tastes like those disgusting Valentine’s Day cinnamon hearts?
I try to inhale through the burn in my throat, but all it does is make me cough even more, tears rising to my eyes.
“What the fuck?”
I hadn’t realized I was standing this close to the man sitting at the bar until his voice makes me jump.
Still choking on the burning liquid, I force myself to look up and match a face to the deep voice that just made me want to go hide under a rock forever.
And what a face it is.
