Page 15 of Where Happiness Begins

I don’t answer, which he takes as a clear yes.

He looks around to make sure no one is close, then says, “I heard from the court officer that you’d be joining us today. I hope your first experience wasn’t too bad.”

I blink.

“Not a big speaker, are you?”

“There anything I can do for you?” I ask, the bite clear in my voice. I don’t remember a time when all my sentences didn’t come out this clipped.

“I thought we could have a chat.”

My frown deepens as I try to understand what makes him think I’d be interested in that when I didn’t give his meeting an ounce of attention. “Look, you know I don’t want to be here. I know I don’t want to be here. Let’s cut the bullshit, yeah?”

He doesn’t flinch. In fact, I’d swear his grin widens. “Well, too bad, my friend. I don’t think you have a choice.”

I lift a brow.

“You should probably go read the terms of your probation. It’s not just showing up here. You also have weekly meetings with a sponsor.” Then he points at his chest like he’s a fucking prize.

A sponsor. I’d ask if this was a joke, but I know that’d be useless. “So? You like coffee?”

This might be even worse than that dumb meeting.

We only crossed the street toward the nearest coffee shop. I figured if I indulged him and chugged a drink with him, he’d be happy and call it a day, but apparently, that’s not enough for him. He actually wants to talk, and talking is the last thing I want to do. I don’t want to listen to his insufferable preachiness. I don’t want to feel the judgment bleeding through his words.

No one could hate me more than I already hate myself.

We’re facing each other in a booth, my cup empty while his is barely touched.

“So, Andrew. Tell me about yourself.”

“It’s Carter,” I say. No way am I going to listen to that name for six months. The moment I joined my brother’s band four years ago, I asked Yuri and Steve, the drummer and bassist, to call me Carter, and even Brandon obliged most of the time. Only my parents call me Andrew now, and since I don’t speak to them anymore, the name is gone and buried.

“Carter. All right.” He looks at me expectantly, but when he realizes I’m not about to start gossiping with him like a teenage girl, he shifts in the booth and cocks his head. “Fine then. We’ll ‘cut the bullshit,’ as you suggested.”

Now we might be getting somewhere.

“First meetings can be rough. I get that. The fact that you decided to come tonight, even if it was forced, means that you’ve made the decision to quit—or I hope it does—and that’s the most important part of this journey.” He dips his chin. “Congrats.”

I swallow, body statue still.

“But before I let you leave, I want to know what your lifeline through this is.”

My face must show I have no clue what he’s talking about.

He leans in. “What are you going to hold on to when things get rough? Because they will. And you’ll need something, or someone, that you’ll think about to make you say no to that drink.”

This time, when I don’t answer, it’s not because I don’t want to. It’s because I don’t have anything to say. I don’t have someone I’m doing this for or a goalpost that’ll keep me on track.

I have nothing.

A few years ago, I would’ve said I had Brandon, who’d been by my side from the day I was born, but I can’t even say that anymore.

I guess the only thing I could say is I’m doing it for myself because I’ve already hit rock bottom and I don’t want to know what’s even lower than that, and that means I have to get my shit together one way or another.

“I guess I’ll start by telling you mine, then.” He doesn’t sound mad or disappointed as if having a one-way conversation doesn’t bother him one bit. “I’ve had my last drink five years ago, and even now, it still happens that the only thing I want to do is drive to the nearest bar to get blackout drunk.” His face transforms then, turning into a smile that should not be anywhere near the words he’s just said. “And when that happens, I think of my daughter. I think of Lilianne.”

Chapter 7

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