Page 29 of Where Happiness Begins

Three and a half years ago

He’s doing crosswords.

Or at least I think that’s what those are. I can’t really see, with the cover of his old-school puzzles book folded over itself, hiding what he’s actually doing.

It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, he’s using it to ignore me.

Today didn’t start out well, and it certainly isn’t getting any better. For one, the Grammys are on tonight, and ever since I woke up, I’ve been teetering between hoping Fickle wins the awards it’s been nominated for and wishing we lose in all categories. On the one hand, maybe losing would help my brother see that this band was a terrible idea anyway and take our breaking up easier. Maybe even find it in himself to forgive me for leaving. On the other hand, if we lose, this is it. We’ll have had the lifespan of one album, and if this one doesn’t make it, then this all truly amounts to nothing. Everything I’ve sacrificed for it, useless.

I’m not sure if Brandon will be there tonight. It’s always been his dream to attend the Grammys, to become famous for his music, so I hope for his sake he does. Mom and Dad will for sure gowith him, shaking hands left and right with old acquaintances, in their element.

I was never going, for obvious reasons. The moment I left and triggered the bomb that blew up our four-person band, I forfeited that right. I’m not even going to watch it on TV. If this were before, I’d drink enough that I could pass out and miss it, but now, I’ll need to find another way to make myself ignore the ceremony. I quit the band because I couldn’t be in it and stay sober. If I drink anyway, what was the point?

So I spent the day restoring an old wooden table I’d found on the side of the road, needing to busy my hands with something now that they don’t have guitar strings to mindlessly pick at. I left my phone at the bottom of my socks drawer, put my headphones on with a seventies rock album at the loudest setting, and sanded. And sanded.

And then, I remembered I had to come here. Did I want to go out where I could spot snippets of the award show playing at a restaurant television? Fuck no. But I also didn’t want to have a judge go back on their lenient decision and send me to jail, so I kicked myself in the ass and drove here, to that same boring twenty-four-hour diner we went to last time.

The moment I sat down, Frank smiled at me like he was genuinely happy to see me there. It made me jerk back. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been with someone who wanted my company. Granted, I’m a pissy, lonely drunk, and I was drunk the majority of the nights last year, but it still surprised me.

“Carter,” he said, once again dressed like he was about to join a church choir. “How are you doing? I’m glad you came.”

“I’m fine,” I lied. I didn’t add that I didn’t have a choice to come.

“Good. That’s good.” He went over a few other polite niceties, then asked, “Were there any harder moments this past week?”

My jaw clenched.How about every single second?It’d be useless to say so, though. I was surprised he’d even try to have an honest conversation again. Last week, after he was done telling me how his daughter was the one thing that kept him from going back to drinking, he asked me again what my anchor was, but I didn’t feel more inclined to speak, especially since I didn’t have a clear answer to give him. He left looking slightly less encouraged, but today, we were back to square one.

I stared at him with my mouth shut, hoping he’d get the hint and call this meeting a day. However, when I didn’t answer, he said something like “Okey dokey,” dug out this stupid book, and opened it, solving his crosswords or sudoku or whatever he was doing as if I’d suddenly disappeared from his sight.

And now here we are, thirty minutes later, and he still hasn’t looked up from his book, save for when he asked the waitress to refill his coffee cup.

It’s pissing me the hell off.

I don’t know why. It’s not like I want to listen to his inspirational quotes and life stories, but seeing how he’s just…given up on me makes me mad. It’s selfish and pretty fucking stupid, but I can’t help it.

“Is this some kind of twisted game to make me speak?” I finally say.

“What?” he asks, not even looking up.

“Some reverse psychology shit so I decide to open up?”

“And why would I do that?”

I make a gesture like,how would I know?, and I’m pretty sure it makes me look like a stubborn child who’s been refused dessert.

“I have no purpose in playing games with you, Carter.” Still, he keeps his eyes on his paper, reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “You want to waste our time? Be my guest.” He doesn’t sound angry, or sad, or even bored. His voice is completely bland. I wish he’d get angry, decide to argue. I’m itching for a fight, for a reaction,anything.

“Then why are you still here?” I snarl. Is he bearing the brunt of the discomfort and anger I felt throughout the day? Maybe, but I’m not stopping now.

“Doing what I signed up for. I said I’d spend an hour a week with you, and I don’t go back on my word.” He shrugs. “You don’t want to talk? Don’t talk. It doesn’t change anything to me. Good luck because you’re going to need it, but go ahead. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’m just here to help if you decide you need it.”

This is bullshit.

Frank doesn’t say anything else as he continues writing with his sharpened pencil, and now that we’re back in silence, my thoughts swim back to what’s happening tonight. It almost feels like my body is in two places at once, here with him and there with thepeople I used to consider closest to me. I’m not sure what place makes me feel worse.

And it all comes back to alcohol. I should’ve been able to be there tonight. If I didn’t have this problem, I wouldn’t have needed to escape everything I had. Plenty of people have a couple of drinks without going overboard. If I was able to control myself, I’d be able to go to shows and after-parties and big events without fearing I’d lose myself and do something messed up like drive my car while drunk out of my mind and hit some unmoving object. I’d be able to play shows without feeling this pull toward the bar at the end of the night. I’d be able to enjoy what I had and not fuck it all up. I wouldn’t need to be sitting with some middle-aged guy at a nasty diner across the country.

“How is talking supposed to solve anything?” I spit out, picking up the conversation where it left off.

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