Page 59 of Where Happiness Begins

“But he wasn’t struggling,” I say.

His gaze falls to the pile of flyers on the mattress, then comes back to me. “I think maybe he was.”

I shake my head. It’s not possible. “And how would you know that?” I shouldn’t be snapping at him when he’s only trying to help, but he doesn’tunderstand.

Carter rubs at the back of his neck as he looks at the ceiling, his face losing some of its color, something I’ve never seen on him, except maybe on the day we got married. I’ve just struck a chord I didn’t know existed, and for whatever reason, I wish I could take it back. His always calm exterior crumbles under my eyes, something I hate because I know he must hate the feeling in return.

Silence ensues, and I almost feel bad about rebutting him this way. The thick tension between us remains for so long I think he’s going to move on to another subject and trudge on, but he surprises me by saying, “Because I struggled with it too.”

I force myself to remain as neutral as possible even though deep inside, my jaw falls to the floor. Carter’s like a rock. He doesn’t seem like someone who can struggle.

And yet he says, “I stopped drinking when I got into a drunk accident. Had to face that I had an alcohol use disorder. Was forced to join the AA, and it’s probably what saved my life in the end.”

I blink, not knowing what to say. Is that what made him leave his band? What came between him and his brother?

It all clicks into place. His partying. Saying touring was bad for him. His family not understanding.

Carter sits on the bed, his movements still so careful. “But you could ask everyone I was close with at the time, and they wouldn’t have a clue what I’m talking about.” He cocks his head, a movement that makes him look younger than he is. “You can know someone without knowing all their struggles.”

He has a point. I know he does. I’ve lived with him for months and never knew he had an alcohol problem.

My thoughts start to jumble left and right, memories clashing in my head. The times my father said no to champagne for New Year’s Eve countdown, and I thought he was just accompanying me in my forced sobriety. The times I walked in on him and it looked like he’d had a really rough day, but he pretended like nothing was going on the second he saw me. The multiple times he had appointments he had to attend during the evening, without a clear explanation.

I grind my teeth, then put the flyers back into the box, dumping them all into one pile. There must be another explanation. Because if this is true and Carter’s right, then it means there was a gigantic part of my father’s life I never knew, and I can’t accept that.

“I think that’s enough for today. What do you think?”

“Lilianne, I—”

“I’m fine.” I put on my bravest smile. “And thank you for sharing. Really.” With a hand on his knee, I say, “I’m so glad you’re doing better, and if you ever struggle again, I’ll be there. You won’t be alone.” I hate to think he got sober by himself. I’ve heard how hard it can be even with a strong entourage, so him being forced to do it without anyone around… He’s so much more than what I’d initially believed. An entire universe.

I give his knee one last squeeze, then get up. “But I still don’t think my father went through the same thing.” Maybe, at some point, he thought he drank too much and decided to slow down, but he didn’t suffer from alcoholism. I would have known.

I spend the rest of the day trying to convince myself of it.

Chapter 24

Carter

Three years ago

“You did not just get this one in.”

I smirk at Frank’s shocked face. I don’t know why he keeps on being surprised when I beat him by about eighty points during every one of our games. He should be getting used to it at this point.

“Talent, old man,” I say. Then, because I’m a sucker and like to rub it in, I grab the basketball that bounced my way and turn around to throw it backward. I hear it hit the board then bounce to the side, probably narrowly missing the rim of the net. Frank still looks impressed, so I shrug and walk away as if I’d put it in.

“Good game,” I say, extending one hand his way while wiping the sweat off my forehead with the other. It might be late at night, but the September air still feels sweltering, the suburban town having forgotten it’s supposed to be fall.

“Appreciate the lie,” Frank says, his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. His cardio’s gotten better since we started playing, I’ll give him that. Even then, I make him run enough that he ends every game this way.

We didn’t plan on playing regularly, or at least I didn’t. The first time Frank suggested it, I even laughed in his face.

“I’m not joking,” he’d answered with an almost offended expression.

“You have to be.”

I’d been having a rough day. Rough week, really. I’d attended two months of meetings by that point, and I didn’t feel any closer to a better future than I did on day one. I still felt angry and regretted every single choice I’d ever made. Apart from the meetings, I pretty much spent all my time doing sudokus, reading books, and waiting for time to pass, each day feeling longer than the previous one. I didn’t know how to find a job when I had no qualifications or experience, and without friends or family, I had no one to hang out with. It was my new routine: waiting. But that particular day, my mother had texted me for the first time since I’d left California, and it was to say that if I’d been planning on attending my father’s fiftieth birthday (I hadn’t), I probably should reconsider. She added thatthe situation wasn’t idealandshe didn’t want to have anything ruin the party. The ruining thing being me.

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