Page 6 of Where Happiness Begins

Even if he hadn’t said his name, I’d have recognized his perky voice already.

“I just wanted to say how amazing it’s been since you posted your story yesterday. We’ve gotten eight thousand new listeners and, like, a shit ton of new followers in less than twelve hours. That’s insane. The guys can’t believe it.” In the back, a door slams, followed by the ignition of an engine. “I can’t thank you enough. And I know that’d be asking a lot, but we’d love it if you were down to attend another show or two.” He chuckles. “We were even messing around in the group chat this morning saying you should definitely come on tour with us. We wouldn’t say no to that kind of promo. Anyway, that was just us shooting the shit, but if ever you’re down to listen to more music, hit me up. ’Kay, bye.”

When the message ends, I realize I’m smiling from ear to ear. It’s so good to learn that my platform can do great things. It might seem silly to people that I post photos and videos about my daily, boring life, but I’ve received so many messages throughout the years saying that someone had been inspired by my story or that they were encouraged to keep going through their dialysis afterscrolling through my channel, and that’s even more precious than all the sponsoring money I could get.

For an infinitesimal moment, I allow myself the luxury of picturing what he’s just suggested. Joining these people on tour, hopping from one hotel room to the next or maybe even road-tripping across the country in the back of a hippie van. I have no clue how big or small their tour will be, but I have no doubt it’d be the experience of a lifetime. One I couldn’t even have dreamed of years ago, when I spent more time in the hospital than I did at school.

However, that’s all it is: a wild dream. People don’t simply drop everything to go follow a band full of strangers to help promote them. Especially not people who need to be finding a good job with health benefits in the next few months. I looked through local—and not-so-local—job postings this morning, and just as was the case a few years back, I couldn’t find one I was qualified to do that had the benefits I need. I never had the chance to figure out what I wanted to do with my life or go to college, and now that I look at what’s available to me, I regret not getting a degree the second my health got stable, even though it would have been nearly impossible with my financial situation.

I begin typing.

Hey Ethan (and everyone!)

I’m so happy my story has increased your following. You guys are awesome and deserve all the recognition! Sadly won’t be able to leave Boston, but let me knowwhenever you come back to the area and I’ll be in the front row cheering for you. :)

I press send, then spend the rest of my day trying to forget about how, with a single message, I proved Nana right.

Chapter 3

Not a lot can rile me up.

I don’t waste precious time getting angry. If I’m not happy with something, I simply walk away or distract myself from it. I don’t get into fights or keep in touch with people who make me miserable. I try to find the good in most situations.

But one thing that never fails to make my blood boil is my boss finding a way to make me uncomfortable every time we work together.

Jayson isn’t always here—the only reason why I haven’t quit yet, debt be damned—but when he is, there’s no way I’ll spend the night without him talking my ears off or being touchy-feely, even when I send him all the signals in the world that I’m not interested. He doesn’t care that it’s inappropriate to clasp his employees’ hips or pull on their ponytails like a third grader. If he can do it, he will.

“So what are you doing this weekend?” he asks as I prepare lemon wedges for the night ahead, probably trying to sound nonchalant, but he’s done this enough times to fool me.

“Not much,” I answer without looking in his direction. I don’t want to give him even an inkling of information about my privatelife. Then, because my father raised me right and I don’t have it in me to be rude, I make the mistake of asking, “You?”

“Oh, funny you ask,” he says, putting down the tub of grenadine he was filling. “I’m hosting a little something at my place, just a few people, but I think you’d fit right in.”

Damn it.

“That’s nice of you, but I, uh…” I’ve never been good at coming up with lies on the spot, and as he stares at me expectantly and I can’t come up with any good excuse, I wish I’d practiced that skill earlier in life. “I’m going to be busy cleaning my, uh…my garage.”

The second the words are out of my mouth, I realize how stupid they sound—who schedules a garage cleaning?—but it’s too late to step back now, so I just smile and play dumb, something he always seems to like.

“Oh, nice! I have some free time tomorrow if you need help with it?”

And risk being stuck in a room alone with him? I’ll pass.

“That’s kind of you, but I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” He takes a step in my direction, now close enough that I can smell his sour breath from the cheese string he ate earlier, and he clearly doesn’t notice or care about the stiffness in my body because he decides to let his rough hand drop onto my forearm.

“Very sure,” I force out. When I see he’s not moving and is probably only going to continue trying to find ways to intricate himself into my life, I add, “You know what? I just remembered Ineed to deep clean the cabinets.” Then I pull back and speed-walk away from him.

You need the money, I say to myself on repeat.You can’t go stomping on his foot with your heeled boots.

I feel Jayson’s eyes on me as I walk to the shelves holding the different types of glasses behind the bar, so to keep up with my pretense, I pull glasses out one by one. I used the exact same excuse a week ago, so I know those shelves are pristine, but I’ll take any excuse I can to escape.

I’m almost done scrubbing the first shelf when my phone buzzes in a pattern I recognize right away. I created it almost three years ago, when I was still with my ex and I wanted an easy way to figure out when he was the one who’d texted me. I’d gotten used to jumping on my phone the second it buzzed, hoping it was finally a message from him, and when Finn, my best friend, made me realize how pathetic that was, I made the special vibration for his contact alone.

Even now, so long after our breakup, I feel the inevitable stutter of my heartbeat, not out of excitement to hear from him, but as a guttural, instinctual reaction. I feel like a dog who’s been trained with a Pavlovian method, and I hate the way he still has that hold over me. Hate that I tolerated crumbs from him, enough that the feeling of a text from him can still trigger a visceral reaction in me.

I don’t want to look at whatever he’s written to me this time, but I know if I don’t do it now, I’ll only prolong the inevitable.

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