Page 68 of Where Happiness Begins
Something inside me loosens.
“So what’s all the shouting about?” Carter grumbles.
Bong looks at him like he’s stupid. “We’re playing a sold-out show in five hours and our guitarist is currently shitting his guts out.”
“Thatisa problem,” I say.
“We can’t cancel a show. Not during our first tour when our name is just starting to get out there,” Joe says, only slightly calmer than Bong.
“Can’t we get him to a hospital so he can get rehydrated before tonight?” I say.
Bong lifts a brow. “You haven’t seen this, Lil. It’s bad.”
I don’t think Iwantto see it either.
“So, again, we’re fucked,” he says, dropping onto the couch.
Carter moves my guitar away to take a seat next to Bong, then starts messing with the knobs and strings.
“I mean, there could be one solution.” Everyone’s ears perk at that, but my eyes are only on Carter.
It takes him a moment to realize what I mean, and when he does, he becomes stock-still. “Fuck no.”
“You know all the songs already. No one else could replace Emmett.”
“I’m not doing it.”
I regret putting him on the spot. Now Bong and Joe’s attention is on him, which is probably only making this worse. It’s not that he doesn’t like them, but Carter’s a private person, and having others weigh in on his decisions is a bad idea.
I take his hand and force him to his feet, then tug him toward the bunk section of the bus. He grumbles the whole way. “Get it out of your head, Fireball.”
Once I’ve closed the partition between us and the others, I say, “What’s holding you back?”
“I told you. I don’t play anymore.”
“Yes, you do. You might not have picked up a guitar in years, but you’re still a guitarist. It’s in your head. In your body.” He still reaches for the instrument when he needs something to do with his hands, even if most of the time, he doesn’t even realize he does it.
He stretches the neck of his hoodie.
“I’ve seen the way you look at that guitar,” I say, pointing toward the living room. “You miss it. It’s obvious.”
He doesn’t deny it, which I know is a win.
“It fucked me up,” he grunts out.
I hate the way it seems to hurt him just to think about that time in his life. Still, I don’t think this is a bad idea. “Being in that band was bad for you, but that doesn’t meanplayingis.” I take a step closer to him, then look up so I can meet his eyes. “Don’t let the bad experience you had take away from your love for it.”
In the end, no one can force him. If he doesn’t want to play, he won’t play, simple as that. It would be a shame, though, for him to let go of something that used to be so important to him. That stillisimportant to him, even if he’s pushed it aside.
He runs a hand over his head, and something coils in my gut, the way it does during every one of my follow-up appointmentswith my nephrologist, like this might be the moment everything changes. Except this time, it’s not about me, and it’s somehow worse to be nervous for someone else.
I see the moment his mind shifts. His eyes flit back to the living room, where Bong and Joe are probably on their toes waiting for his answer. Or maybe he’s looking toward where my father’s guitar lies on the couch behind the partition, waiting.
He doesn’t need to say the words. I know him.
I smile, then tap his hard chest. “Come on, rock star. Let’s get you ready.”
I might be more nervous than he is.
