Page 8 of Where Happiness Begins

He only speaks when I turn around and get back to my cleaning, but not before he lets out a deep, loud sigh.

“Visibility for them is visibility for my work. The industry’s saturated, and if I wanna stand out, I need their album to do well.” While he answers, I slowly turn back around so I catch his bored blink as he adds, “Good enough for you?”

I hum.

“So?” he asks, having the nerve to sound impatient.

“So I still don’t know exactly what you’re asking of me.” In truth, I do have an idea, but I like to see him work for it.

I’m sure he sees it with the look he throws me, but he still says, “You could become some kind of spokesperson for Crash & Burn. Share clips of shows and music, things like that. Get the public to know them personally so they want to look their music up.”

Just like it did when Ethan initially mentioned it, flashes of following the band on their shows flood my head. Always listening to music, feeling that spike of adrenaline all the time… No matter what the marketing job actually entailed, it would sure be a hell of an experience.

However, I still don’t have the luxury of quitting my nicely paying job to follow a group of people around, as fun as it sounds.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Jayson taking a few steps in my direction, probably noticing I’m just chatting and not working, so I turn around and resume my cleaning job. With my back to the guy—I think Carter was his name—I say, “It’s a great offer, and I’m flattered that the band thought of me for it, but I don’t think the logistics would work.”

“Why’s that? You’d get paid, obviously.”

I turn around too fast, probably giving away my overeagerness. “What kind of payment are we talking about?”

My delusional bubble bursts the moment he mentions an approximate number. Even if they agreed to go higher than that number, it’d probably still be less than what I make here with tips. Plus, I’m hopeful that once I’ve been here for a few years, Jayson will add me to the health insurance policy he and a few of the higher-ups get. I don’t think it’s much, but it’d probably be enough to get me by.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t have it in me to give him attitude anymore. “Honestly, I wish I could say yes, but financially, it just wouldn’t work.”

His poker face doesn’t move an inch. “What do you want, then? Name your price.”

I shake my head, then snicker. “Honestly? Unless one of you has health insurance and is willing to marry me, then I don’t think there’s any way this can work.”

For the first time tonight, I get a reaction out of him: a sharp huff out of his nose.

“But again, thanks for thinking of me.”

As I turn around, he says, “Wait, you were actually serious?”

“No. Well, not about marriage anyway.” I’m desperate, but I’m notthatdesperate.

I pull two glasses back onto the first shelf before he says, “Name something else. Anything.”

He’s really not making this easy, is he?

With a sigh, I turn around and lean against the bar, my face now close enough that I can see just how long his dark lashes are. In a tone low enough that Jayson won’t hear, I say, “Look, I’ll be honest with you. I have a crap ton of medical bills to pay, and unless you can get me insurance or a lot more money than I’m making here, then I can’t leave.” I give him a sad smile even though his face is still painfully blank. “I’m sorry.”

He drags a hand through the dark strands of his hair, just like I imagine he has all day. “The guys are self-employed. They don’t have insurance.”

“I assumed.” I lift a shoulder. “But you guys will be fine. There are plenty of influencers out there.”

“But we know your platform works with their sound.”

He has a point. Sure, the success they saw after my story could’ve been a fluke, but there’s also a possibility my audience simply works for them. Being an influencer is a strange thing, one that can never be fully understood. Another blogger similar to me could have shared the same post and it wouldn’t have led to the same results, just like sometimes, my own collaborations fail, all for reasons out of my understanding.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat for the millionth time. “I really do wish I could help you.”

His jaw tightens, and he waits for a long moment before nodding once and getting up.

Watching him walk away feels like staring at a golden fantasy, one I might have explored in another life, almost within reach but too far not to slip through my fingers.

It’s almost 3:00 a.m. by the time everyone has left the bar and I get to turn off the lights and lock the doors behind me. My shoulders are tight and the one thing I want more than a hot shower is to drop onto my bed and sleep for three days straight.

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