Page 85 of Where Happiness Begins

It’s not like I’ve always been a big family man. I spent my tenth birthday alone, babysat by our neighbor Francine who smelled like mothballs and cat food and who entertained me by playing Scrabble, all because Brandon had a meeting with a casting company. Apparently, he was going to be the next big thing in cinema, or was it musical theater? I spent my twenty-first birthday, just like this, alone in a bar, not because I wanted to but because it felt like the only option. I could’ve stayed home and had dinner with my parents, but at that age, we’d realized that apart from our careers, we didn’t have much in common. I don’t think they even could’ve named my favorite movie or the name of my best friend (Lee, a guy who’d played the drums in my high school band and who I lost contact with after he moved on from music to work in tech in Silicon Valley). We didn’t really know each other, and by that point, we’d kind of stopped pretending we did.

Which is why I’m so surprised at how badly I reacted to my mother’s call today.

“Andrew,” she said when I picked up. Notheyoroh my God, it’s been so long, just my name, said in that tone of hers that isn’t cold but isn’t warm either. I could almost picture her, sitting in the parlor at home, a gin martini in her hand, tapping her foot on the ground as she waited for me to pick up.

“Hi,” I said tentatively. We hadn’t spoken face to face or even by phone in more than a year, and even though I received the occasional polite text asking me for updates, I couldn’t say we’dactuallybeen in touch since I’d left the band.

“Happy birthday, hon.”

My shoulders tensed at the pet name. How dumb. Herhon, who she’d never offered to visit in Boston or even invited home for the holidays. Maybe that’s because she knew I would’ve refused, but it wouldn’t have hurt to ask.

“Thanks.”

“How are you? How are things?”

“Good,” I said, voice tight. It was mostly true, but telling that to her felt like a lie. She’d never see what I was doing asgood.

“Glad to hear it,” she said, not expanding further on what I meant. “Heard about our old friend Vernon a few days ago. You must remember him, right? Since he said you’d contacted him.”

“Right.” I’d figured my contacting old family “friends” would come back to bite me in the ass, but in the end, I did what I had to do. Starting to work as a music producer with no contact in the industry was like deciding to become a track Olympian atthirty-five. It didn’t happen. So I’d stepped over my ego and called some people I knew from way back, or who my parents knew and I recognized by name. Not everyone called me back, but some did. Enough that I got to meet with people who knew people who knew people, and finally, I found a job at a record label in Boston. They don’t necessarily release the exact music I want to work on, but for a first job as a producer, it’d do just fine. As much as I loved to play, messing with other people’s music to bring it a step further tickles a part of my brain I never knew I had, and it brings me a sense of fulfillment I never knew I wanted.

“So you’re sticking with this thing, aren’t you?” Mom said, this time sounding bitter.

“What thing?”

“That quitting the guitar thing.” She tsked. “After everything we’ve put into this. Such a shame.”

My jaw clenched. “If this is what you called about, we can hang up now.” A year of no talking, only to lead to that. No question aboutwhyI’d reached out to Vernon, or what I was doing now. I don’t know why I expected things to change, but the realization that this time was no different hurt like a bitch.

“Oh, don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Angry. You’ve always been so angry, Andrew.” She tuts like I’m a petulant child. “You know where we’re coming from on this.”

Right. Because I’m sure my father was of the same point of view. He was probably sitting on the other side of the room, his earphones in as he read an article or worked on some newproject. He hadn’t deigned to call me today, so maybe he had an even worse opinion of me than she did.

I stood straighter. “Why did you call, Mom?”

“It’s your birthday.” As if that was a good explanation. Not because she wanted to or she missed me, but because she had to.

“Yeah. You know what? I think we’re done here.”

“Andrew, come on.”

“Have a great year. Talk to you September of next year, yeah?”

And then I hung up.

It should’ve felt good to have the upper hand, to shut her down just like she’d shut me down ever since she and my father had started managing Fickle and decided the band came before all else.

It didn’t.

I’d walked away from them because of the drinking but also because I’d hated the way I felt back then. Like I was never enough, like even when I was “living the dream,” I’d feel so fucking empty. No oneactuallycared. I’d done everything right, followed all the steps, got the career and the money and the girls, and yet I’d never felt anything close to happy. Just…blank. That’s what had gotten me to drink in the first place. The feeling that the only time I could actually feel good about myself was when I wasn’t really there.

Eyes fixed on my phone, I watched the screen light up again with another incoming call from my mother, only to realize I’d never walked away from that feeling. Icouldn’twalk away from it. That emptiness was still there. That feeling of only floating from one thing to the next, never actually enjoying life but simply goingthrough it, was still smack dab in the middle of my chest, and if running away hadn’t made it stop, then nothing ever would.

Suddenly, the last thing I wanted to be doing was standing in the grocery store, buying food to meal prep for the week. The carefully balanced eggs and the hand-picked sweet potatoes seemed to be taunting me.Thought you could have a healthy lifestyle, be happy? How pathetic.And so, I walked away. I left my half-full cart right there in the middle of the aisle, walked out the automatic doors, and went straight to the bar across the street.

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