Page 86 of Where Happiness Begins

I wasn’t thinking, really. Muscle memory took over, or maybe it was more of a self-destructing instinct that decided which way my footsteps should lead me.

And here I am now.

The Anchor, or whatever crass name the place has, smells like sweat, mildewed fabric—probably from the carpet being drenched year after year with melted snow dragged in by dirty winter boots—and cheap beer. Perfect.

The seat I pick at the bar squeals under my weight as I let my body slump over the sticky bar. I don’t want to be here, but I also don’t want to be anywhere else.

Frankly, I don’t even want tobe.

A gruff guy with a thick gray beard and wiry nose hairs comes my way and stands, not speaking but asking his question all the same.

“Double Hendricks, no ice.”

He goes to prepare my order, not even nodding an agreement. He must be used to seeing all kinds of broken, desperate peoplehere. One mid-twenties man with a depressed face and not enough energy to keep his spine up at 9:00 p.m. doesn’t faze him. I should probably be embarrassed, but at this point, I don’t think I can disappoint myself any more.

The ice he put inside the drink—either because he didn’t hear me or because he didn’t give a fuck one way or another—clinks against the glass he drops in front of me. Not like I have the luxury to be picky.

I grab it, the cold bite against the palm of my hand feeling so beautifully, horrifyingly familiar. I bring the glass to my nose, taking a big inhale of the alcohol I got sick on so many times before. This is it. All of the past year, in the drain. Or was it already there, and I only fooled myself into thinking I’d gotten out? Guess I’ll never know.

I take another sniff, and then, just as I lift the rim to my lips, my eyes drift to the television above me, the sound low but still loud enough that I can hear the commentator over the basketball game. I don’t follow the sport, but seeing it now sends a jolt down my back, making me lower the glass back to the bar.

What the hell would Frank think if he saw me like this? After giving me so much of his precious time, his patience, his trust, his empathy, to find me at a bar would probably make him give up faith in me entirely. He’d realize he should’ve known from the beginning I wasn’t going to make it. He’d see what a waste I’ve been to him.

I haven’t cried in years. Not when I got into my accident and realized how much of a problem I actually had. Not when I spentmy first Christmas on my own. Not when I realized I’d probably never speak to my brother again.

But this, right here, realizing how far I’ve fallen and how disappointed Frank would be if only he knew, makes my eyes mist.

Before I know it, I’m grabbing my phone and dialing him. He answers fast as if he has nothing better to do than deal with my bullshit.

“Carter, how’s it going?”

“I…” And then, the words freeze, right there inside my throat.

“Carter?”

I swallow. I was never going to escape him knowing, was I? I knew when I called, yet I did it all the same, like when you press on a sore muscle hoping for some of that aching relief.

I push against the shame and say, “I’m at a bar.”

He doesn’t skip a beat, foregoing the disappointed sigh I was waiting for. “Have you drunk yet?”

“No.”

“Good boy. Now send me your address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I should probably fight him off on this. I’ve needed him so much already. Asking this of him sounds like the cherry on top, like being yet another responsibility for him, but I’m selfish enough to take it.

I give him the name of the bar.

“All right. I’ll be right there, but you get out of there in the meantime, you hear me?”

I hum my agreement, already getting to my feet. The task sounded like hiking Mount Everest five minutes ago, but now, it’s surprisingly doable.

“I’m on my way.”

“Thank you,” I say, so relieved I could fall to my knees. I don’t think I would’ve survived this night if he hadn’t picked up.

“And, Carter?”

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