Page 14 of Where Happiness Begins
I pretend not to notice the weird look Belinda is giving me, probably wondering what kind of a wife I’ll be, and once the moment passes and she sees that I truly don’t have one for him, she clears her throat and straightens. “By the power vested in me by the state of Vermont, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Andrew, you may now kiss your bride.”
Another thing I hadn’t really thought about before now. Getting married involves a kiss. Of course it does. I’ve been so busy all week, spending my days working and my nights dreaming of getting caught by the feds, that I didn’t pay any attention to the ceremony part of things, hence the lack of a ring.
It’s not like I have a choice to kiss him, though. Avoiding it would be the most obvious way to show we’re not actually together. Plus, it’s just a kiss. It doesn’t mean anything.
Slowly, I lift my eyes and let them trail up Carter’s body, from his wide chest to his long neck and clean-shaven jaw—how did I not notice he was this tall before?—and finally land on his eyes. I try to find some sort of emotion or tell about what he’s thinking right this moment but find nothing but emptiness. Whatever he’s feeling about having to kiss me, he’s not letting it show.
The moment is becoming too long, and just as I go to climb on my tiptoes and kiss the corner of his mouth, he leans forward and softly clasps my cheeks between his rough hands before landing his lips on mine.
I gasp at the initial contact, both surprised and electrified. As chaste as this kiss is, the feel of his lips on mine, soft and yet firm, in control, feels like a bucketful of adrenaline being spilled down my veins. I know I should pull back, but for some reason, I keep it going for a breath longer.
He pulls away first, bringing with him his scent of bergamot and musk, his throat bobbing on a swallow as he looks away. Meanwhile, my gaze remains on him. The kiss was nothing wild, but I still feel a blush covering my entire neck and face.
Clapping from Belinda brings me back to earth, making me realize we’ve officialized this.
Whatever happens, it’s done. Andrew Carter and I are in this together.
For better or for worse.
Chapter 6
Carter
Three and a half years ago
If you asked me to pick between stabbing myself in the eye with a drumstick or being here, I’m not sure which choice I’d land on.
I almost want to laugh as I look around at the circle made of chairs set up in the middle of the community center multipurpose room and at the people chatting in the back with cheap coffee in paper cups and stale cookies in their hands. How fucking stereotypical of them. It’s exactly what you’d picture an AA meeting to be in some shitty indie movie.
The more people walk into the room, the more out of place I feel. It’s a strange mix of folks, a blend of looks, genders, ages, and styles, but it still feels like the last place I should be in. They look like they want to be here, or at least like they need to be.
I don’t. Listening to a bunch of strangers share details about their boring lives won’t make me better. It won’t tame the craving inside my chest for that last bottle of gin I couldn’t find the strength to get rid of, calling my name from under my kitchen sink like a siren. It won’t make my life less pathetic than it is. It won’t make my brother want to talk to me again or help my destroyed career. The only thing it will do is land me out of jail, and that’swhat truly got me out of bed and into this rancid-smelling room tonight.
The judge was lenient on me, as my lawyer said. Six months of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings was the best I could’ve hoped for with a DUI charge.
I clench my teeth and stand as far away from the group as possible, hoping to blend in with the wall. I’m not even scared of recognizing someone. I don’t know anyone on the East Coast, and at this point, if my face turns up on the Internet, exposing me as a drunk as a way of explaining why Fickle broke up, then so be it. It’s not like it will ever matter.
“All right, people, gather ’round.”
Immediately, people walk over to the chair circle, where a white man in his late forties or early fifties is already sitting, welcoming people around him. Everyone looks genuinely happy to see him but also to see each other.
I’m now alone at the end of the room, my feet like cement blocks, and just as I think this would be the perfect opportunity to scurry away, Leader Guy turns my way, like he knew I was hiding there. “Come on. There’s plenty of space.” The Ned Flanders lookalike even sprinkles in a smile.
Fuck me.
Not having another choice, I join the group, keeping my head down so I don’t have the misfortune of making eye contact with anyone. Even when Leader Guy—who introduces himself as Frank—starts talking, I tune everything off. I’m pretty sure he invites us to speak because next, people join into the conversationone after the next. I just hope this isn’t part of the deal. Sitting here is one thing, but ask me to share my feelings with these strangers who happen to have the same vice as I do and I’ll drive myself to jail.
I zone in and out as one by one, people talking about their week, about what triggered them, what pushed them to want to relapse, and the only thing it does is remind me just how much I’d give for a drink right now. Just one sip, that first one that makes you feel like all your worries are about to go away, even if only for one night. My mind drifts to those times I’d let myself drown in liquor and forget everything. I wouldn’t think about the void that was my life or the sad, empty apartment I always came back to. Iknowthat quitting a month ago was the thing I needed to do if I wanted even a chance at having a life, but that doesn’t make resisting the call of alcohol any easier. Throughout the meeting, I hear Frank’s answers to people’s stories, always so fucking positive or inspirational, they make me want to bang my head against the wall. As if life was a Disney movie and everyone always ended up perfectly fine.
Before I realize what’s happening, people get to their feet and shake hands with Frank before leaving toward the frigid winter air. Thank God. I guess not everyone had to share after all.
I grab my coat on the floor and shrug it on, finally free to escape.
“Andrew?”
I freeze, eyes drifting shut. I know he’s talking to me, but I haven’t heard that name spoken to me in weeks. Even before everything fell to shit with my family, barely anyone called me Andrew.
Slowly, I turn toward the man. He looks just as cheery as he did when I walked in. “Can I speak with you for a minute?”
