Page 56 of Where Happiness Begins

“I underestimated you, Fireball. Or maybe I got it right with that name.”

“I don’t like people attacking the ones I care about,” I say. And that’s the simplest truth. Icareabout Carter. Even if our marriage is a business arrangement for him, it’s more than that to me. I carefor him the way I care for Finn or Lexie, the way I care for Nan. It doesn’t even matter if it’s only one-sided. I can’t lie about it.

“Brandon’s been a dick for a while now,” Carter says. “I don’t mind whatever he says, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

I bring my knees closer to my chest. “What happened between you two?”

The heaviest sigh leaves Carter’s lips. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m sure it is. But I have time.”

I expect him to brush me off. To say he doesn’t want to talk about it and would rather move on from the whole ordeal. And I’d understand, too. I would never hold it against someone not wanting to share whatever haunts their nightmares.

What I don’t expect is for him to start talking. And talking. And talking.

I’d read more about the band online after learning of its existence, even finding some Reddit threads on theories about the band’s breakup, but as I listen to Carter, I realize I had barely scratched the surface.

It’s as if a dam has burst open as he tells me about the band he had with his brother and two of their friends. He doesn’t talk about Fickle like the band that made waves during its years of existence, earning awards and major recognitions, but as the garage project he had with his friends and brother. He tells me how Brandon had this idea for an album and Carter agreed to join, not believing in it at first. How they rose to fame almost overnight, something that shouldn’t have happened and that didn’t allow any of them to adapt to it. How they suddenly had shows and fans andparties with all kinds of excesses. How when he decided to walk away, his brother decided to hate him, and their parents with him.

“They can’t hate you,” I say once he’s done. He might have been difficult to figure out at first, but no one who knows him—actuallyknows him—could hate him. No one could be indifferent toward his quiet humor or his subtle attentions that add up to so much. He may hide it well, but this man cares. So much so, in fact, that he might not show it more for fear of it not being returned.

“You don’t know my parents,” he says.

“Haven’t had the pleasure, no.”

He turns to me. “You’re not missing anything, trust me. They’re two people who should have never had kids.”

“So that’s why you didn’t tell them about us?” Or the us we’re showing to the world. “Because you’re not on good terms anymore?”

“‘Not on good terms’ is putting it mildly. We don’t talk at all.”

I pull at blades of grass under me, then begin braiding them. “When Brandon showed up, I thought you’d kept me hidden.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Or rather, yes, but not because I wanted to hide you from them. I wanted tospareyou from them. You’re so much better than them.” His gaze is lost in the direction of the pond where swan boats are floating all around. “You deserved better than being thrown into that pack of wolves.”

I try not to smile at that. I try very, very hard.

But I lose spectacularly.

The rest of the afternoon slips by as we people-watch and lie on our backs under the setting sun, talking about his childhoodand mine, about what he liked about growing up in San Francisco, about what kind of students we were. It’s so easy all of a sudden as if he needed a kick start before being able to tell me simpler things.

Next to us, a girl starts strumming her acoustic guitar with a group of friends sitting beside her, shading their faces as they watch her play.

“Would you ever go back?” I ask Carter.

His head turns to me, cheek brushing against the grass. “To what?”

“Playing. Touring.” With or without his brother.

He shakes his head.

“Not even with Crash & Burn?” I haven’t forgotten that we’re supposed to leave for the “away” part of the tour in less than two weeks. Carter said he wouldn’t come, but I’m still holding out hope he’ll change his mind.

“Touring’s not for me anymore,” he says, not offering more of an explanation.

“Hope you won’t miss me too much when I’m gone, then.”

He hums, then looks back up at the sky. After a pause, he says, “You don’t have to go, you know. The exposure you’ve given the band is already huge.”

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