Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I should’ve prepared myself.

It’s not like I haven’t expected this moment to happen at some point. I just didn’t think it would come quite this fast. And while I’m usually a firm believer that there’s nothing that can’t be helped with good music and a short, cathartic crying session, with the email I just received, not even a bucketful of tears while listening to Lana Del Rey would cut it.

Around the bar, people are standing with drinks in their hands or sitting at the few tables scattered around the space as low ’90s alternative music plays from the built-in speakers. Wednesday nights aren’t usually this busy except tonight we have live music coming in. While the performers who play here are normally local, lesser-known artists, we still get swarmed on show nights, which means I can’t have a breakdown right now.

Get a grip, Lil.

With a roll of my shoulders, I force myself to put my phone away and get back to work. It’s not like I could forget what I just read anyway.

There’s a half-hour or so before the start of the show, so the line at the bar is still small enough that my colleague Leah has got it under control. I pick up a rag and wipe the mess I made when pouring my previous drinks before new customers arrive.

The Sparrow is not a rusty hole in the wall, but it isn’t particularly chic either. The space is one large room that echoes when it’s half-empty like it is now, but that creates insane acoustics when bands come to play. The interspersed round tables are made of rough wood slats and decorated with rustic candles, the overhead lights are dimmed, and thick black velvet covers the walls and windows, making it impossible to know whether it’s noon or midnight. When I walk in here, it’s as if time stops until I exit at the end of my shift. Not being able to see the sunlight while working might not have been my first choice, but when I was offered this job, I didn’t have the luxury of being picky. By the time I was able to start working, at twenty-two years old and with no prior experience, it was either that or starving.

Once the bar is clean, I glance around once more to make sure no new customer needs to be served. Everyone has already spread out across the room, only one man sitting at the actual bar.

Of course the second I’m back to having nothing to do, I try but fail to keep my mind from running back to the image that will probably haunt my nights from now on. The email that popped into my phone just as I walked into my shift pulls at my attention like a lighthouse in the dark, unavoidable.

The inheritance account has been emptied out.

I’d been warned about it over the past two years. Mrs. Ibrahim, my accountant, had suggested on multiple occasions to invest the money instead of letting it sit in my account, but that option was never realistic. Not when I had medical bills, both past and present, that required imminent payment. Spending the money wasn’t a dumb youth decision. It was life or death.

That account had been my saving grace after losing my dad two and a half years ago. Before, we’d relied almost exclusively on the health insurance we were granted through his job, but when he died unexpectedly, I got stuck with mounting bills and no way of affording them, and it’s not like I could’ve stopped dialysis. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t find a job that offered benefits either. Thankfully, Dad had thought of getting life insurance, which allowed me to pay for my treatments and for the kidney transplant I eventually got.

Except now, I’ve used it all and I’m stuck with nothing. Nada.

My hand freezes over the counter, shaking. I’m going to be sick.

No matter how hard I try to find solutions and rationalize things, I can’t come up with a single good answer. Even if I asked to double the hours I do at the bar and did all the collabs I got offered on my social media accounts, I wouldn’t be able to afford all the drugs I still take on a daily basis.

My head spins as my heart rate picks up, images of pill dispensers and stacked-up bills hitting me from all sides. With my eyes shut tight, I lean against the bar and force a breath through my nose.

You’re alive. You’re as healthy as you ever could’ve hoped for. You’ll find a way .

The soothing words don’t work like they usually do. In fact, I only get more and more lost in my panic. I need to stop this. Lips pinched, I turn and do something I’ve never done.

I pour myself a shot.

I barely look at the bottle I grab before filling the tiny glass I picked from under the bar. Might be ironic for a bartender to be an almost alcohol virgin, but when you’re used to living with failing kidneys—and now with a single, precious one—you don’t go around messing things up by drinking.

However, today calls for desperate measures.

The amber liquid in the glass calls to me, and before I can remind myself what a stupid mistake this could be, I bring the drink to my lips and swallow.

Then proceed to choke on it.

I remember trying a sip of Tequila on my twenty-first birthday with my best friend Finn and it not tasting so bad, but this is horrible . Why would anyone voluntarily drink something that tastes like those disgusting Valentine’s Day cinnamon hearts?

I try to inhale through the burn in my throat, but all it does is make me cough even more, tears rising to my eyes.

“What the fuck?”

I hadn’t realized I was standing this close to the man sitting at the bar until his voice makes me jump.

Still choking on the burning liquid, I force myself to look up and match a face to the deep voice that just made me want to go hide under a rock forever.

And what a face it is .

Plump lips turned into a scowl, thick brows overlining a set of light brown eyes—or are they green?—sharp cheekbones, and a sculpted jaw covered in a perfect five o’clock shadow. A jaw that is currently clenched as the man stares at me, cheeks speckled with liquid.

Liquid I probably coughed out right onto him.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I exclaim, jumping to grab the rag, and lean over the bar, not pausing long enough to realize that wiping the face of the man I just spat on might be making things worse.

“Please don’t.” The man pulls back from my cleaning assault with a look that tells me he probably thinks I’m crazy, wiping his cheek on his shoulder instead. Thankfully, he’s wearing a black T-shirt, so it doesn’t leave any traces.

“I-I’m so…” I sputter, disposing of my shot glass as if it could magically erase what just happened. I don’t even have words for the level of embarrassment overwhelming me right now. And then I realize he’s looking down in disgust at his glass of bubbly liquid, which I probably also spat in. “My God, let me get you a new drink.” Somebody sedate me. I go to grab the glass, but he stops me by putting his large hand on it.

“It’s fine.” He doesn’t even bother looking at me as he says it.

“Please, I—”

“I said it’s fine.” This time, he does look up, and the annoyance in that scowling, perfect face makes me want to disappear. “Maybe just skip the fireball next time.”

Maybe skip drinking, period .

I force myself not to focus on how he probably knows what I drank because of how it smelled on his skin and instead look to my left, where new groups of customers are walking in and heading toward the bar, just in time for the show that should be starting any minute now.

Quickly, I look back at the victim of my poor choices, who’s now scrolling through his phone, completely ignoring me. A part of me tells me I should probably stay and apologize once again—after all, him making a formal complaint to Jayson, my boss, and putting my job in jeopardy would be the cherry on top of today—but there’s also a line forming at the bar, and leaving customers hanging wouldn’t be much better. Leah is already busy with orders, but she won’t have enough hands for everyone.

“Okay, well, sorry again,” I say in a low voice, and when he only grunts his response, I try not to take it personally.

I force my attention away from him, then try to shake this funk off. I still have to survive tonight, and sulking will only make it worse.

When a couple walks over to me, I put on a smile and get back to work.

The tips I make here are certainly a big part of why I’m keeping this job instead of looking for new postings, but the real highlight of it is the music .

There’s nothing like a live set to make you forget your problems, at least for a while. The way the loud music feels, like it’s resonating inside your chest, the bated energy of the crowd when an artist has them wrapped around their finger, is something I could never get enough of.

Tonight, I had doubts I’d be able to enjoy it, my head lost elsewhere, but that was before I’d heard them.

I’m cheering as loud as the crowd, forgetting for a while that I’m at work. When the four-man band set up earlier, they did not seem particularly charismatic or different from the musicians we usually host, but from the first note, they caught everyone’s attention in a way I’ve never seen since I started working here.

They are way too good for this place.

I’ve never heard of Crash he didn’t need to have the task of comforting me on top of it.

I didn’t expect people to start following me, but sure enough, with every video I posted, I grew my audience little by little, eventually transitioning my content to more day-in-the-life capsules, sometimes talking about my health and the process of going through dialysis and then an organ transplant, and other times talking about normal stuff like my skincare routine.

“I’m Ethan,” the singer says. “This is Emmett, our guitarist. That’s Joe, our bassist—”

“And I’m Bong,” the drummer interrupts, extending his hand in my direction.

I don’t bother asking where that name came from and shake his hand as I say, “Good to meet you all.”

“Oh, and that’s our guy Carter,” Ethan says as he points at my number one fan .

As if being called out, Carter lifts his head and his gaze immediately finds mine. I’m not sure why a stare from him feels like being struck by lightning, but I don’t like it.

“It’s really great what you do,” the redhead—Emmett—says, thankfully bringing my attention away from him. “I have to say, some of your videos made me emotional as shit.”

“Em’s our big crybaby,” Bong says as he claps his friend on the back.

“Fuck off. I’m serious, man.”

“He’s right,” Ethan notes, leaning forward on the countertop. “You have great platforms.”

“Thank you, seriously,” I say, only slightly wanting to combust. It’s one thing talking about every single detail of my life with strangers when we’re separated by a screen, but this is a whole other game.

“Hey, you think we could ask you for a favor?” the singer asks.

“Sure,” I say, tone wary.

“Think you could share our album on a story or something? Maybe say something good about tonight’s show? We could use the publicity.”

I wouldn’t usually agree to it if I didn’t enjoy their work, but after the show they gave, I have no trouble saying, “Sure thing. Actually, you know what?” I grab my phone out of my back pocket and turn so I can take a selfie with them in the background.

Funny how you can guess the dynamic of a group based on the way they place themselves in a picture. Ethan, smack dab in the middle, his arms wrapped around his friends, Emmett with a shy grin, shoulders hunched, Bong with his fingers in a rock and roll sign, Joe with a straight face in the back, looking like he’d rather be doing anything but this, and Carter outright gone from the camera’s view.

One hand thrown in the air, I take the picture, and once everyone approves of it, I write a message encouraging people to go listen to their debut album, tag them in the story, and post it.

“There,” I say. “All done.”

“You’re the best,” Bong says, taking my hand and placing a kiss with a loud smack on the back of it. I burst out laughing.

“What a gift. Thank you,” I tell him. From the corner of my eye, I spot a figure waving me down from the other end of the bar, probably wanting to close their tab. “Well, duty calls, but it was truly great meeting you all. Best of luck with the album and the tour.”

“Thanks,” the guys say in unison, with Joe staying silent in the back. “Same to you.”

I give them one last smile before leaving.

Once I’m done with my other client, I throw a glance behind my shoulder, and while I still can’t see well from afar, I’d swear I feel a pair of murky green eyes on me.