Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

M y mood is much better today.

I gave myself until the end of last night to sulk over my situation, but by the time I went to bed, I was pretty much done. There are so many things actually worth spending my time worrying about, and money is not one of them.

Taylor Swift’s Lover album is blaring through my speaker as I knead the dough I’ve been working on for the past thirty minutes. I’d never call myself a great baker, but it helps put my thoughts in order. I remember being seven years old and breaking into hysterical crying over math homework, and my dad pulling me to the kitchen and draping an apron over my chest before telling me to get the mixing bowls and the flour. He made the best cookies in the entire world, and while I could follow his recipes to a T and never get it quite like he did, I still love the sentiment. Plus, I’ll be going to my accountant’s office later today, and I like to think that my cookies will make her more lenient on me. I know she’s technically only responsible for handling my finances and not for deciding the actual amount that’s in the accounts, but being delusional from time to time has never done me any wrong .

I’m belting out to my favorite song on the album, strands of hair falling out of my bun and into my face, when the music suddenly stops and a robotic voice alerts me of an incoming call. I go over to my phone, then smile when I see the name on the screen. Hands full of flour and dough, I press answer with my elbow, then lean down to grab the phone between my shoulder and ear.

“Nan, hi!”

“Sweetheart, you were taking too long to call,” she says in that raw, deep voice of hers that gives away all the cigarettes she smoked in her life.

I laugh. “We spoke two days ago.”

“Exactly. Beginning to think you’d forgotten about me.”

“You’re such a drama queen.” She’s also one of my favorite people on this planet.

My grandmother tsks. “I might’ve wanted to hear your voice, but I also wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Sure,” I say, already having a feeling where this will inevitably lead to.

“There’s this man who plays darts with me, Gary. Very nice guy. Anyway, he has a grandson—”

I pull the phone away so I can groan in peace.

“I know you probably just made an ugly face, but hear me out.”

“How many times do I need to tell you I don’t need my nana to find me someone?”

“Since you still don’t have a man, I’d say you do need me.”

“Did we just go back to the 1950s?”

“Hush and listen to me. ”

That woman will be the death of me. She proceeds to tell me about how this guy is handsome and charming and would make a great match with me. I partially tune her out as I spread my dough on the counter and flatten it.

When I realize she’s stopped speaking, I say, “Thanks. I’ll consider it.”

“You’re a terrible liar, just like your daddy.”

I roll my eyes. “Really, Nan,” I say instead of trying to lie once more. “I’m good for now.”

Ever since my ex dumped me two years ago, she hasn’t stopped trying to find a man for me, sending me unwanted propositions left and right. I’m sure the men she mentions don’t even know she does it. The second she finds someone who’s more or less my age, she throws them my way.

She’s trying for nothing. The way I felt when I was with Greg is something I never want to experience again.

Nana sighs dramatically, her kitchen fan humming in the back. “I’m just worried about you. You don’t live enough, darling.”

My cookie cutter stalls mid-air. “I do live.” My voice sounds defensive even to my ears.

“When I was your age, I’d go dancing, and partying with friends, and meeting handsome strangers. That’s what being twenty-four is about.”

I’m sure she’s exaggerating some of it—if I remember correctly, she was already married at that age—but even so, I hate to admit she has a point. I’d promised myself when I was younger that once I had my kidney transplant, I’d start doing all the things I’d always pushed away, and yet I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface.

But a man sure as heck won’t solve that.

“I’m still not interested in your blind date at the senior center, but thanks for the thought.”

She chuckles. “One day, you’ll say yes.”

Sure.

“Otherwise, what else is new?” she asks.

I don’t even consider telling her about yesterday’s email. That woman has suffered through so much in her life, from the rheumatoid arthritis that causes her daily pain, to the death of her husband when they were in their sixties, and then to the loss of her son two years ago. The last thing she needs is to hear about my own worries.

“Not much. You?”

It’s as if she was waiting for the question. The second I finish, she goes on to tell me all the new Bellevue Center gossip, and while I try to stay focused, my gaze drifts to the stack of medical bills I opened this morning, still lying on the kitchen counter. I might have decided to stop worrying about my debts, but that doesn’t mean I can forget about them entirely.

I’ll never ask Nana for money, that’s for sure. She’s offered to help me before, but the truth is, she needs her savings to pay for her residence. I look around at the kitchen and the living room past it. If push comes to shove, I’ll just have to sell the place.

I inherited the house when I lost my dad. It’s not much, a simple seventies bungalow with a carport outside and linoleum floors in the kitchen, but it’s the place I love most in this world. I’ve known for a while I should consider getting rid of it. I don’t need all this space when it’s just me here, and in the grand Boston area, it could cover my bills for a few more years, at least until I find a job with health insurance.

But this is the place where I grew up. The backdrop of some of my happiest memories, from soft Christmas mornings with bright light filtering in to hot chocolate shared around the kitchen island while talking about our days. It’s the last place I saw my dad in. Selling it would feel like letting go of the only tangible piece of him in my life, and I don’t think I can stomach that. Not another loss.

“Sweetheart? Are you okay?”

I realize she’s probably said something and I was too lost in thoughts to realize it.

“Yeah, sorry, was just focusing on my cookies.” A little white lie never hurt anyone.

“All right. Oh, wait, I’ve got Linette on the other line. Can I call you back?”

“Of course. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay, talk to you later. Love you.”

“I love you,” I say before hanging up. I might not have been able to avoid the matchmaking today, but at least I dodged the topic of finances.

Once I’ve finished spreading the cookies onto the pan, I put the pan in the oven, then grab my phone. I’ll post a picture of the finished result once they’re out, maybe with a little story time of my phone call with Nana, who’s well loved by my followers .

I scroll through my notifications and messages, and only once I’m halfway through my inbox do I recognize a name I’ve only just learned.

@crashandburn wants to send you a message

I accept the conversation, expecting a text, but it’s a voice memo. I hesitate only for a second before pressing play.

“Hey, Lilianne! Sorry, I realized we didn’t ask you for your name yesterday, but I saw it on your page. Oh, it’s Ethan, by the way.”

Even if he hadn’t said his name, I’d have recognized his perky voice already.

“I just wanted to say how amazing it’s been since you posted your story yesterday. We’ve gotten eight thousand new listeners and, like, a shit ton of new followers in less than twelve hours. That’s insane. The guys can’t believe it.” In the back, a door slams, followed by the ignition of an engine. “I can’t thank you enough. And I know that’d be asking a lot, but we’d love it if you were down to attend another show or two.” He chuckles. “We were even messing around in the group chat this morning saying you should definitely come on tour with us. We wouldn’t say no to that kind of promo. Anyway, that was just us shooting the shit, but if ever you’re down to listen to more music, hit me up. ’Kay, bye.”

When the message ends, I realize I’m smiling from ear to ear. It’s so good to learn that my platform can do great things. It might seem silly to people that I post photos and videos about my daily, boring life, but I’ve received so many messages throughout the years saying that someone had been inspired by my story or that they were encouraged to keep going through their dialysis after scrolling through my channel, and that’s even more precious than all the sponsoring money I could get.

For an infinitesimal moment, I allow myself the luxury of picturing what he’s just suggested. Joining these people on tour, hopping from one hotel room to the next or maybe even road-tripping across the country in the back of a hippie van. I have no clue how big or small their tour will be, but I have no doubt it’d be the experience of a lifetime. One I couldn’t even have dreamed of years ago, when I spent more time in the hospital than I did at school.

However, that’s all it is: a wild dream. People don’t simply drop everything to go follow a band full of strangers to help promote them. Especially not people who need to be finding a good job with health benefits in the next few months. I looked through local—and not-so-local—job postings this morning, and just as was the case a few years back, I couldn’t find one I was qualified to do that had the benefits I need. I never had the chance to figure out what I wanted to do with my life or go to college, and now that I look at what’s available to me, I regret not getting a degree the second my health got stable, even though it would have been nearly impossible with my financial situation.

I begin typing.

Hey Ethan (and everyone!)

I’m so happy my story has increased your following. You guys are awesome and deserve all the recognition! Sadly won’t be able to leave Boston, but let me know whenever you come back to the area and I’ll be in the front row cheering for you. :)

I press send, then spend the rest of my day trying to forget about how, with a single message, I proved Nana right.