Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

6. Carter

Chapter 6

Carter

Three and a half years ago

I f 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’s what 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 conversation one 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. I know that 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?”

I don’t answer, which he takes as a clear yes.

He looks around to make sure no one is close, then says, “I heard from the court officer that you’d be joining us today. I hope your first experience wasn’t too bad.”

I blink.

“Not a big speaker, are you?”

“There anything I can do for you?” I ask, the bite clear in my voice. I don’t remember a time when all my sentences didn’t come out this clipped.

“I thought we could have a chat.”

My frown deepens as I try to understand what makes him think I’d be interested in that when I didn’t give his meeting an ounce of attention. “Look, you know I don’t want to be here. I know I don’t want to be here. Let’s cut the bullshit, yeah?”

He doesn’t flinch. In fact, I’d swear his grin widens. “Well, too bad, my friend. I don’t think you have a choice.”

I lift a brow.

“You should probably go read the terms of your probation. It’s not just showing up here. You also have weekly meetings with a sponsor.” Then he points at his chest like he’s a fucking prize.

A sponsor. I’d ask if this was a joke, but I know that’d be useless. “So? You like coffee?”

This might be even worse than that dumb meeting.

We only crossed the street toward the nearest coffee shop. I figured if I indulged him and chugged a drink with him, he’d be happy and call it a day, but apparently, that’s not enough for him. He actually wants to talk, and talking is the last thing I want to do. I don’t want to listen to his insufferable preachiness. I don’t want to feel the judgment bleeding through his words.

No one could hate me more than I already hate myself.

We’re facing each other in a booth, my cup empty while his is barely touched.

“So, Andrew. Tell me about yourself.”

“It’s Carter,” I say. No way am I going to listen to that name for six months. The moment I joined my brother’s band four years ago, I asked Yuri and Steve, the drummer and bassist, to call me Carter, and even Brandon obliged most of the time. Only my parents call me Andrew now, and since I don’t speak to them anymore, the name is gone and buried.

“Carter. All right.” He looks at me expectantly, but when he realizes I’m not about to start gossiping with him like a teenage girl, he shifts in the booth and cocks his head. “Fine then. We’ll ‘cut the bullshit,’ as you suggested.”

Now we might be getting somewhere.

“First meetings can be rough. I get that. The fact that you decided to come tonight, even if it was forced, means that you’ve made the decision to quit—or I hope it does—and that’s the most important part of this journey.” He dips his chin. “Congrats.”

I swallow, body statue still .

“But before I let you leave, I want to know what your lifeline through this is.”

My face must show I have no clue what he’s talking about.

He leans in. “What are you going to hold on to when things get rough? Because they will. And you’ll need something, or someone, that you’ll think about to make you say no to that drink.”

This time, when I don’t answer, it’s not because I don’t want to. It’s because I don’t have anything to say. I don’t have someone I’m doing this for or a goalpost that’ll keep me on track.

I have nothing.

A few years ago, I would’ve said I had Brandon, who’d been by my side from the day I was born, but I can’t even say that anymore.

I guess the only thing I could say is I’m doing it for myself because I’ve already hit rock bottom and I don’t want to know what’s even lower than that, and that means I have to get my shit together one way or another.

“I guess I’ll start by telling you mine, then.” He doesn’t sound mad or disappointed as if having a one-way conversation doesn’t bother him one bit. “I’ve had my last drink five years ago, and even now, it still happens that the only thing I want to do is drive to the nearest bar to get blackout drunk.” His face transforms then, turning into a smile that should not be anywhere near the words he’s just said. “And when that happens, I think of my daughter. I think of Lilianne.”