Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

“ C heers to a second record!”

We all clink our glasses at Ethan’s celebratory statement, the Irish pub loud and alive around us. It’s packed for a Tuesday night, probably because of the live music happening in the opposite corner of the restaurant.

“Thanks for allowing me to experience this with you guys,” I say before I take a sip of my ginger ale.

They’ve only worked on one song today, but they’re off to a great start. As amazed as I was to see them in concert, witnessing their creative process in the studio is even more impressive. The way Joe would come up with a random guitar riff on his own, and Ethan would find lyrics on the spot, and Bong would test two or three different beats on his drums, and suddenly, there was a chorus. A good chorus. I’d never witnessed such raw talent in the same room, and I spent the entire day with my jaw open, forgetting to record content because I was too busy trying not to fangirl.

But my biggest surprise of the day was Carter. The ideas he came up with, the instructions he gave that instantly elevated the melodies, the sheer focus in his eyes as he put the headset on and dipped his chin slightly with the music only he heard… I couldn’t tear my eyes away. It was mystifying to behold his talent, to realize how he’d sometimes make something out of nothing as if using magic. It was all too much for someone who’s trying her damnedest not to be attracted to her fake husband. I’d rarely seen anything sexier than Carter acting the perfect, professional producer, so into his job that an earthquake might have ripped through the room and he wouldn’t have noticed. Attending today’s recording session was both one of the most fun experiences of my life and a big, big mistake.

Still, I shot content for him too. After all, he’s the one who’s supposed to benefit from this arrangement. He told me earlier how he’s been offered to produce for another promising band as if he wanted me to know that a part of our plan was working. I might have shrieked a little.

“Of course,” Ethan says, then turns to Carter. “The first album could’ve put us on the map, but this one will really define us as a band.”

“If the first one doesn’t flop,” Joe says, making us strain to hear.

“Don’t say shit like that,” Bong answers. “We’re doing well.” Then he leans his head on my shoulder. “Partly thanks to our beautiful Lil. You got me twenty thousand new followers.”

I laugh, resting my head on his while I feel Carter reaching behind me to Bong, then lightly pushing him away. “Keep your paws to yourself.”

“There’s the caveman I was waiting for!” Bong replies.

“Fuck off.”

This exchange only makes me laugh more .

“What’s so funny?” Carter whispers in my ear from his seat next to mine, voice gruff, sending a ripple of chills down my back.

I turn and almost jump at the realization that he’s this close. Our noses are almost brushing, his breath warm against my skin.

“You,” I mouth.

Like this, it’s as if we’ve cocooned ourselves from the cacophony of the table and the restaurant, like we’ve become invisible to everyone else.

Clearly, though, we’re not.

“Hey, keep it to your bedroom.”

My face flushes faster than the time it takes for Bong to finish his sentence, and I spin back to face everyone, doing my best to act as if the words he just used have disappeared into thin air. Meanwhile, I wait for Carter’s rebuttal of Bong’s statement, hoping I won’t hear disgust or incredulousness in his voice at the thought of truly being with me. Since he’s been nothing but the perfect gentleman at home—at least in terms of physical contact and sex—I don’t know how he views me, but I like to think he acts this way out of respect and not because he couldn’t fathom being with me.

However, the only thing Carter ends up saying is, “Again, fuck off.”

I chuckle, but this time, it’s not as lighthearted. Everyone seems to be wondering why he didn’t outright deny it, including me. The longer the guys stare at us with weird smirks, the warmer I feel.

“Did you guys know Carter plays the guitar?” I blurt, hoping something, anything, can take the attention away from me.

It works .

Faces turn from confusion to amusement. “Dude, are you serious?” Emmett asks me, putting his beer down with a heavy thud.

“Yeah?”

He turns to Carter. “You haven’t told her?”

“Told me what?”

“Nothing,” Carter says, voice low.

“Nothing? Dude. Please.” Emmett’s eyes meet mine. “Your husband was the guitarist for Fickle.”

“Fickle?” I ask.

“Just a Grammy-nominated band that earned more recognition in its three years of existence than most musicians ever will in a lifetime.”

I turn to Carter, expecting him to be rolling his eyes or telling Emmett to stop messing with me, but the only thing I find when I look at him is perfect neutrality, only hindered by a light flare of his nostrils.

“Is that true?” I ask.

“It’s been a long time,” is his dumb answer.

“So?” I can’t believe I didn’t know something so important about the man I’ve been living with for the past two months.

“So it doesn’t matter anymore.”

I huff. Only a guy would say something like that.

As if realizing he spoke too fast, Emmett changes the subject, bringing up the next few venues we’ll be going to. Everyone joins in, save for me. Instead, I pull out my phone and begin my research. And while Carter sits right next to me and has his gaze turned down toward my screen, he doesn’t try to keep me from doing it .

I spend the next fifteen minutes scrolling through articles on Google and then videos of the band playing on YouTube. At some point, I undo the band’s name and type Carter’s instead, and when I land on a scratchy phone video showing a man I barely recognize partying in a hotel room, with longer hair and a blazed out look as he holds a forty-ounce bottle in one hand and a joint in the other while slurring the lyrics to a song, Carter says, “Can you close that?”

I barely recognize his voice, and when I notice the begging look on his face, I oblige.

He might not have told me about that time in his life, but I have a feeling he doesn’t tell anyone.

My mind is reeling when we get back into the car and start our drive home.

Searching the band online should’ve enlightened me, but it only brought forth more questions. There is so much online about the band, their rise to fame about six years ago, and then the sudden breakup three years later, but there’s nothing about why they parted ways or what the members are doing now.

Well, I know the answer about at least one of the members.

“I can’t believe you kept all this from me,” I say after fifteen minutes of silence.

He doesn’t need to ask what I’m referring to. “I didn’t actively keep anything from you. I just never talk about it. ”

“Why?”

He sighs, rubbing his hand down the steering wheel. “It wasn’t a great time in my life.”

Probably referring to the video I landed on earlier.

“I still think you should’ve told me,” I say, not wanting to bring up something he clearly didn’t want me to find.

“Why? So you’re ready for your FBI interviews?”

“Stop messing with me. It’s important.”

“No, it really isn’t.”

“To me, it is.” I swallow. “I want to know you.”

I don’t bother being embarrassed at how true my words are. At this point, he probably knows it all.

His knuckles blanch for a moment. “You do. More than you think.”

As much as I want to say that I’ve only scratched the surface of who he is, I have a feeling he’s telling the truth. For him, what he’s told me is a lot.

“Why did you guys break up?” I ask, going from another angle. “Seemed like you were doing well.”

“That’s a long answer.”

“We have time.”

He still doesn’t explain, which probably means the problem isn’t the length of the explanation but his keenness on sharing it with me.

I decide against asking for more, not wanting to make him clam shut, but after a long moment of silence, Carter says, “We were a ticking time bomb. It was…unhealthy. For me, at least. I decided to leave, and the band unfolded after that.”

Okay. That’s something, I guess.

Carter’s jaw clenches and unclenches as he continues driving as if fighting himself over what he does and doesn’t want to share. I don’t say anything else. The only way for me to truly know him will be if he wants it so.

I should want to stay away, should stop looking for things he doesn’t want me to have, but I’m hungry for all the scraps he can give me, and I can’t stop, as pitiful as that makes me.

“I can’t believe you’ve lived so much already,” I say, hoping he’ll be thankful for the slight shift in conversation.

“I’m older than you.”

“Okay, grandpa.”

He hooks one brow up.

“You’re what, five years older than me? And it’s as if you’ve lived an entire life already.”

“It’s not all it’s hyped up to be.”

“Still. You did it.” I lean my head against the window while my fingers mindlessly tangle my hair in a braid. “I’ve barely started living mine.”

“What is it you want to do that you haven’t?”

“Everything?” I smile, although there’s nothing funny about this. “I’m grateful for everything I have, but sometimes it feels like I’ve spent my life wishing for the day I could do whatever I wanted with no limits, and now that I’m here, I’ve barely scratched the surface.” Living your dreams when you’re crippled in debt, working two jobs while pushing through endless grief will put a hold on your dreams, that’s for sure. “I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to catch up on all the things I want to do.”

“Tell me.”

His hazel gaze is warm on my skin, tracing a pattern from my forehead to my neck and back to my eyes.

“I want to travel. I never left the country, do you know that? Never got on a plane.” I look outside the window, at the lilac and fuchsia sunset, soaking the inside of the car in a lavender haze. “I want to see what the world looks like outside of New England. I want to get drunk without fearing it’ll send me to the hospital. I want to find a new hobby. Get a tattoo. I want to figure out what I want to do for the rest of my life. I want to fall in love with someone who actually loves me for me.”

I stop myself when I might’ve gotten a little too vulnerable, especially with someone as emotionally stunted as Carter. Still, it was the truth. After the two years I spent with Greg, begging for a minute of his time, pretending to be someone I wasn’t to fit whatever mold he wanted me to, I know I either want the real thing or nothing at all. I realized too late that the way he felt toward me was more pity than love. It’s clear to me now, but at the time, I took every scrap of attention he threw my way, even if it never made me feel loved.

“You’ll do all those things,” Carter says. There’s no trace of doubt in his voice. He says this the same way he talks to the guys in the studio when he gets an idea, like he knows what’s best and nothing could change his mind. “Maybe we avoid the alcohol if it’s bad for you, but there are some pretty good mocktails. Trust me.” He shrugs a careless shoulder. “Otherwise, you will do them. We’ll figure out a way to make sure you do.”

We.

Such a simple word. Two letters that could mean nothing.

And yet, in this context, those two letters mean everything.