Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

24. Carter

Chapter 24

Carter

Three years ago

“ Y ou did not just get this one in.”

I smirk at Frank’s shocked face. I don’t know why he keeps on being surprised when I beat him by about eighty points during every one of our games. He should be getting used to it at this point.

“Talent, old man,” I say. Then, because I’m a sucker and like to rub it in, I grab the basketball that bounced my way and turn around to throw it backward. I hear it hit the board then bounce to the side, probably narrowly missing the rim of the net. Frank still looks impressed, so I shrug and walk away as if I’d put it in.

“Good game,” I say, extending one hand his way while wiping the sweat off my forehead with the other. It might be late at night, but the September air still feels sweltering, the suburban town having forgotten it’s supposed to be fall.

“Appreciate the lie,” Frank says, his hands on his knees as he catches his breath. His cardio’s gotten better since we started playing, I’ll give him that. Even then, I make him run enough that he ends every game this way .

We didn’t plan on playing regularly, or at least I didn’t. The first time Frank suggested it, I even laughed in his face.

“I’m not joking,” he’d answered with an almost offended expression.

“You have to be.”

I’d been having a rough day. Rough week, really. I’d attended two months of meetings by that point, and I didn’t feel any closer to a better future than I did on day one. I still felt angry and regretted every single choice I’d ever made. Apart from the meetings, I pretty much spent all my time doing sudokus, reading books, and waiting for time to pass, each day feeling longer than the previous one. I didn’t know how to find a job when I had no qualifications or experience, and without friends or family, I had no one to hang out with. It was my new routine: waiting. But that particular day, my mother had texted me for the first time since I’d left California, and it was to say that if I’d been planning on attending my father’s fiftieth birthday (I hadn’t), I probably should reconsider. She added that the situation wasn’t ideal and she didn’t want to have anything ruin the party . The ruining thing being me.

That day, I’d gotten the strongest urge to drink since I’d gotten sober, and that was saying a lot considering I spent the majority of my days battling the urge to soften everything by grabbing a bottle at the corner store. Frank had eventually gotten me to admit I still had a bottle hidden inside my place—apparently, that’s pretty common for people in recovery—and to get rid of it, but going out to grab another one would’ve taken no effort whatsoever .

I’d resolved to stop by the store when I came back from my meeting with him, but that never happened. The second I walked into the pizza place we’d agreed to meet at, he took one look at me and figured something was wrong, and faster than I care to think about, he got me to spill everything. I expected him to be disappointed, or even angry that I wanted to give up, but the only thing he said was, “What’s your favorite sport?”

I didn’t understand, but after he asked again, I answered, “Basketball.” I’d played a little in high school, and while I didn’t particularly like it, I was tall and athletic enough that it came easy to me.

“Great. Let’s play, then.”

He actually wanted us to play, even with my eight inches and eighty pounds on him. It felt cruel. But he hadn’t relented, and eventually, I had to give in, and we found ourselves in an open school gymnasium not far from there. Frank was horrible, out of shape and uncoordinated, but he took my mind off things for long enough that when I drove back home, I passed by the liquor store without stopping.

“Same time next week?” I ask now as I grab my stuff. My skin is still warm from all the running I’ve been doing, and my head feels clearer than it has in days.

“Wait. I have something for you before you leave.” He goes to the side of the court to grab his bag that I keep calling a man purse but he insists on calling a satchel. “Don’t hate on it till you’ve tried it,” he always says, making me snicker every time .

Frank leads me to his car in the parking lot while digging through his bag, his salt-and-pepper hair plastered to his forehead. The bright spotlights surrounding the outdoor basketball court illuminate the empty lot, enough that I can examine Frank’s car while he opens the driver’s door and leans inside. It’s an old Ford station wagon, and as you could expect from a man like Frank, multiple family-friendly stickers occupy the back windshield. One in particular catches my attention.

My daughter needs your help! Have an extra kidney? Get tested to see if you’re a match and save her life! Below’s some kind of phone number and a name that’s too small for me to read from here.

“Your daughter’s sick?” I ask with a frown. He’s been talking about her for months and never once mentioned it.

When Frank pulls out of the car with one of his hands balled around something, sadness I’ve never seen on him shadows his face. His throat works as his gaze follows mine to the handmade sign on his window. “Kidney failure. She’s been on dialysis for eight years now.”

“I’m so sorry, Frank.” I feel like such a dick all of a sudden. All those times he’s said he could be with his daughter and he was with me instead. If I’d known, I never would’ve wasted so much of his time. Or maybe I would have. During those first meetings, he could’ve been Mother Theresa helping little kids left and right, and I still would’ve been an asshole. I wasn’t ready for help then.

The person standing in front of me is the only reason I am now .

Frank nods. “It’s been a rough few years, but she’ll make it out of this.” He smiles then as if he’s not living through one of the hardest things anyone could encounter. “She’s a strong kid.”

“If she’s anything like her father, I’m sure she is.”

This is as close to a compliment as I’ve ever given him, and the way his face lights up makes me feel like a dumbass for never thanking him properly for everything he’s done for me.

Then he looks down at his hand as if he’s just remembered what we’re standing here for. “There you go.” He extends his fist to me, then gestures for me to hold my hand out. I reluctantly do so, not sure what’s going to come out of there.

The object is so light when it lands in my palms, it almost feels as if there’s nothing in there. But when I take a look and notice the embossed lettering spelling 6 months over the blue chip, I know it’s very well there.

“Congratulations on six months sober, Carter.”

I don’t look up. The chip tips from my palm to my fingers as I trace its borders and letters. I can’t believe I didn’t notice it this morning. My sentence is officially up. I did it.

When I finally look up, though, it’s not with a triumphant smile but with a grimace. “I don’t feel like I deserve this.”

Frank’s brows mirror mine by dipping down. “Darn right you do.”

“You should be the one getting a medal or some shit. I haven’t done anything.”

“How can you say that? You’ve stayed sober for six entire months. That’s huge! ”

“But I’m still at the same exact spot I was when we started.” No job. No future. No interest. My best friend is a forty-something-old man, for Christ’s sake.

It hasn’t hit me before today just how stagnant I’ve been. I guess knowing it’s been six months already is like hitting a wall. I’m exactly where I was when I landed in Massachusetts.

“No, you’re not. You’ve made so much progress.”

“But my life is still…blank.” I guess that’s the perfect word for it.

He leans back against his car. “Isn’t that a good thing? You can start fresh.” Frank knows most of what happened in California. How I lost control with alcohol. How each show led to a party, which led to me getting drunk. I spared him the part where I’d end my nights fucking any girl who was willing before falling asleep right where I was. Bed. Kitchen floor. Bathtub. It didn’t matter. I also told him the story of how one night, I decided to pick up my car keys to drive to a convenience store a few streets out to grab some more liquor for a party the band was holding in Brandon’s hotel bedroom. I ended up slamming into a lamp post and falling asleep right there. The cops found me and arrested me before bringing me to the hospital. It still doesn’t make sense to me how lucky I was on that night. I got out of my totaled car without a scratch on me. Most importantly, though, no one was around. Me, fine, but I don’t think I could’ve ever forgiven myself if I’d hurt someone else.

Frank knows how that was my wake-up call. How when I sobered enough to realize what had happened, I decided I was done with it all. I made sure I could have a virtual sentencing, and once I knew I could, I grabbed a cab straight to LAX.

But even if Frank knows all of this, apparently, he doesn’t get why I can’t just get over it and move on. I never planned on “starting fresh.” I just planned on running away so I could stay as far away from my demons as possible. I never thought beyond that.

“I don’t know where I’d even start,” I say, arms crossed.

“You love music, don’t you?”

“I can’t play anymore.” Besides, during those months on tour, I had no pleasure in doing it. It felt like a task, just like it had when I played as a kid so my parents would clap and finally give me the attention I’d been craving. There was none of the tingly feeling I used to get in my fingers when I played and knew I had it. I played so I could get drunk afterward, or I’d already be drunk by the time we made it on stage. If I’m honest with myself, leaving the band didn’t take my favorite thing away from me. I lost it way before then.

He shrugs.

“Then do something else with music. Write. Compose. Produce. Just do something with that talent I know you have.”

I’d be lying if I said those things never crossed my mind, but I don’t think they ever did as seriously as they do now.

Produce.

“You’re young. You’re bright.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Don’t waste that because you made some mistakes in your early twenties. ”

I don’t know what to say to that, especially with the way my throat suddenly burns, just like it does when you’ve inhaled deeply and are waiting to blow all the air out. I nod instead, and he seems to understand that this is all he’ll get.

“Now, you’ve done your six months, so by the law, you’re free of me.”

My throat—my entire body—feels even tighter. He can’t leave. He’s the only person I have.

“You can decide to walk away and never look back. But if you want to continue beating my old butt at basketball and nagging at me for my pressed shirts, I’m all for it.”

Who would have guessed six months ago that this offer would make my body feel a hundred pounds lighter?

I flip the coin once more between my fingers before pocketing it.

“Yeah, I think I’ll take you up on that.”