Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

I t’s rare that the living area of the tour bus is empty, and while I love hanging out with everyone, I cherish those precious moments of quiet. This morning, we stopped at a rest area to shower and shop around before our stop in Nashville tonight, and since I didn’t feel like spending money I don’t have, I decided to come back early and enjoy an empty bus. Carter came back with me, but he’s been in his bunk for a while, maybe napping or reading.

My father’s guitar sits in my lap as I strum it mindlessly, something I’ve gotten in the habit of doing, all the while reading on my computer. I didn’t plan on landing on the AA website, but one thing led to the next, and my screen quickly went from my YouTube page to this article on the signs that someone close to you might be suffering from alcohol dependence.

Personality changes. High tolerance to alcohol. Drinking all day. Impulsive decisions.

Nothing about this sounds like him. Maybe I could recognize my father in tiny details here and there, but he’s never been inappropriate at home or in public. I don’t think I ever even saw him drunk.

“What are you doing? ”

I jerk at the sound of Carter’s voice, slamming my computer shut in a way that clearly makes me look guilty. I’m not sure why I’m hiding this. He saw what I saw in that bedroom. He knows the questions running through my head even if we don’t talk about it.

“Nothing,” I still lie.

“Find anything interesting?”

So he did see what I was scrolling through.

I shake my head.

Carter doesn’t answer, but he also doesn’t look away as if he thinks I’ll crumble under his stare and spill everything that’s been going through my head since we found those flyers, and I won’t. It doesn’t matter that I’ve started to have some doubts about whether there’s a possibility that Carter’s right and Dad might have had an alcohol problem without me knowing. I’m not acknowledging it.

After what must be a long thirty seconds of staring, he looks down at my hands on the guitar and says, “Lilianne, I need to—”

The front door of the bus bursting open interrupts him. We turn to find a panicked Bong step inside, Joe in tow.

“We’re fucked,” Bong yelps, breathless.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, already on my feet, guitar discarded.

“Emmett’s sick.”

“Sick how?”

He must realize I just tensed up because he gives me an apologetic look. “Like throwing up everywhere. Food poisoning or something.”

Something inside me loosens.

“So what’s all the shouting about?” Carter grumbles .

Bong looks at him like he’s stupid. “We’re playing a sold-out show in five hours and our guitarist is currently shitting his guts out.”

“That is a problem,” I say.

“We can’t cancel a show. Not during our first tour when our name is just starting to get out there,” Joe says, only slightly calmer than Bong.

“Can’t we get him to a hospital so he can get rehydrated before tonight?” I say.

Bong lifts a brow. “You haven’t seen this, Lil. It’s bad.”

I don’t think I want to see it either.

“So, again, we’re fucked,” he says, dropping onto the couch.

Carter moves my guitar away to take a seat next to Bong, then starts messing with the knobs and strings.

“I mean, there could be one solution.” Everyone’s ears perk at that, but my eyes are only on Carter.

It takes him a moment to realize what I mean, and when he does, he becomes stock-still. “Fuck no.”

“You know all the songs already. No one else could replace Emmett.”

“I’m not doing it.”

I regret putting him on the spot. Now Bong and Joe’s attention is on him, which is probably only making this worse. It’s not that he doesn’t like them, but Carter’s a private person, and having others weigh in on his decisions is a bad idea .

I take his hand and force him to his feet, then tug him toward the bunk section of the bus. He grumbles the whole way. “Get it out of your head, Fireball.”

Once I’ve closed the partition between us and the others, I say, “What’s holding you back?”

“I told you. I don’t play anymore.”

“Yes, you do. You might not have picked up a guitar in years, but you’re still a guitarist. It’s in your head. In your body.” He still reaches for the instrument when he needs something to do with his hands, even if most of the time, he doesn’t even realize he does it.

He stretches the neck of his hoodie.

“I’ve seen the way you look at that guitar,” I say, pointing toward the living room. “You miss it. It’s obvious.”

He doesn’t deny it, which I know is a win.

“It fucked me up,” he grunts out.

I hate the way it seems to hurt him just to think about that time in his life. Still, I don’t think this is a bad idea. “Being in that band was bad for you, but that doesn’t mean playing is.” I take a step closer to him, then look up so I can meet his eyes. “Don’t let the bad experience you had take away from your love for it.”

In the end, no one can force him. If he doesn’t want to play, he won’t play, simple as that. It would be a shame, though, for him to let go of something that used to be so important to him. That still is important to him, even if he’s pushed it aside.

He runs a hand over his head, and something coils in my gut, the way it does during every one of my follow-up appointments with my nephrologist, like this might be the moment everything changes. Except this time, it’s not about me, and it’s somehow worse to be nervous for someone else.

I see the moment his mind shifts. His eyes flit back to the living room, where Bong and Joe are probably on their toes waiting for his answer. Or maybe he’s looking toward where my father’s guitar lies on the couch behind the partition, waiting.

He doesn’t need to say the words. I know him.

I smile, then tap his hard chest. “Come on, rock star. Let’s get you ready.”

I might be more nervous than he is.

It feels as if I’m the one about to go on stage, my heart pulsing in my throat, nausea threatening to make my dinner come back up. I could faint at any moment, but I just swallowed a pack of table salt and drank a juice from the bar to make sure it wouldn’t happen.

I could never do this. Talking to thousands of people behind a camera is one thing, but performing live is a true nightmare. I almost feel bad about pressuring him to do this. Almost.

He needed the push. If he doesn’t like it, he never has to do it again, but this could be his opportunity to learn how to enjoy playing again, even if it’s just for himself, and what a gift that would be.

The first act, a girl with pink hair and what must be ten-inch heels, announces her last song, sending my jitters into a tailspin .

He’ll be fine . He’s done this before. No reason for him to mess up. Unless he chokes and walks away, and then we’d be in real trouble.

I shake my head, then try to focus on the performance in front of me. I’m not filming anything tonight, too nervous about what’s about to happen.

Way too quickly, the singer finishes and says her goodbyes, and the following fifteen minutes of break are pure torture. I should’ve gone backstage, made sure he felt okay before going on. What if he’s having a panic attack? What if he feels like drinking and I’m the one who put him there?

My rambling thoughts are interrupted when, in one heartbeat, we’re bathed in darkness.

Too late now. This is it.

The concert hall is packed, bodies surrounding me close enough that I barely have room to breathe, but I’m not sure I could anyway. Screams erupt, some fans chanting Ethan’s name, and even through my nervous haze, I take the time to realize how insane it is that people have started recognizing the members of Crash & Burn by name. This is getting bigger than I ever could have hoped for them.

I know the show always starts with Emmett playing the first note of “Be My Guest,” one of the most popular songs of their debut album, and I wait for it like a sprinter expecting the shot of the gun. My hands are clasped under my chin, and I whisper over and over again, “You got this, Carter. ”

The time in between the lights closing and the first strum of the guitar feels longer than usual. Another bout of faintness hits me, and I squeeze every muscle in my body to stay upright. What if something happened?

I mutter another prayer to whatever god is listening.

And then, the strum of the guitar shatters the room, the note so loud and electric it buzzes under my skin and stops time.

My screams blend with the other fans’ as the spotlights open over the band, illuminating every single one of their beautiful faces as they enter into “Be My Guest” with the control and energy of a group that’s been doing this for years.

The sound is so loud in the room, I can’t even hear my own shouts, and it doesn’t matter one bit. The music infiltrates my body, my blood, as if my heart beats to the rhythm of Bong’s drums.

And when my eyes land on Carter, I almost pass out.

He’s standing slightly in the shadows, way farther back than Emmett usually does, almost as if he wants to disappear from view, but I couldn’t miss him even if I tried.

I was scared he would be uncomfortable on stage, but I’ve never seen someone so in his element. His eyes are closed, head thrown back so his face is tilted toward the top of the room as if he’s playing for no one but himself. I’m close enough to notice the sheen of sweat on his forehead and neck. The black T-shirt exposing his tattoos and the muscles of his arms flexing as he hits note after note is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. No one has ever looked this good. I know it for a fact .

The music seems to come to him as easily as breathing as if he’d never stepped away. I might be a crybaby, but it brings tears to my eyes to see him like this. With others and even at home, he always looks so reserved, so casual, but here, passion is dripping from his fingers, from the strands of hair falling over his fingers as he finishes the song and jumps straight into the next one. He looks almost orgasmic, with the way the tendons in his neck are stretched and his lips are parted, connecting to the music in a way only he can understand.

My hands move from under my chin to rest on my heart, where they remain for the rest of the show.

The moment the band walks off stage, I’m moving, apologizing left and right to the people I bump into as I try to make my way toward the front of the room, where I’ll be able to climb backstage.

I can’t believe I’ve just lived this moment. I don’t think a lifetime could erase the memories of this night. How it felt to witness Carter transform from a simple man into a burning comet right in front of my eyes. I’d seen only a few clips of him performing in the past, but nothing could ever compare to seeing it live.

My hair is matted to my forehead, skin covered in sweat as I rush through the throng of bodies. I don’t waste a moment to put myself back together. The second I reach the door where security stands guard, I show my badge, then walk backstage .

A lot of people have made their way to the small room, most of them industry professionals or fans who paid for a meet & greet, but even through the crowd, I find Carter in a nanosecond. Ethan is clapping his back, Bong shouting at him in excitement, but he doesn’t give them any attention, gaze lost in the crowd, searching.

And then he lands on me and stops there.

I can’t control myself, launching into a run before throwing myself at him, graceless. Thankfully, he catches me, strong arms forming bands at my lower back, solid enough that I know I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.

“You were so goddamn magnificent out there,” I say in his ear so he can hear through the cacophony.

When I pull back, Carter frowns, and I remember my face is probably still covered in tears that never stopped streaming. I can’t even muster the embarrassment I should feel. “I’m so proud of you for doing it.”

Finally, he seems to realize my tears are ones of happiness because he buries his head in my neck again, one of his hands moving from my back to my nape, holding me tight. Critics and fans are in the room, so he might be pretending for the sake of realism, but somehow, I have a feeling he isn’t.

When Carter finally speaks, it’s to say, “Thank you.” The movement of his lips against the delicate skin of my neck activates every single one of my nerve endings.

“For what?” I ask.

He pulls back as he carefully lowers me down, although he never lets go of me, even when my feet hit the ground. The only thing he does is bring one of his hands to my face so he can wipe the tears from my cheeks. He’s not smiling, and yet he looks so freaking happy, it does something to my heart.

He brushes my cheekbone another time, this time as if only for the sake of touching me, then says, “Everything.”