Chapter 23
Allegra
The next two days pass in a blur. Mainly because I’m so lost in my thoughts, my mental grip on reality loosens.
Is going on tour a mistake? Does Levi really want me to join? Is my presence creating friction among the group?
Mav will barely meet my eyes. Derek avoids me at all costs.
And Levi…my brother wanders through his day with one foot already in the evening, anticipating the fun and trouble waiting for him.
Will my presence on tour give Levi the support he needs? Or will I enable him to continue down the dark and dangerous path he’s traveling?
Will I offer a constant stability to Derek’s chaotic life? Or will I break my heart trying to keep up with his?
I don’t have any answers. Less now than I did when I withdrew from UCLA. In terms of my personal life, I am truly lost.
However, my time spent at the group home and food shelter are the brightest spots in the bleakest of days.
I may not know what my future holds but I know I want to pursue work that fills my cup.
I want to be part of a team—like Dre’s, like Vivi’s—and give back to a community that matters. Like Buck’s.
At least this summer in Boston gave me clarity in one aspect of my life.
The thought makes me smile as I pack the jeans and dress Claire lent me into my suitcase. I snap a photo of the trench coat and send it to the group chat.
Nova: Ooh, I love that trench! Is that Burberry?
Me: Claire lent it to me.
Ivy: You may have made better friends in Boston than us…
Kenny: Hush! We’re great friends.
Nova: I’d never gift any of you my Burberry anything…
Me: It’s not designer but great quality! I’m packing.
Kenny: You’re really going?
Nova: Stop confusing her, Mckenna! She already committed. Right, A?
Ivy: Yes! She’s not a commitment-phobe like you, Nova.
Me: (laughing face emoji) I’m going. I’m committed. I’m packing.
Nova: What else did Claire lend you?
I snap a photo of the jeans and dress in my suitcase.
Ivy: Ooh, great pattern on the dress.
Nova: We should bring Claire into our group. We could use her style input…
Kenny: What else do you need?
Me: A winter coat…
Nova: I’ve got 2 at my dad’s in France! I’ll get him to post them to you when you land in London. Or you can swing by his place and dig through my closet there?
Me: That would be amazinggggg! Thank you, Nova!
Ivy: See? We’re good friends!
Nova: Sometimes. (smirking emoji face)
Me: I miss you, girls! Promise we’ll meet in Europe?
Nova: Duh.
Ivy: Promise.
Kenny: I’ll try my best.
Me: (three red heart emojis)
Tossing down my phone, I tuck my hair behind my ears and continue to pack.
Knowing that my friends will meet me in Europe soothes my nerves and eases some of my fears.
I may not recognize Levi or know what to do with Derek, but I have great friends in my corner.
I have something tangible to offer to my workplace.
To the kids that have buried themselves in my heart.
I know what I want for my future. That is already enough.
With that comforting thought in mind, I head downstairs for breakfast. I haul my suitcase with me as I want to drop it by the front door beside the guys’ packed bags.
The house is quiet. I imagine my brother is still passed out, sleeping off whatever drink he dove into last night.
Mav’s bed was empty and Derek’s usually out early—either at the gym or the studio.
I walk down the stairs slowly, dragging my fingertips along the scuffed wall. This house has been a sanctuary this summer and I’m going to miss its worn-in and well-loved space. Its warm embrace. The way it houses and cares for the most rambunctious and ambitious group of men I know.
When I reach the kitchen, I make an espresso and pop a bagel in the toaster. As I sit at the kitchen island, I close my eyes and inhale. Gather as many memories and moments from this kitchen, this summer, and imprint them on my mind.
Will the tour in Europe heal my fractured relationship with Levi or make it worse? Will it clarify my confusion about Derek or twist my thoughts even more?
What will I do afterward? Search for a job or re-enroll in UCLA?
It feels like I’m teetering on the edge of a precipice. One gentle breeze, just a stirring, and I’ll fall. One way, or the other.
For some reason, each step forward holds a heaviness that I already feel around my neck. On top of my shoulders. The pressure and the weight of it is waiting. But which step do I take? Which direction do I choose? Is one truly better than the other?
My bagel pops up and I jump at the sound. Laughing at myself, I pull out the hot bagel, drop it on a plate, and move to the refrigerator for some strawberry jam.
A knock sounds on the front door and I pause, listening intently.
It sounds again and I reroute my steps to the front door. It’s unusual for someone to knock this early. And, given the security out front, not many have access to the brownstone.
I glance out the window and grin when I see Dre on the porch. Pulling the door wide open, I beckon him inside. “Hey! Good morning. Come on in; I’m just making breakfast. Are you hungry?”
Dre lifts his head and the heartbreak in his eyes glues me in place.
The grey morning light casts him in somber hues, and his face tells a story of tragedy. My limbs lock down and panic crawls up my throat. It scrambles quickly but when I open my mouth, a wail doesn’t emerge. Instead, a whisper. “What’s wrong?”
My heart beats in my temples, slowly, loudly. Deafeningly.
Dre shuffles on the porch. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. Exhaustion clings to the edges of his lips, pinching the corners of his mouth. He looks like he wants to fall apart but can’t until he shares the news. Splits the burden.
I shake my head, not wanting to hear whatever he’s going to say next. Because whatever words comes out of his mouth are going to gut me. I already know it; I want no part of it.
Self-preservation kicks in but I don’t fight. Or fall. Instead, I beg, “Dre.”
“I’ll come in,” he agrees, stepping inside the house. He closes the door behind him, and I move toward the kitchen, needing the normalcy of my routine. I’ll make him a coffee. It’s something to do with my hands. A task to focus my attention on.
Dre moves silently but I feel him behind me. I know he’s in the kitchen, shadowing my moves. Waiting for me to catch up so he can share whatever he came here to say.
I spin toward him and toss my hands in the air. Helpless. My body trembles with the knowledge that knowing is painful. But now that Dre’s here, the morning has twisted sideways, and I can’t not know either.
Dre pulls me into his arms. A giant bear of a hug from an imposing, generous man.
“Buck had a heart attack,” he murmurs into my ear.
I start to pull back, violently, as if the strength of my reaction can counteract the truth of his words. Dre grips me harder. Holds me closer. Hugs me tighter.
“He died instantly. No pain. No suffering,” Dre continues, his tone soothing, his words low. Their meaning, a strange type of gift I cling to, even though I’d prefer to reject their validity.
No pain. No suffering.
A heart attack.
My body folds in on itself. All strength leaves my limbs in a giant whoosh, on an exhale. I stagger but Dre catches me, takes all my body weight, and gathers me to his chest. He sinks to his knees, taking me with him, until I’m a lifeless rag doll, half in his lap, half on the kitchen floor.
His arms are strong, his chest solid. He cups the back of my head and makes a soft shushing sound. It takes me a second to realize that the keening, the howl, is coming from me.
From deep within my soul.
My heart cracks and my spirit breaks. The kitchen swirls around me, dark colors and shadows. My fingers tremble and my eyes burn.
“He loved you, A,” Dre says.
My cheeks are slippery with tears. I press my face into Dre’s chest, my head tucked under his chin, and fall apart.
My shoulders shake with sobs as the loss, the grief, of Buck hits me like a tidal wave.
It sucks my strength from my limbs, like a leech, and leaves me drowning.
Unraveling. Gasping for air and reaching for a surface I can’t see.
“You brought him joy in such a short amount of time.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and wail.
“Like the daughter he always wanted.”
My fingers curl in the bottom of Dre’s T-shirt.
“Thank you, for giving that to him.”
My shoulders shake and nausea twists my intestines.
The pain is excruciating. The loss is unbearable.
“He told me you went for burgers and milkshakes.” Dre makes a tiny sound, half snort, half sob. It vibrates against my forehead. “That was special for him.”
“I didn’t, I wasn’t, was he sick?” I sputter. My mouth is dry, my tongue too thick to properly form words.
“No,” Dre mutters. “No. This was sudden. No one saw it coming.”
I pull back slightly, wiping my hands across my cheeks. They come away wet and smeared with makeup. Shimmer and sparkle that look more out of place than I feel.
Right now, my grief overpowers everything.
“I’m sorry, Dre,” I say, staring right at him. “I’m so sorry.”
His eyes are shadowed with pain, his expression grim. Still, he held me up. He even came here to tell me the news.
Dre shakes his head and I take his hand. Squeeze. I want to give him a sliver of comfort. I want him to know that he’s not alone. I feel his pain; I loved Buck too.
“He was like a father to me too,” he offers, his voice breaking.
I nod, knowing what he means. Even though my dad is alive and well, he’s barely spoken to me since I left for UCLA. It’s been over three years since we sat together, talking and sharing and laughing.
This summer, Buck gave me a gift. And now, it’s gone, just like him.
“I found him this morning. Early,” Dre continues. One side of his mouth lifts. “He was already at the soup kitchen. Preparing for the day, for the people. Buck was the best man I knew.”
I nod, wondering what his final moments were like. I hope Dre was right. No pain. No suffering. I pray his death was peaceful and easy. Like slipping into a long-yearned-for dream. Like closing your eyes. One final blink and—oh!
But the thought of going to the soup kitchen, to the group home and telling the kids who adore Buck, to walking past the diner—it all seems impossible. I shake my head; I can’t think about anything beyond this moment.
“What can I help with?” I offer.
Dre shakes his head. “You’re too good, little girl. Too bright and too compassionate for this.”
You’re too big for this world.
The words echo, oddly familiar. No more comforting than the first time I heard them.
I don’t understand the “this” Dre refers to but I don’t press him for an explanation. Does he mean this work? This loss? This day?
“There’s not much to help with,” he clarifies. “Buck left a will and his wishes are simple. He’s an organ donor and wants to be cremated. Spread with the wind, over the water, and laid to rest in our hearts, in our work, in the legacy he helped create, more than anything else.”
I nod along, seeing Buck’s personality, his love and laughter and heart, in the simple sending-away Dre describes.
“When?” I croak.
Dre shakes his head. Offers a watery smile. “Don’t worry, A. He wouldn’t want you to miss Paris.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t even thinking—”
“I know.” Dre reaches for me. Pulls me into another hug.
“But I’m telling you,” he continues, his mouth by my ear.
“Buck would want you to live. To soar. To go and experience and love. Don’t let opportunities pass you by.
Don’t sleepwalk through your life. Embrace it with every part of yourself.
Give everything you’ve got to the present.
” He kisses my temple. “Go to Europe, Allegra. And live it.”
“What the hell is going on?” Derek’s voice interrupts our moment. His tone is hard, his words accusatory.
Dre turns slowly. We both look up at Derek and when he sees our expressions, notes my tears, his anger bleeds away. A stoic kind of blankness washes over his face and he turns his back, grips the edge of the kitchen island. Whirls around. “Who?” he spits.
“Buck,” Dre says softly.
“Fucking hell,” Derek swears, striding to the window. He slams his palms down on either side of the sink and gazes out into the morning grey. It’s overcast and sullen today. Threatening rain. Maybe even thunder and lightning.
It’s as if the sky, the universe, God himself, is on the precipice of mourning Buck along with us.
An entire cosmic shift to pay homage to a man with a too-big smile and a too-soft heart.
Dre and Derek talk in hushed voices. At some point, Dre disentangles himself and stands.
But I remain huddled on the floor. A ball of loss, a mess of grief, a puddle of tears. They continue to come, relentless. Sad and angry and disbelieving.
My knees cut into the cold tiles. My hands grow numb.
And still I sit, waiting for the grey day to roll over me and drag me under. Drown me for good.