Chapter 1
Derek
Stellina,
God, I miss you. I understand why you won’t take my calls, but I wish I could hear your voice. Communicating like this is tough, but that’s because I’m a selfish bastard who wants unfettered access to you all the damn time.
I’m sorry, again, for leaving the way I did. It was—fuck, a head trip. I can’t believe I came face-to-face with my father that way. I can’t believe he fucking knows you. And, as much as you sing his praises, I hate that he knows you in a way, on a level, that I don’t.
My head is a mess. My feelings all over the damn place. I’m angry and confused and exhausted. But mostly, I’m lonely. I fucking miss you, little star. Even though I don’t deserve you in my life, I’m grateful you haven’t cut me out. At least, not entirely.
Let me know how you’re doing.
Love,
Derek
April 15
9:42 p.m.
Hey, Derek,
It’s good to hear from you. I understand why you left. I get that unexpectedly meeting your dad is a lot to process. I just wish you could’ve processed it with me by your side. Still, I want to help you navigate this. I want to be a person in your life, even if I can’t be there in a full capacity.
To be honest, it’s too hard. The sound of your voice, knowing what we were planning for just a few months ago…
I can’t keep putting myself in that position.
Right now, I think it’s best that we proceed as friends.
Please don’t keep calling and leaving voice messages. When I’m ready to talk, I’ll call you.
Take care of yourself,
Allegra
April 21
11:52 p.m.
Stellina,
Fuck, this song is haunting me. Fitting, isn’t it? The presence of you—whether in reality, or my mind, or my songs—has haunted me since day one. That’s not a bad thing; it’s probably the only thing in my life that matters besides the music.
You.
I’m so fucking sorry, beautiful girl, that I can’t be the man you deserve. That I can’t earn your trust and keep it. That I can’t guard your heart without fucking shattering it.
Even though you will never be just my friend, I’ll take you any way I can get you.
You’re like a damn high in the best form possible.
Like fucking sunshine. Your name shows up in my inbox and everything is better than it was a second earlier.
So, let’s keep emailing. And I’ll stop with my voicemails. For now.
Most of my time is spent songwriting. Or fucking off in the studio.
It’s not the same though. Mav left for Costa Rica.
He needs a break from dealing with Levi’s, Jameson’s, and my bullshit for as long as he has.
Jameson is off-again with Amelia, nursing his bruised heart in a cabin by a lake in the middle of fucking nowhere.
I’m sure they’ll reconcile; they always do.
It does make me think about the toxicity of some relationships though. And fuck, little star, I hope that’s not us. I don’t want to be your downfall when you’ve always been my salvation.
Does that make me sound pussy-whipped like Jameson? I don’t care if it does.
I’ve spoken some with your brother, as I’m sure he’s told you. You don’t have to move from the apartment. I don’t want his money. I want you safe. And comfortable. And fucking happy.
Other than time with my music, I’ve started therapy. Dre hooked me up with a guy he knows, and while I’m not expecting miracles, I’ve gone to two sessions. The fact that I made an appointment for the third is a favorable sign. Dre sends his love and asks about you often.
Are you still working at Beirut?
Miss you,
Derek
April 26
6:43 a.m.
Hi, Derek,
Sorry for taking so long to respond. I’ve been exhausted. Totally drained and not sleeping well, which explains the early morning email.
I’m proud of you for trying therapy. I’m glad you found a therapist who makes you want to schedule the next appointment. Miracles can happen—sometimes slowly—if you keep showing up and putting in the work. So, keep doing the work. You’re capable of more than you think.
Thanks for the offer on the apartment, but now that Levi is bunking with me, a two-bedroom is a better option for us. Your security deposit and rent checks for the remainder of the year will be returned in the next week or two. Levi is handling it.
Since Levi moved in, I’ve been able to scale back. I’m no longer working at Beirut. Just taking classes and spending more time at the NGO. And more time with my friends and Levi. It’s great to get to know my brother again. Better late than never, right?
We weren’t toxic, Derek. Our timing just never lined up, not the way it should have. And that’s okay.
Better something than nothing, right?
Stick with the therapy and give Dre a big hug from me.
Allegra
April 27
9:04 a.m.
Stellina,
Are you getting sick? Why the exhaustion and insomnia? Do you feel okay?
Therapy’s fucking hard, but you’re right—I have to do the work. Just wish there wasn’t so much of it. We’re currently wading through my bullshit. And there’s so much, it’s overwhelming. But, Kris—that’s my therapist—is a good, patient guy. He reminds me of Dre. I’m going two times a week now.
I’ll settle apartment shit with Levi and not bother you with the details. I’m glad the two of you have reconnected and are spending quality time together. He’s a good man, your brother. One of my best fucking friends. Even when I want to deck him.
Yeah, Stellina, always better something than nothing.
How are the girls? How’s work at the NGO? Are you working late nights? Is someone around to walk you to your car?
Let me know what you’re up to. I miss you, little star. Talk soon.
Love,
Derek
I send off the email. The little whoosh sound is comforting. At least Allegra will read my words, even if she can’t listen to my voice. At least she’ll know I’m still—fuck, always—thinking of her.
I crack my neck and stand from the butcher block island. Glancing around the brownstone, I miss the chaos it usually holds.
With Mav off sunbathing and Jameson fishing, it’s eerily empty. I rub at the center of my chest, antsy. Having spent most of the night in the studio, I know I should crash.
But I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to be alone any longer with my thoughts. My loneliness. My fucking self.
Pulling out my phone, I dial Dre.
He answers on the first ring. “What’s good, man?”
“You hungry?”
Dre laughs. “Going out of your mind, huh?”
“That little diner in South Boston,” I continue.
Dre sighs. “Yeah, brother. I’ll meet you.”
I grin. “Great. Half an hour?”
“See you there.” Dre ends the call.
I breathe out a shaky exhale. Good man, Dre Ruiz, making sure I fill my idle time with something constructive. Like eating breakfast and having a normal conversation.
Like not obsessing over my father. Derek Madden.
Or my time with Simon and the bruises he left all over my body.
Or the loss of Allegra, and how it often feels like I’m internally bleeding, slowly dying. No one can fucking see it. And even if they could, would anyone give a shit?
My phone beeps with an alert and I sigh again.
Tomorrow is therapy.
Does this shit get any easier? Living, breathing, creating?
Does anything ever make any damn sense?
I bite the corner of my mouth and glance at the inbox on my laptop screen.
Allegra Rousell.
Her name, right there, in my inbox.
Live. Breathe. Create.
Apologize. Earn. Show up.
Do the fucking work.
Yeah.
I’m doing it for her. For me. For us.
Right now, I need to believe in that.
I need to believe in something.