But that’s another naive part of me that doesn’t want to accept the reality of what is and what will always be. When Cairo had Levi’s car parked in the driveway of my house this afternoon, I practically had a panic attack.
Levi was supposed to be driving it.
He was supposed to beinit.
Not Cairo putting his ass in the driver’s seat or asking Juice or Hot Rod to bring it over—I don’t know which or how. On a normal day, I’d have his ass. But today, I could only stare at it while trying to catch my breath.
Cairo tightly held my hand and stood there with me until I said something.
I didn’t.
Nothing should hurt this badly, but it does. It’s so unbearable that everything that once brought me happiness brings me dread. Nothing will ever cover this gaping hole in my heart.
Ever.
First, Dad’s loss and now, Levi’s, and this is a trend that starts with me. I’m the black cloud of death bringing the men in my life to uncertain tragedy.
Flexing my fingers along the steering wheel, I take a hit off my blunt and welcome the soothing feeling of the last few.
I follow an old Camaro in front of me down the four-lane road that holds Levi’s memorial cruise. All of South Shore came out to pay tribute to the King they lost too soon as classic cars ride up and down the street to commemorate his memory.
It’s amazing for what it is, and I wish I could appreciate it more. I knew Levi was loved by not only me but the community and this proves it.
Onlookers wave, noticing Levi’s car, and even some clap with tears and hollers. The Bluetooth radio plays a playlist Levi purposely made on my phone so he could listen to his shit while we drove.
More memories.
More flashbacks of conversations, but I can’tfeelhim.
I think what makes this more frustrating for me is I’m seeking comfort that can’t be. Levi is dead, and he can’t talk me through this or tell me how I need to act. How strong I need to be. How I’m not a basic bitch who will crumble to her knees in sheer anguish because he’s not here anymore.
But I feel like one anyway.
I steal a look at my arm, freshly tatted and red underneath a shitload of Saran Wrap. The tattoo artist couldn’t finish it all, but I have another appointment with him in a few days to finish.
Tomorrow is Levi’s funeral, and I don’t think I’ll be ready to see people, let alone leave the house for a minute.
Making a Michigan U-turn, I’m ready to head back to the parking where Hot Rod and Juice are hanging out for a break. It’s at one of Juice’s favorite bakeries, and he’s got a hard-on for one of the girls inside, so I know he chose it on purpose.
It’s a diversion if I’ve ever seen one. And the boys are trying to remain prideful, men with strength both mentally and physically. However, Hot Rod is barely speaking, and when he does, it’s to ask if I need anything. Juice isn’t as playful as he always is, but he’s attempting to be when he can.
He’s just failing miserably at it as well.
Allowing my head to hit the back of Levi’s leather seat, my eyes mindlessly scan the area, and that’s when I seeit.
A shiny red Mitsubishi Eclipse with glistening chrome rims that call out to me like a beacon of hope and reassurance I’m going to getmyturn.
The sound of heavy bass thuds violently from its direction. A tell-tale sign of the Pistol Posse’s lack of fucks with their basic-ass mumble rapping into everyone’s ears.
My heart charges into a sprint at my discovery.
He’s here.
He’s here, and he’s fucking dead.
He’s here, and I’m going to rip his entire fucking head off.
With a bunch of people around Astor? Be serious.
