Cursed Boys and Broken Hearts, page 1
Also by Adam Sass
Surrender Your Sons
The 99 Boyfriends of Micah Summers
Your Lonely Nights Are Over
VIKING
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York
First published in the United States of America by Viking,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2024
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
Hardcover ISBN 9780593464816
International Edition ISBN 9780593692912
Ebook ISBN 9780593464830
Cover art © 2024 by Anne Pomel
Cover design by Kaitlin Yang
Edited by Kelsey Murphy
Design by Lucia Baez, adapted for ebook by Andrew Wheatley
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Contents
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue: An Invitation
Chapter 1: Invidioso
Chapter 2: Everyone Wants to Be Us
Chapter 3: Vero Roseto
Chapter 4: The Gardener
Chapter 5: Ben
Chapter 6: Basement Games
Chapter 7: The Fail Festival
Chapter 8: The Wishing Rose
Chapter 9: Jackpot
Chapter 10: The Old Grant
Chapter 11: A Thousand Thorns
Chapter 12: Mama Bianchi
Chapter 13: Rot Creates Sweetness
Chapter 14: The Curse
Chapter 15: The Ben Rules
Chapter 16: The Return of the Rossis
Chapter 17: A Spark, Then Smoke
Chapter 18: The Secret Rule
Chapter 19: Twin Curses
Chapter 20: Bed & Breakfast & Betrayal
Chapter 21: Origin of the Beasts
Chapter 22: My Ex Loved Shit Like This
Chapter 23: Thorny for You
Chapter 24: Electricity Meets Water
Chapter 25: Nightmares Return
Chapter 26: Ti Auguro
Chapter 27: The Evil Eye
Chapter 28: The Rose Festival
Chapter 29: Goodbye, Pumpkin
Chapter 30: The Envy Club
Chapter 31: Wish Un-Granted
Epilogue: Grato: Four Months Later
Acknowledgments
About the Author
_147512653_
For the grandparents no longer with us:
For Angelo, who always raised his glass to me
For Cynthia, who lives on through her recipes
For Joe, who opened his home to me
For Bill, who loved telling stories
For Herbie, who built the home in this book
And for Shirley, who created the family in this book
Author’s Note
Have you ever felt cursed? That no matter what you do, no matter how charming you are, no matter how good your work or art is, that it’s all simply…not enough? Is something controlling your fate, stopping you from reaching your dreams? Or is the curse, in fact, you? Are you getting in your own way?
This book doesn’t have all the answers, but it will guide you through the forest of uncertainty, which is thick with brambles and sharp thorns. In Cursed Boys and Broken Hearts, Grant Rossi believes his entire eighteen-year-old life has been ruined by a single red rose.
Is he wrong? You be the judge.
Who here hasn’t had something so small in their lives become so big that it blocks out everything else? In fact, this story tackles the realities of such a thing—depression. Be forewarned, this story takes a look at characters in the throes of depression and self-hatred, but there are also depictions of pathways forward, like therapy, SSRI medications, and—shockingly—self-forgiveness.
Of all my characters, Grant Rossi is the one I’d most like to meet because he is me at my angriest, my most inconvenient, and my most in-need-of-a-hug. Writing Grant, by allowing him his anger, I could allow myself the anger I hadn’t let myself comfortably feel my entire life. Please, from the bottom of my heart, give my angry boy a chance—a chance at being himself, a chance to find his own way, a chance to win you over, and a second chance at love.
With these caveats out of the way, I am proud to present the grand romantic destiny of Grant Rossi.
Invidioso e Grato
Envy and gratitude. The two sides of romance.
Each exists in the other’s shadow, yet neither can live without the other.
How will you know the value of what you have until you have tasted the pain of being without?
Taste the difference at Vero Roseto Garden Inn & Vineyard!
After more than a decade, Mama Bianchi is once again touring her famous vineyard, home of the Wishing Rose label, where she asks you to choose between her Grato reds and Invidioso whites.
Invidioso or Grato? Envy or gratitude?
Where does your heart truly lie?
Only Mama Bianchi and her Wishing Rose know the truth!
Vero Roseto, now accepting reservations. (Two nights for the price of one through the end of the summer!)
Valle, Illinois, Just Off US Highway 20
Chapter 1
Invidioso
I design fashion. I design art. I do not design chintzy two-for-one flyers for my aunt’s failing B&B. Yet Mom still sent over the mockup of my aunt’s upcoming ad so she could make use of my “design eye.” But all I could see was a once-great destination spot offering massive discounts throughout their busiest season. That’s all anyone else will see, too. Two-for-ones through the whole summer? Even during the Rose Festival in August? That festival is our crown jewel. Yet here my family is, admitting we can’t even give these reservations away.
On the off seasons, Vero Roseto’s rose garden and vineyard are crushed by unforgiving Illinois winters—totally deserted except for the most desperate tourist. And thanks to climate change, spring doesn’t exist anymore (vanished along with the visitors who used to seasonally escape to the vineyard). Summer is all Vero Roseto has—and summer is not enough to break even.
“Ma, there’s three exclamation points in this,” I say, looking over the abysmal ad. “Aunt Ro’s gotta cut it down to one or none.”
Over speakerphone, my mother grunts impatiently. “We just thought it was so drab without them! She wants people to know they’re excited.”
“Every time she adds an exclamation point, her desperation goes up a font size.”
Mom snorts. “You got judgmental in the city.”
I don’t blink. I just stare up at my nonmoving ceiling fan. My studio apartment is stifling in the early summer heat, but I don’t have the willpower to switch on the fan. My clothes lie on my body as heavily as an X-ray vest. My ratty gray T-shirt is due for a wash, but at least I can’t smell myself anymore. My nose has acclimated to the wretched sad boy fragrance that’s currently strangling this airless room.
Look at me. Two weeks out of graduating high school, and I’m already thriving.
The city has done wonders for me. Truly, so grato about it.
“Yep,” I say tonelessly. “I got judgmental in the city. Judgmental and sad.”
Over the phone, Mom clicks her tongue—my poor, pathetic son—and says nothing. For long seconds, we stew in silence. I’ve done the thing I’m not supposed to do: mention my depression. She lets me talk about whatever I want, but the truth makes her quiet. It reminds her of the meds I used to take—and should get back to taking, once I make an appointment. It’s nothing I’m embarrassed about, but she doesn’t like thinking of me needing them, like I have a terrible infection she’s doing her best to ignore, and I’m rudely reminding her of it.
“Grant,” she says, lowering her voice, “it’s almost been a year. There’s more than one boy in the world—”
“I thought you called to talk about this crummy ad.” Anger whips through my chest like a cobra. Guilt immediately follows, but I don’t take it back. If I can’t mention my sadness, she ca
n’t mention my ex.
My heroic, romantic, sweetheart ex everyone fell in love with—his thousands of Instagram fans, my design program friends, and my family (who didn’t even meet him before I was dumped). They adored him—that sweet bunny and his new bunny boyfriend (the best friend he fell in love with) who couldn’t hurt a fly.
Except they hurt me.
But I don’t count. I’m a beast, not a bunny. A beast with baggage and a curse on my head where no relationship lasts longer than a month. When my ex and I were dating, he and I were the golden couple. Then he fell in love with someone else, and I had to go. But where was the sweet, simple fairy tale his followers demanded? From their point of view, our broken fairy tale wasn’t nuanced reality, it was just…my fault. But in reality, I’m a cursed boy, so where was this honestly gonna go anyway?
So, the bunnies get to keep their little dewdrop love story while the beast remains shut away in his dungeon. Just like in those fairy tales my ex tricked me into believing in.
“Back to the ad!” Mom says, fiddling with loud pots and pans. “Instead of exclamation points, what if we put some words in all caps?”
“No,” I moan.
“Why not?”
“Writing in caps is for millennials who are too online. Vetoed.”
“Well, we’ve gotta show enthusiasm somehow!”
“We don’t. Enthusiasm is desperate, and Ro’s discount looks desperate enough. People come to Vero Roseto to feel classy, exclusive, like it’s a club they can’t get into. If Ro plays it cool in the ad, nobody will notice the place is in trouble.”
“Speaking from experience?”
My heart screams, but I don’t judge her too harshly. It’s an Italian thing, gagging your kids like this, and I’m the youngest of eight, so she had lots of practice before she got to me. “Ouch, Ma.”
“Well, ouch, yourself. You just said our family’s business is in trouble.”
“It is in trouble.”
“And so are you,” she says firmly, but with extreme care.
She’s right, but I’m too empty to respond. Mosquito bites roar across my ankles, but I can’t even find the energy to reach down and scratch them.
Mom sighs. “Why don’t you get away to the B&B? I can tell you aren’t taking care of yourself, and Ro would die to have you over. Spend a few weeks. Get out of that city. She’ll cook. She’ll clean. And she gets a cool, artistic teen who’ll tell her everything she’s doing wrong with the business.” Knowing she hasn’t closed her hard sell yet, Mom laughs. “I’m giving you an open invitation for free food that doesn’t come out of a microwave AND to criticize your family without back talk! How else can I sweeten this deal?”
I clear my desert-dry throat. “I’m just busy. I can’t get away.”
“Busy sleeping in past noon?” Mom’s exhale blows out my phone speaker. “Okay, so you moved to the city, and some rich boy was careless with your heart. So what? It’s a tale as old as time. You’re creative. Take all that crap he gave you and feed it into your work—”
“I’ve done that—”
“You’re handsome! And tall—gays love that.”
I retch. “Okay, but how do you know that?”
“There’s other boys—”
“I’ve tried.”
“Enough! Grant, he wasn’t that great—”
Like I’ve been jabbed with adrenaline, I sit up in bed for the first time in hours. I can almost hear my body peeling off the mattress. “Ma!” I practically wail. “He wasn’t a bad guy. He just didn’t love me.” Phlegm collects in my throat as my fourth cry of the day approaches. “What was he supposed to do? Stay with me forever just because I’m cursed?”
“Piglet, no…” Mom’s voice fills with fear.
Hot tears build behind my eyes. I set my phone on my nightstand cluttered with empty pop cans and cartons of Easy Mac. After wiping my eyes dry, I hurl my top sheet onto the floor. “It’s so hot in here!”
“Well,” Mom clears her throat, “the AC over at the B&B is freezing.”
“I’m not going to Vero Roseto, Ma.” My head collides with my pillow as I pick up the phone again. “Sorry, but I don’t think it would help me to be around something that’s dying.”
There—that comment ought to scare Mom enough to leave me alone.
We mutter goodbyes to each other, and I let my phone slip down my chest, where it settles somewhere beneath my ribs. With my last ounce of energy, I search around the carpet for The Bad Magazine, the one I hurt my feelings with when I get in these moods. It’s a complimentary promotion for the Art Institute of Chicago’s student design program—the show I worked on with my ex last year. The last thing we did together.
We were the stars of the show, so a publicity photo from the event’s red carpet entrance made the cover: me and him, the fairy-tale couple that was going to conquer the industry. When he left, he took my love for my work with him. That has to be why I’m still like this after a year. I’m just not me anymore. I’m something else now—a beast.
Or maybe this is the real me. Maybe the person I was with my ex was the fake.
Months ago, during a spiral, I scratched out my face with a black pen. Traces of my smile—a silly, ignorant smile—appear around the edges of the scratch marks. I couldn’t stand looking at myself that happy. It was a lie.
Looking at this photo, it helps me remember—I’m cursed.
My ex is just the latest of many who realized they were dating The Training Boyfriend before coming to their senses.
My ex got his fairy-tale ending, but there’s none of that for me. A low, scalding flame simmers beneath my heart knowing that even if I do find someone who wants me, it will be too late to get my pure, wholesome fairy tale. That chance is gone. Whoever this new boy will be, he’ll have to deal with neediness, repressed anger, and—yes, Mom—desperation.
He’ll have to deal with the curse, something no boy has ever survived.
Who would even have the patience? The time? The strength?
Who could ever learn to love a beast?
Chapter 2
Everyone Wants to Be Us
In my studio apartment, a half-body mannequin taunts me as I measure a sleeve’s length of fabric. Mint-green satin. Very tricky material to work with, even if there wasn’t a storm in my head blotting out any trace of sunshine. My clothes are four days old. My curly hair is matted flat with oil. I have a faraway stare in my eyes, but oh yes, I’m still going to create A Look.
No more half-finished sketches. No more endless doodling on my tablet.
I’m going to get my hands dirty, put an actual needle and thread to actual fabric, and work. Get my body feeling it again. Touch something other than metal, glass, and pixels. The old Grant Rossi is somewhere inside this snarling, sunken-eyed beast, and I’m going to wake him up.
It’s not just about my exes or my curse. It’s about getting back to my future. Becoming the most famous designer of all time—even if that means also becoming the loneliest.
To hell with boys. The curse can have them. Right now, I have one job: cut this sleeve and sew it. If I can do this, make the satin look crisp, I can do anything.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, clutching a ball of utterly ruined satin, I know I’m screwed.
I glance at my phone, like maybe this is the time to reach out to someone, poke my head up from the sand. And this time, my brain doesn’t stop me.
I text my friend Eshana: Hi, I’m alive. Sorry I ghosted your texts. Nothing bad happened, just the usual.
As if she’d been waiting by the phone, Eshana texts back instantly: How’re you holding up, kitten? Your mom texted me to see if you were alright. I lied and said I just saw you. But that felt jinxy.
I let out a pained moan. Very jinxy, I text. Sorry you had to do that. I’m reachable if my mom texts you again, btw. I just need some time to think about my next move. I still don’t have college lined up.
Fuck college, she replies. I laugh into my palm, and miraculously, a bit of blue sky pierces the clouds in my head. Eshana texts: And are you doing this thinking alone? I’m happy to chill if you’re free.
