Cursed Boys and Broken Hearts, page 14
Just don’t cry, Grant. Don’t faint and don’t cry.
I swig my bottle of Pepsi, which has turned lukewarm.
“Have you gotten that out of your system?” A. C. asks, his shoulders still pumping with heavy breaths. Weakly, I nod. Then he pulls me into a powerful hug. “I’m sorry, little buddy.”
It’s not his usual non-apology. It’s from the gut.
Behind us, the screen door opens. Traci’s tennis shoes land hard on the dirt as she leaps from the patio door through the open deck. Kimmy follows her, and she helps down Angelo. All of them, including Uncle Paul, swarm me. Tiny Angelo weaves around his mom’s legs to find me. With a mop full of curls identical to mine, he smiles—a front tooth missing—and I melt.
If I’m right about him, he just got a great all-clear signal from his family.
Half an hour later, when Ben returns from town with the new bolts, he finds a refreshed and revitalized Rossi family. On sight, A. C. raises him a cold bottle, crowing, “Hey, there he is!” My brother throws a chummy arm around a highly uncomfortable (and confused) Ben. “Buddy, when you were growing up, I was a prick. There is no excuse, and I’m sorry. And to be totally honest, since my brother came out, I haven’t gone a single day without remembering what I said. And every time I remember those little jokes, it hits me like an icicle right here.” Still in A. C.’s iron grip, Ben watches my brother jab at his sternum. “Right here, Ben. And I feel it for you, too.”
“Thank you…Uh, keep it up.” Beyond baffled, Ben squirms out of A. C.’s arm, lobs the new bag of bolts to Uncle Paul, and approaches me chilling alone at the edge of the deck frame.
“What’s going on with A. C.?” he asks, scooching next to me on the beam.
Smiling, I guzzle more freezing pop. “You missed a blow-out fight. Him and me.”
Ben’s eyes widen with fiendish glee. “I MISSED IT?” he whispers. “Who won? And what about?”
“That’ll teach you to run off. I won. And it was about you. Well, me. And, I guess, us. He started in on you, and…I lost it. It came rushing back to me, how scared you were when I told you to leave my grandma’s wake. I know I…hurt you, and left you alone with your dad, who sucks.”
“Mm-hmm, my dad, who sucks.”
“And then you had to move, go through all that alone. Anyway, I let him have it. Nobody shit-talks you but me.”
For a long time, Ben doesn’t react, and I don’t say anything either. Sometimes, apologies are best when you just put it out there and let it cool like a pie right out of the oven. Finally, he bites his lip and asks, “You fought for me?”
On a cleansing inhale, I reaffix the bandanna around my sopping curls and say the words I never thought I’d say to Ben in a million years: “I want to start over. Forget the rules about bringing up our past. I can’t hold on to it anymore.” My jaw tenses on a sharp swell of guilt and hope. “If I only got you around for a few more weeks, I want you and me to start over for real.”
A grin finds Ben. He stares at me as if he’s waiting to make sure I don’t take it back or say “JK!” I watch him, my own hope rebuilding. Finally, he slips his hand inside mine and whispers, “Gay.”
I smile. This isn’t a fleeting touch, this is his hand gripping mine and not letting go.
Jackpot.
* * *
The next day, we complete the deck. The day after that, the city inspector clears the deck for occupancy. The day after that is the Fourth of July, and the new deck’s furniture fills with my family and new B&B guests while the kids swim. “Oh, what you’ve done with the deck is gorgeous!” says an older Black woman, sipping wine with Aunt Ro. “I used to come here every summer with my kids until they were grown. It’s been a few years, I think, but I remember this deck looking its age. It looks fabulous!”
Ro clinks her glass to the woman’s. “I’m looking my age, too. How do I get looking fabulous again?”
Spitting laughter, the woman clinks her glass again. “Please!”
Before the sun begins to set, Ben and I go to the basement to find Uncle Dom’s pantry of illegal fireworks and low-key military explosives. After thorough internet research, we determine the best way to dispose of such things is an overnight bath. In the morning, we’ll wrap them in towels and dump them at the local solid waste disposal.
It feels good to get rid of things that are no longer serving us.
We save some smoke balls, black snakes, and TNT snappers. My nephews shriek with delight at the snappers—even Angelo, who earned a bravery badge when his uncle Grant helped him hold fire in the palm of his hand with that snapper. Down goes the small white bulb, striking the new deck with a snap! Angelo screams, followed by gales of laughter as he begs me to let him do it again. While my littler nephews ignite coils of black snakes, Angelo chases them through the clouds of orange fog belching out of the smoke balls.
As soon as the twilit sky turns violet, blasts of colorful fireworks explode, far in the distance over Valle Forest. Later that night, Aunt Ro and Uncle Paul haul out stacks of old, physical photo albums, each flip of the page bringing gentle memory-filled sighs or gales of roaring laughter. The biggest laugh comes from looking at the pictures of Grandma and Grandpa’s anniversary party. I was ten—Ben was there. And there was Grandpa Angelo in that hideous brown velvet suit with the wide lapels and flurry of ruffles. He looked like a stuffed Thanksgiving turkey with those frilly little booties.
“Hey, I liked that suit!” Ben argues, laughing with A. C.—something I thought I’d never see. “Angelo said he was gonna leave it to me. I wanna file a complaint. Ro!”
“Don’t look at me! Nobody knows where it went,” she says, deep into a bottle of sambuca with Traci. “If it was up to me, I woulda burned it.”
“I’m gonna sue.”
“Go ahead! All I got is Vero Roseto, and it’s a dump!”
As everyone boos Ro, A. C. smacks Ben’s shoulder to get his attention. His cheeks are flushed red from Grato. “That garden looks brand-new. Just the way it used to after planting. You made it look exactly the same.”
Ben smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, I remembered what it looked like.”
“From memory?”
“Yeah, Angelo actually gave me some tips that summer. He was cool.”
As Ben gazes at the ground, looking lost in a flood of memories, I’m struck silent remembering my dream. Grandpa Angelo’s wedding suit, his anniversary suit, the suit he wore to my grandma’s wake. The only reason he wasn’t buried in it is because no one could find it after he died. Apparently he wanted Ben to have it, but where did it go?
“Enjoy yourself,” Grandpa told me in the dream. “This is the last time we’ll be together like this.”
Terror striking my heart, I glance around at my nephews, my brother, my sisters, my aunt and uncle…and Ben, and I realize if I go far for school, this could be the last time for us all over again. Next to me on the deck, I slip my arm around Ben’s waist and pull him into a side hug—and to my ecstasy, he lets me.
Chapter 18
The Secret Rule
Mama Bianchi’s pie stand is a small canteen behind the former sculpture garden, just before the Vero Roseto property gates that lead into the dense thickets of Valle Forest. In the declining last few years, the neglected pie stand has become a vermin lair, so it needs a severe cute-ening. While I vacuum cobwebs from the corner, Ben leans against the pie stand’s windowsill.
Things are getting…easy between us, and I like it.
A few days have passed since the Fourth of July, and miraculously, I don’t regret relaxing the Ben Rule about ignoring our past. If anything, it’s been a relief letting go of this anger. And not a moment too soon! The Rose Festival is in exactly one month, so I really should be focusing on developing more ambitious designs for the gardens. I’ve already got mounds of sketches up in my room for my living sculpture garden concept. Six models will replace the topiary animals, and each one of them will wear a gown crafted entirely of different roses and flowers. It’s a great start, but I still don’t have any idea what to do with the Wishing Rose garden.
Honestly, I’ve been avoiding it. Not just because of the memories, but because…I don’t know. Hanging out, talking to Ben, and vacuuming rat shit is more relaxing. If I’m designing, that leads me to think about the future—about schools, about leaving Vero Roseto, about saying goodbye to Ben—and as soon as the festival is over…so are we.
“Got a question for you, if that’s all right,” Ben says, leaning across the windowsill like a pushy customer.
“Since when have you asked me permission for anything?” I ask, grinning.
A mischievous glint catches his eye. “Your curse. How many boyfriends would you say it’s snatched away? I know about Hutch and Micah, but who else?”
It’s a testament to the power of the Ben Rules that he could ask this question after a month of my being here, and it doesn’t sting anymore. I shut off the vacuum and casually lean against the pie stand’s daily offerings sign while I think out loud:
“There was Dylan Lee. Really good singer. Just these beautiful eyes, oof, they cut right into me.” An awkward sigh stops my roll. “Realized he wasn’t over his ex, and they got back together. Ruben De Soto was before him. We hooked up over the holidays. Just a painfully cute guy. Lots of piercings. He liked making these big plans. All he talked about for weeks was bringing me over to meet his family. I said it was too early, but he kept digging…” For some reason, I can’t stop laughing at the memory. “When I finally said yes, he stopped texting. Just…gone, baby. Then I saw on his Instagram, he got together with this guy. His best friend.”
Ben isn’t relaxed anymore. He straightens upright and stares at me, gently.
“You don’t need to do the pity thing, it’s okay,” I say, truly, honestly numb to these stories after so many retellings.
“I’m not pitying, I’m listening.”
“So, you’re probably sensing a pattern. Micah—got to-gether with his best friend. Ruben—with his. Dylan—his ex. There’s a few others before them, same sitch.” To keep the peace, I keep up Ben Rule number two and don’t mention Hutch, my first boyfriend who ditched me for his—and my—best friend, Ben. “They all had other guys waiting in the wings. They enjoyed my attention and then…something about me was just too scary, I guess. Not scary, maybe just…a lot.” Laughing nervously, I pick up the hose again. “I swear, I tried to act as normal as possible for them. I tried.”
“Maybe they saw someone acting.” Ben really doesn’t do pity, after all.
I fire up the vacuum, and the whir is so loud I have to shout like a reporter standing next to a helicopter. “People don’t want real. They say they do, but they want real and fun. Not real and needs meds.”
Ben doesn’t blink. He shrugs and casually asks, “Do you take any meds?”
Once I’ve sucked up another trail of pine needles from the pie stand’s floorboards, I cut the vacuum and face Ben. His face is open, nonjudgmental. With all my strength, I don’t look away. “Lexapro since sophomore year. But I’ve been on and off it.”
“How ’bout now?”
“Off.”
“Why?”
I shrug, and that’s the truth. “I thought I was better, so I stopped. Then I was not better, but I didn’t feel like going through the sleepiness of the side effects again.”
“And now?”
“I’ve been thinking it’s time to make that call to Dr. Patty.”
“Dr. Patty sounds cool.”
“She is.” On another vacuum slurrrrp of a cobweb, I grin at Ben. “She hates you.”
“Well, fuck her.” Boyishly, Ben grips the windowsill and hoists himself inside the pie stand. Sweat pins a dark red curl of his hair to his ear, and it just might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. Without another word, he wraps me in a hug, and I can’t tell if I hate it or need ten thousand more. We haven’t progressed beyond these friendly touches, and I’m not sure if we should. Even if my body is begging for the other thing.
“Thank you for telling me the truth,” he says, breaking the hug. “And not being a fake bitch again.”
I would scream, but it catches in my throat and becomes a laugh. “Anytime.”
“You know, I had a Dr. Patty.” I shut the vacuum without thinking twice and turn to him, imaginary popcorn in hand. “Dr. George. He thinks you suck.”
“Is that right?”
Ben blinks first. “No, I never had time to bring you up. Only saw him a few times after my parents divorced.”
“Why didn’t you stay in it?”
“Dad stopped paying.”
My smile drops. Matt McKittrick has been and will always be that rat. Still, Ben seems to only get more cheerful as he socks me in the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I soaked him for a gym membership. Getting hot was great therapy.”
I would kiss him, but my Secret Ben Rule is still in effect.
Besides, Ben and I have enough to worry about creating this festival. Now that the deck, lawn, pool, and vegetable garden are renovated, all Vero Roseto needs is the centerpiece: the rose and sculpture gardens. All month long, guests have been paying pilgrimage to the Wishing Rose and purchasing a hybrid (at a premium). There’s already been two surprise wedding engagements the morning after a stop in the garden.
“Not that much of a surprise,” Ben mumbles as later in the week, he and I join Mama Bianchi on her latest wine tour. One of the guests is a townie straight couple from Valle with their teenage son, whom Ben and I have nicknamed “Demon Twink.”
Demon Twink is tall, blond, and tanned white, with a swimmer’s build.
Everyone’s basic nightmare, but Ben and I have spent the last month in a sex-free zone of teasing, tiny touches, and watching each other change out of our sweating shirts, so we are going to look at the pretty boy and hopefully release some of this tension later, alone (and separately) in the downstairs basement.
Demon Twink stays on his phone the entire tour while his white, middle-aged suburban parents are “selected” by Aunt Ro to receive Grato, which delights them.
Ben and I don’t care he’s on his phone. It allows us to hungrily track him through the crowd like two wolves spotting a fawn.
Who knew some low-stakes, low-expectations thirsting would be everything we needed?
If Ben and I were a couple, we’d take this energy from Demon Twink and unleash it on each other upstairs in my room…
Shit. He’s seen us.
Demon Twink glances up, and Ben and I jerk our heads away simultaneously. When I glance back, Demon Twink laughs quietly to himself, makes full eye contact with me, and winks.
Ah. Serotonin. I thought I’d lost you.
“Get his room number,” Ben mutters in my ear.
“No, no, no.” I swat his shoulder. “I’m not doing anything with that.”
Ben arches his eyebrow. “Just browsing?”
I’m not at Vero Roseto to browse. I’m here to help Aunt Ro save the place, heal my baggage with Ben, and then return to my real life. I wish it were that easy. That night, while I’m washing off my day in the shower, I don’t think of Demon Twink. I replay Ben’s hug in the pie stand. That tough little punch on my shoulder. That gleam in his eye.
I want to take care of him, but I can’t. I can barely take care of myself.
But that doesn’t stop me from dreaming.
Chapter 19
Twin Curses
The next morning, Vero Roseto’s popularity gets another shot in the arm when a glowing review of our B&B and winery publishes on Holiday, which is evidently an enormously trafficked travel website in the UK. Our old friend Mr. Cartwright came through! Ben, Ro, Paul, and I huddle around our coffees in the kitchen and flip through the review, calling out our favorite snippets:
“ ‘Mama Bianchi’s showmanship alone is worth the price of admission,’ ” Ro gasps, delighted, as Paul massages her back.
“ ‘The family that owns Vero Roseto still lives on-site after three-quarters of a century, bustling around you like delightful characters in a fairy tale,’ ” he reads.
I read, “ ‘The romantic and magical myth of the Wishing Rose is irresistible to even the biggest skeptics. Don’t miss your wish, but be warned: they do come true.’ ”
Oof. Hearing Mr. Cartwright echoing the warnings in my rose video reminds me just how seriously I’ve been taking this whole rose curse thing for so long. The longer I spend with Ben, the sillier that superstition has seemed. Still, superstition is good for business. Since that article was published, we sold over a hundred more tickets to the Rose Festival, which is bringing us dangerously close to a thousand.
“ ‘And don’t miss the local gardener,’ ” Ben reads with mock surprise. “ ‘What a piece of ass!’ ”
“Oh!” Aunt Ro balls up her coffee-stained napkin and lobs it at him, which he ducks.
“So annoying!” I laugh.
“What?” Ben asks. “I’m flattered and humbled and…”
“All right, a toast!” Ro raises her mug to Paul, Ben, and me, and we join her. She takes a moment to say anything, and I know why: Italians (and especially the Italians in this family) are very, very jinx-phobic and careful to phrase their toasts so as not to accidentally doom themselves or the family in a monkey’s paw–type situation. I mean, I’ve based my whole romantic life around such an error in wish-phrasing judgment. Finally, having decided on a path forward, she says, “To the four of us. We’re doing good. Keep it up.”
“KEEP IT UP!” We cheer, clinking mugs.
With his one review, published only four weeks before the festival, Mr. Cartwright has strengthened our myth. And the expectations.
