Cursed Boys and Broken Hearts, page 21
Mama Bianchi releases me from the hug and drifts away with her rose.
“Wait!” I say, my robe whipping violently. “I need your help!”
Under the archway, she turns back. “Yes, you do. But all you’ve got is you.”
She leaves. I chase her.
“Wait! I can’t lose Ben! I can’t hurt Ben!”
When I reach the archway, Mama Bianchi has already traveled to the patio. She smiles—my smile—and waves the rose. I follow, sprinting as she disappears inside. But when I reach the patio, she’s already at the top of the East Wing stairs. She waves the rose, and I chase her again. But when I reach the stairs, she’s already walking inside my room.
I burst inside the room, furious. “Hey!” I shout, but once I’m inside, I look out the bedroom window and see Mama Bianchi back outside on the lawn below, waving that goddamn rose. “Wait! WAIT! WAIT!”
* * *
It’s dark in my room, except for a small touch lamp turned to the lowest setting, which is as bright as a candle flame. I sit straight up in bed, staring at the window where, moments ago, I screamed at Mama Bianchi. My chest is slick with terror sweat, and for some reason, I’m still hollering, “Wait! Wait!” to an empty room.
Except it’s not empty.
Someone is dabbing my shoulders and head with a cool cloth. Frantic hands try to dry me off before pulling me into a fierce hug. Whispers come: “It’s okay, Grant, stop it, you’re awake, you’re here, you’re okay.”
“What?” I ask, not fully awoken. “No! No. N—”
“You’re dreaming,” Aunt Ro says, her concerned voice far away but traveling closer. When I turn, I finally see her. Not me in Mama Bianchi drag. No black-and-white house. It was just a dream, but it was so vivid. Ro, wrapped in an oversize nightshirt, smooths my hair with a trembling hand. “Grant, you were screaming. Are you okay?”
“Ro…” I say, grasping weakly for her. My entire body is quaking. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this scared. My heart won’t settle. I think I had a panic attack.
Anxiety won’t release its stranglehold, even when I’m unconscious.
“Ro,” I say, clarity returning. “I can’t hurt Ben. I’m not stable enough to be what he needs. I can’t do long distance. I just can’t. I’m not strong like Mama Bianchi.”
“What?” she asks, sleep-deprived but desperate to understand.
“If I lose him again…My curse…”
“HEY.” Ro snaps her fingers loudly. My spiraling attention collects and obeys her command. “There’s no curse. There’s no myth. It’s just a rose, Grant. I’m sorry we fed you this dumb story, but it’s just a story, that’s all. It’s not worth destroying your life over. Or losing a boy like Ben. Or waking up screaming, honey. I’m so sorry we did this to you.”
Her hug swallows me again, but I scramble out of it. I feel unhinged, like I need her to understand something primal about me. “It’s not you, I did this. I made myself sick.” I wince back a splitting headache. “The curse is real to me. I know myself, I’m gonna end up doing something that scares Ben or pushes him away.” Now the tears come. “He can’t know I’m still messed up—”
“Grant.” Ro hands me a travel pack of tissues from her pocket. I dab at my eyes as she strokes my leg above the covers. “Loving someone means they have to see your vulnerabilities. They see what you don’t want other people to see. Do you know the gross things your uncle does? Do you know the scary shit I say to him sometimes? No. That’s knowledge for him and me alone. You are human. This isn’t anything I haven’t seen before. Ben’s seen you more intense before. Remember your grandma’s wake?”
I moan unexpectedly. “I tried to wish away one of the most important parts of me. What’s wrong with me?”
Silence crackles in the empty bedroom as Ro considers my question.
I lace my fingers behind my head like a long-distance runner, willing my breaths to slow.
Finally, Ro looks up, her dark features hardened in the low, flickering light. “Grant, when are you gonna give yourself a break, huh? I promise, you’re not the first boy in history to make that wish. And by the way, everyone regrets the dumbass things they wished for when they were thirteen. I wished for a third Reagan term. You know why? Because I didn’t know a goddamn thing, and the planet is lucky that wishes are just make-believe. Wishes are intentions. They are you. It’s all just you. You want to mess things up with Ben? They’ll be messed up. You want to make it work? I believe you can do it. The rose is just a token of your intention.”
Mama Bianchi’s dream words find me again.
You say there’s a curse, break it yourself.
But in the dream, I was Mama Bianchi. This knowledge is already in me.
“Thanks, Ro,” I say. “Sorry to make you philosophize in the middle of the night.”
Chuckling, Ro stands from my bed, her eyes glistening. “It’s God’s punishment on me for letting you make that wish. I should’ve told you that night you didn’t have anything to worry about.”
I smile weakly. I don’t know if that would’ve been comforting or frightening, to have someone so close reveal that they heard everything—that they knew what I was trying to bury.
“God’s punishment, huh?” I ask, smirking. “A minute ago, you said there’s no such thing as curses, that we’re all masters of our own intentions or some garbage like that.”
Without missing a beat, Ro waves me away. “For you, there isn’t. For me, there’s mystical punishment.”
“Nice talking to you, Ro.”
We blow each other a kiss, and she returns to her room. I lie awake, the touch lamp’s low light still flickering like a candle, and I wonder exactly how much intention I really have in this situation. Do I want this to work with Ben? Yes, but there are more things to consider than a relationship.
What if school in London works out?
What if Ben really would be happier in Scotland?
What if we do long distance, and I see him on Instagram with another guy…and then I make bad assumptions again? I don’t know if I’ve done enough work on myself yet to be stable for him.
What if Ben and I are meant for each other, just not right now? I want to be healthy enough to treat him the way he deserves. I have to figure out this curse on my own, without the pressure of letting down Ben.
Could we split up and find each other again a third time?
If my great-grandmother could build Vero Roseto for a man that she didn’t know could really show up for her, then I can have faith that Ben and I will work out someday.
Just not now.
Chapter 26
Ti Auguro
At the end of a long week, Ben and I find ourselves with a free afternoon for the first time since…ever. But that doesn’t necessarily mean there’s peace.
After two months of nonstop planning, the Rose Festival is tomorrow.
My living sculpture gowns are finished. The fountain at the Wishing Rose is running. The grounds look even prettier now than when we were kids. Vero Roseto has been successfully rebuilt, but I can’t shake this horrible sinking feeling that an unexpectedly beautiful chapter in my life is about to close.
Like a rose, this summer bloomed bright, but after tomorrow, everything will start to decay.
Today is the last bittersweet day to enjoy what Ben and I have grown together.
In the basement, on the “good kid” side without all the scary doors, Ben and I sit cross-legged and sift through boxes of memories. At least ten cardboard cartons sit stacked on top of one another in the cupboards next to the children’s books and board games. I run my fingers over an inscription on one of the boxes, written in green Sharpie in childish cursive: Halloween.
The O is colored like a jack-o’-lantern.
“I wrote this!” I say, admiring my fine illustration. Ben pops open the lid, and just as we remembered, it’s filled with children’s costumes. The ratty, gray Rapunzel wig. A wizard’s cloak stitched with patterns of silvery stars. A Jason hockey mask with fake blood smears. A headband that makes it look as if you have a machete going through your skull. We paw through the contents like it’s a time capsule—Ben and I never got to spend Halloweens here, but my grandma kept this box of costumes for us to play with year-round.
“Speaking of costumes…” Ben says coyly, leaping up. “I finally got my outfit for the Rose Festival sorted. Wanna see?”
“Immediately!” I pop up, accidentally kicking the Halloween box as I go.
“Eyes closed.” Ben reaches for my cheek and gently shuts my eyes for me. As Ben spends the next minute loudly rummaging through the games closet, my heart won’t settle. I’m actually nervous he’s going to look too handsome, and it’ll make leaving him even more excruciating.
But when he tells me I can open my eyes, my worries are soothed.
He looks awful!
Ben McKittrick, the handsomest man for miles, wears the most hideous outfit that’s ever existed: a brown velvet tuxedo the exact shade of a UPS truck. The undershirt is ruffled and frilly. The lapels are 1970s wide. And a matching brown ribbon tie, extra fluffy.
It’s Grandpa Angelo’s wedding suit! We thought we lost it.
“STOP,” I say, covering my mouth. “Where did you find it?”
“He gave it to me,” he says proudly. “Before he died. Told me to keep it somewhere safe so it wouldn’t go into the coffin with him. He wanted it still bothering everyone after he was gone.”
“Why’d he give it to you? When…?”
Ben’s smile freezes. “You mean how did I end up with the suit Angelo was wearing the day you banished me from Vero Roseto for a thousand years?” Struck silent, I have to nod. Ben shrugs. “Guess he felt bad for me. I hid it in the Halloween box. Figured nobody would go looking there, since everyone but us was grown up, and you and me were history.”
My jaw hangs open, speechless.
“So, as punishment for convicting me without a trial,” he says, patting those truly awful lapels, “I’m going to wear this and mortify you at your festival.” Giggling, he spins in place. “This was so big on me when we were little, but it actually fits now.”
The fit is impeccable. The brown jacket is so bunchy, and Ben’s chest is so prominent, it looks like he’s wearing an IKEA dresser.
“You and Grandpa were the same size! I don’t believe it!” I say, unable to remove my hands from my mouth as I stare helplessly at the train wreck.
Ben twirls again. “Angelo and me were both tiddied out!”
“Nope! We’re not gonna talk about my grandpa’s tiddies, thank you.” Ignoring me, Ben seductively smooshes his pecs together. “Okay, that’s it! You’re going down!” I leap up and pry the jacket off him as he smacks me away. Before I can pull his arms from the sleeves, Ben twists backward to kiss me.
I kiss back, but each time I do, I hear the toll of grim funeral bells.
Gong.
Soon, Grant. This will all fall apart so soon.
“And your sibs are coming, too,” Ben says. “They’re gonna freak!”
“Totally.” My thoughts still miles away, I laugh hollowly.
Ben sighs wistfully. Good—he didn’t notice my sudden darkening.
I reject your negativity, I tell myself. I hate you, Grant. You’ve stolen every nice moment from me.
My mind says nothing back. It simply plays a little movie from the future: a movie where I’m at school in London, my hands trembling as I try to load my sewing machine. They’re trembling because I’ve just seen Ben’s Instagram of him and his ex in Scotland—and they’re no longer exes.
It’s all so possible, and in the little movie in my head, I spiral and block Ben. But then I change my mind and unblock him, but he’s already seen my block. He’s furious. He’s yelling at me about how he knew my love for him was fake. Then he blocks me.
I never see him again.
In the reality of the basement, Ben—covered in smiles and my grandfather’s ugly suit—pulls out another box. I inspect a row of Nancy Drew books on the shelves behind me, but this is a ruse to brush away a tear while Ben isn’t looking. After a cleansing, centering breath, I return to him. The box is filled with photo albums—some are ancient and frilly, detailing my great-grandmother’s marriage, my grandparents’ marriage, my aunt’s marriage, and obnoxiously, my parents’ doomed marriage; each of the albums’ covers are emblazoned with a rose and the phrase Ti Desiderio in gold filigree script.
Ti desiderio.
I desire you.
An invisible hand wrings my heart like a sponge as I try—and fail—to picture Ben and me in our own Ti Desiderio rose album. The image won’t conjure in my mind, not even for pretend. A thick brain fog prevents it from manifesting.
Ben flips through my grandparents’ album with a faint, dazed smile. “Angelo was so cool. He always made me feel like I was part of the family. I worked in his veggie garden with him once, and he told me that marrying into this family was tough. The Bianchis are hard to crack, and you’re close-knit, so it’s real easy to feel like an outsider. He said that’s why you all need a magic rose to prove you belong with someone, because you only listen to higher powers, not your own hearts.”
Okay, drag me, Grandpa.
But he was right. Actually, he was too right.
I blink, and a serene clarity spills over me. I reach for Ben’s bare knee and stroke its fine, light fuzz. “Why did Angelo tell you that?”
Ben smiles, but can’t meet my eyes. “I think he knew.”
Wave after wave of emotions smash me against the rocks in my head. “I thought…” I suck in a pained breath. “I thought he didn’t know.”
Ben chews his lower lip and keeps staring at the album. “We always think we’ve got ’em fooled, don’t we? C’mon, Grant, I was around so much. People saw. And…after I lost you, I feel like he was trying to help me stay a part of the family.”
Vero Roseto has more spirits in its walls than just Mama Bianchi guiding the fates of her descendants. Angelo has his say, too. He was a cool-headed, understanding builder and farmer, bound by love—not a rose—to care for the wild Bianchis. Like Uncle Paul. Like Ben. Like my dad, who found the responsibility too heavy.
Will Ben join Angelo and Paul? Or will he end up like my dad? Too weak to fight after too many hard years.
The next album isn’t any kinder. It’s newer, hardcover, some kind of shiny plastic vinyl made by Shutterfly. On the cover is a picture of the entire family at one of our barbecues on the deck. Everyone is there. Summer 2018, the cover says in a rainbow-colored font.
“I’ve never seen this,” I say, opening the booklet immediately.
“Me neither,” Ben says, crowding in closer.
Shoulder to shoulder, both of us young boys again, we pore through our old memories, each photo as fierce and poison-dipped as an arrow: Ben and me setting off Roman candles with my siblings; Ben and me with our faces painted after the Valle street carnival; Aunt Ro scream-laughing as Uncle Paul carries her piggyback through the parlor; Grandpa picking tomatoes from his garden; Grandma tickling my nephew, Angelo, who was just a newborn then.
Maybe this album is treating Ben nicer than me, because he can’t stop smiling.
Aunt Ro must have compiled this. She never showed anybody. Did she just make it for herself? Was it so bittersweet that even she had to stash it away with all the other dusty memories?
The next pages answer my question.
In the photos in the back half, my family poses in black suits and dresses. Grandma’s funeral. Next to these, in an oval frame, is a portrait of my grandma on her wedding day—gorgeous and dark-eyed in a white veil. Surrounding the frame, Ro has added rose stickers. This was the picture they used on her casket.
With a pulling at my heart, I remember the chaos of that day. Fighting. Tears and blame. Me against Ben. A. C. against me. Mom against A. C. Dad against Mom. Aunt Ro against Dad.
In the history of the world, I don’t think a family has ever gone from perfect to shattered so fast in a single moment. At least, not of their own self-inflicted wounds.
Grandma would have healed everything. She would’ve stopped us. But she was gone.
These pictures burn worse with my new information, that it was a misunderstanding based on Hutch’s childish lie and my own belief in my curse. I was so frantic at the idea of losing Ben too that I made sure I’d lose him for good. How does that make any sense? If I’d just handled it better, the confusion would’ve cleared, and he might have been back in my life so much sooner. Ben wouldn’t have had to lose my family when he needed an intact home more than anything.
In the basement, today, Ben lovingly plays with the curls on my neck. I shut my eyes on another painful throb.
I have to be strong and do this for us.
“Ben, I can’t lose you again,” I say weakly, my neck collapsing in shame.
“Hey.” Ben swirls his hand across my back. “You’re not gonna.”
I wriggle free of his touch. I can’t let his sweetness stop what I need to do. Ben clocks what I did—he flinches and scoots away, his eyes narrowed in fear. Lightheadedness sweeps over me, and I grip my chest to feel my heart—it’s beating erratically fast.
“What I did to you was awful,” I say.
“I don’t care about—” Ben starts to say desperately, but I cut him off.
