Cursed Boys and Broken Hearts, page 7
When Ben didn’t flinch at my touch, I knew what I did was okay.
When he took my hand in the dark, I knew I was not okay.
A few years later, I’d wish him out of my life forever. And the rose cursed me instead.
Don’t ever wish straightness on yourself.
The rest of the game room is taken up by a full-size pool table. The older kids played pool on it, but the rest of us used it as a stage. Ben, my sisters, and I put on an impromptu production of Tangled, with each of us taking turns being Rapunzel. My brother, A. C.—ten years older than me and annoyed he couldn’t use the pool table—would always interrupt. As the youngest of eight highly vocal and opinionated Italians, it was impossible to do what I wanted in peace. A. C. was infuriating until he started calling Rapunzel “Ra-Pinball,” which cracked us up so much it set the tone right again.
Don’t ask why! When you’re that young, anything silly and random is top-shelf humor.
Beyond the Ra-Pinball table, at the farthest wall, is the slot machine my great-grandfather allegedly inherited from a friend of a friend of Al Capone. Nearly a century old and made of heavy iron and brass, the slot machine rests on a table mounted to the wall. It was the coolest thing any kid—young or old—could play with down here, even though we mostly just lost hundreds of nickels to it.
Next to the slot machine is an old, plastic McDonald’s cup. A drawing of Catwoman wraps the cup, its vibrant colors faded, but it’s still filled to the brim with nickels. A smile rises as my twiddling fingers reach for the slot machine’s lever. I take a nickel from the cup, plunk it inside the dirty slot, and pull. Maybe something with my luck will change.
Shuddderrrrrrrrrr.
The mechanical beast trembles loudly as three wheels spin. Familiar painted icons—lemons, a bushel of grapes, green apples—whirl past my unblinking eyes.
The wheels spin to a stop—one at a time landing with a tinny clunk—until I see exactly what I hoped for. Three in a row. Rose. Rose. Rose.
Jackpot.
On another, happier whirl, the machine belches a decade’s worth of nickels (all failed jackpot attempts) into the basin below.
“Helloooooooooo!” I shout, thrusting my arms in the air.
If I close my eyes right now, I’d be able to see A. C., Ben, Kimmy, Traci—everyone—all of us children again, cheering me enviously as I achieve the unachievable rose jackpot! Young Ben wraps his arms around me, and…
“You got a jackpot?” asks grown-up—real life—Ben be-hind me.
My heart in my shoes, I spin quickly, biceps tightened and fists raised to fight whoever just spoke (even though I know it’s Ben; my fists aren’t communicating well with my brain). He stands at the bottom step, a new tank top—this one teal blue—already sweated through from a morning in the garden. Here I am in nothing but gray sweat bottoms, praying my morning wood has already deflated.
Ben snorts. “I’ve been playing that thing for weeks and keep getting green apples.”
I laugh. “It knows you’re a sour asshole.”
“Yeah, ’cause you’ve been such a rose,” he sputters. After a brief wince, Ben’s tone softens. “I caught your video from last night.”
Tension stiffens my spine. “And?”
“Thank you for not bringing my name into it.”
“That’s it?” My eyes narrow. I poured my guts out, and this is all he has to say?
“Well, you’re a popular guy, and I don’t want to be the new villain in your life, so I appreciate you keeping me out of it.”
“A new villain?”
“Your exes must be flattered you can’t get their names out of your mouth, and you keep pointing to them—sorry, this curse—for why you’re so miserable.”
“God,” I groan, my joy at winning the jackpot already dead. “I don’t blame them. I blame—”
“A rose, yeah.”
I almost said “I blame you,” but that might start our festival plans on a bad note.
Clearly agitated, Ben blows out sharp breaths and adjusts his backward cap. “You and your family—all these jinxes and curses and hex talk.” He shakes his head. “Look, I’m sorry you were going through all that back then, and I am sorry about what happened with us, but…you think Hutch and I got together because of a wish you made?”
Ben’s sneer exposes my self-centered viewpoint. Standing here, half-naked, all my curse talk suddenly seems as childish as the games in this basement. Some mildewy idea I should have put away years ago. But brains don’t behave rationally like that.
I shrug, rake my fingers through my curls, and lie: “I was just trying to make the video sound witchy enough so people would want to come here. I promised Ro I’d promote the festival. This might be our last year if we can’t make it work.”
Rather than soften him, my words toughen Ben’s expression into a cold grin.
I hate it.
“What?” I say. “I’m trying to help!”
“You don’t know?” he asks.
“Know what?”
Ben scrunches his face in disbelief. “We’re already booked through next month.”
“Booked? Like…the rooms? People made reservations?”
Ben nods. “Your video kind of blew up. Ro’s losing it. Her website crashed, and she’s enlisted your uncle to help renovate the rooms now because people are coming today. She might have to put guests in the East Wing family rooms until the West Wing is ready, so get used to that cot.”
For a long moment, I sputter nonsense, overflowing with confusion that in the time between posting my video and waking up, my family’s fortunes have turned around. “But…when are people coming? We’re not ready. The West Wing looks condemned. There’s a frigging sinkhole in the deck. There’s not even a rose garden to have a rose festival!”
“Yep,” Ben barks, looking irritated. “Could’ve used more time to prep, but guess I’ll just work around the clock to make a pretty party for all your fans.”
“Okay, wait.” I close the gap between me and Ben. He already smells like sweat and soil. Do not look at his chest, Grant! Eyes up! For a moment, Ben’s gaze flicks up and down at me (I haven’t been feeling like my chest is anything to stare at lately, so thanks for looking, Ben). “What do you mean ‘my fans’?”
Ben smirks—his bear face already in place if he ever gets a bear body. “Your video, Grant. Our middle school bullshit, dragged up for everyone to see.”
I take Ben firmly—but gently—by the wrist and meet his eyes. His jaw hardens. I’ve only seen him this angry once before. “I didn’t make that video to rag on you. I did it to make people believe the Wishing Rose brings people together, so they’d come to make it happen for themselves.”
Scoffing, Ben messes with the flecks of red hair peeking out from his cap. “Well, it worked or whatever. Just if anyone starts prying about our drama, I’m gonna take it out on you.”
He jabs my bare chest, hard at first, but then he pulls back, looking unusually self-conscious.
Weren’t expecting my boob to feel that nice, were you, Benji?
“Yeah, I grew up, too,” I laugh, but he rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t warn you I was making that video. I didn’t realize it would go that far that fast.”
He casts his eyes to the pool table. “Your ex reposted it. The one with all the followers.”
My popular ex. He saw everything and shared it. To embarrass me? Out of pity?
I pace around the pool table and mutter, “What are we gonna do? People are gonna see this place is a dump and know I’m still a dump…I should’ve blocked him.”
“You’d block him?”
His soft, wounded tone halts my spiraling thoughts in their tracks. “Yeah?”
Ben clutches the green felt ledge of the pool table and lowers his head. “If you’d known I was following you last year,” he whispers, “would you have blocked me?”
Neither a yes nor a lie comes to me in time.
“That would’ve really, really sucked if you’d done that, but I wouldn’t have been surprised.” Ben’s chest rises on a sharp, furious breath. His jaw is so tense, just like when…Well, I haven’t seen him this angry since our friend breakup. He snorts. “I hope you didn’t get the story wrong about your ex, too.” Ben flicks an eight ball across the table and clomps upstairs.
“ ‘Get the story wrong’? What does that mean?”
If he’s talking about himself, how else was I to interpret Ben running off with Hutch? I’m the wronged party, and I have every right to be mad at everyone and everything!
“Saddle up, city boy,” Ben calls from the top of the stairs. “We got lots of work to do. That fancy new chest of yours better not be just for show!”
Oh, it’s not, sweetie. I’ll show you—and everyone—what I can do.
Chapter 10
The Old Grant
One shower, oatmeal breakfast, and phone charge later, I gather Ben, Aunt Ro, and Uncle Paul outside on the back lawn to discuss my strategy for dealing with Vero Roseto’s sudden popularity. As usual, my strategy involves a lot of improvisation and faking like I know what the hell I’m doing. But fortunately, my instincts usually end up being spot-on, and my fake confidence becomes real. While my aunt and uncle are tense, and Ben leans casually against a fence post, I stand confidently astride the collapsing deck’s stairs in my borrowed denim shorts and oversize tee.
The bottom step whines under my weight. Clearly, we can’t keep a scrap of the existing deck, which stretches almost the entire width of the manor. It has to go now.
“Ro,” I say. My aunt, lost in thought, startles at the sound of her name. “When are the first guests arriving?”
“Ten of them today!” she says, tugging on her self-manicured nails.
“When’s check-in?”
“Four o’clock, but I’ve already had a few ask for an early check-in…” Spiraling, she throws up her hands. “I wanted guests, but I didn’t think we’d book all the rooms, or I would’ve noted they can’t all be filled yet.” Her brow darkens. “And your video said everyone who books a room can see the Wishing Rose, but I wasn’t planning on having it open until August for the festival! What’s gonna happen when they want to see it today?”
Ben’s eyes drift bitchily to me, as if to say, Well? Answer her.
I step down from the deck toward Ro, and all three of them flinch. My move looked impressive and confident, but I was actually just scared I’d break through the stairs. I shake it off and shrug casually. “If the guests see everything like this, they’ll go online and talk about how nasty it is.”
Ro and Paul stare, the color draining from their faces. Smiling, I raise my finger to the sky. “But they’re not going to see it like this.”
Ben rolls his eyes. “If I worked nonstop, no meals, no water, no sleep, I still couldn’t get the rose garden ready for at least a week. We don’t have the materials or the bulbs or…”
I raise my hand calmly. “I understand. This is actually going to be simple. I want to introduce all of you to the art of addition through subtraction.” The three of them lean closer. “We have seven hours before check-in. All we have to do today is provide guests with a room, a glass of wine, and the Wishing Rose. Vero Roseto and Valle Forest are beautiful enough to do the rest.”
“But what about the deck?” Uncle Paul argues, his eyes disappearing into a squint.
Nodding, I point to my aunt. “Ro, those reservations you got, did they put money down?”
“They all had to for the first night,” she says, still fiddling with her nails.
“Great! So, we’ve got cash to work with.” I spin toward my uncle. “Paul, could you get people up here right now to get rid of this deck? Not to rebuild it, just demo and clear.”
Uncle Paul, his furry arms perpetually crossed in agitation, finally drops them. “Yeah, I can get my guys,” he says, his voice suddenly brighter. He scans the deck, cautiously studying it, likely mentally going over the geometry of how he’d attack the problem. “We could chop it up by lunch and have it hauled out before check-in.”
A rush of adrenaline surges through my chest. I can’t fight my smile.
There it is. The old Grant, still in there, elbow-to-elbow next to the wounded child and the cursed beast. It’s getting crowded inside me, but at least I know the artist and leader still exists.
“Ro, it’s gonna be great,” I say, taking her into a hug, but she wobbles queasily, as if she needs more convincing.
“I’m so glad you’re energized,” she says, “but we’ve known for weeks about everything we have to do. It’s just been so busy. I don’t think there’s time—”
“People are coming. We have to try, right? You wouldn’t let me be this negative.”
Ro laughs, exhausted. “No, I wouldn’t.” She sighs. “The guests can stay in the East Wing. That means you’ve gotta stay in the basement again.”
I nod. “Done.”
She glances at Ben and Paul, who look wary but waiting to accept her approval. She’s running this operation, not me. “Paul, I think you and the guys should focus solely on the deck. Specifically the middle section with the hole, but remove it all if you can. Like it was never there. That means, Ben, you’re in the rose garden.”
“Aye, aye.” Ben salutes.
She winces at us both. “With Grant. It’s a two-person job. You boys okay with that?”
Ben and I meet eyes only briefly. If I lingered any longer on his face, the enormity of what a bad idea this is would break my confidence. A day of laboring side by side with a boy I can’t go five seconds without fighting with. What a treat for everybody!
After Ben nods grimly and I say “Sure!” fakely, I address all three of them again: “Don’t get distracted making everything pretty. We can repair everything later. We just need to subtract everything that’s broken or dying. The winery and the Wishing Rose itself are still pristine. We’ll throw some extra construction tarps over the sculpture garden, and then all we have to do is clean those fountains and take down the rotting vines…” Stepping back from my aunt, I stomp over to the back lawn and point at various places like I’m appraising the land. “Ben already cleared Grandpa’s vegetables, so we just need to seal up the pool and…”
As my pointing finger finally lands on the lawn, my shoulders slump. The vast majority of the grass is patchy, yellowing, and hideous. “The lawn sucks,” I moan.
“That’s all right!” Ben yelps, hurrying to meet me, his can-do spirit newly alive. His eyes sparkle as he scans the dying lawn. “Paul, if you’ve got a spare guy or two, we can pull up the lawn so it’s just sod. People don’t mind something unfinished if they see it’s being worked on. Progress, right?”
It’s such a wonderful fix, I almost forget to be mad at him.
“It’s all perception,” I agree. “And if anyone gets here early, Mama Bianchi will give them an extra-long tour of the winery.”
Ben chuckles. “After a few glasses of wine, they won’t care what the lawn looks like, eh?”
I laugh and smack his bare shoulder. He smacks me back.
For one plummeting moment, I forget everything I was ever mad about. In that moment, he’s not Ben, the boy who shredded me to pieces, he’s someone new. Someone…sweet.
He isn’t sweet, I remind myself. He cosplays as sweet until you drop your guard. So, don’t drop it.
Aunt Ro hasn’t spoken in a minute. At least she’s stopped picking at her nails.
“Well, Mama Bianchi,” I say, “any last thoughts before we begin?”
Everyone turns to her. On a cleansing breath, she unfastens the cream-colored sash under her chin and fans herself with her sun hat. She grins, a twinkle in her eye. “I think it’s a good thing you’re here, Grant. You and Ben.” She sends Ben another warm smile, which he returns—not the usual catlike smirk he has for me, but something genuine and touched. This whole past year, with Ben’s dad sick with something serious enough to bring his son back from Scotland…I’m glad he had Ro and Paul here for something familiar.
He really does love Vero Roseto.
“Hands in the middle,” my aunt says, thrusting out her ringed, crimson-nailed hand. Paul slaps his furry-knuckled mitt over hers, and Ben places his hand—large, freckled, and veiny—over his. “So cheesy,” I say, placing my hand over Ben’s. The shock of touching his hand is instantaneous.
Don’t think about how nice this is, don’t think about how nice this is.
Luckily, Ro ends my misery with a “Vero Roseto!” rallying cry, and we all break.
Paul returns inside to call his demolition guys, and Ro follows him to grab her checkbook, leaving Ben and me alone. We stand awkwardly opposite each other on the lawn, a hideous site of wreckage and neglect that with any luck will soon be presentable to outside eyes.
There’s a metaphor somewhere in there, but I’m going to need coffee first.
A flurry of birds soars overhead, uttering proud calls that echo across Vero Roseto, its vineyard, and the barnlike winery. It really is a beautiful place. Tearing it up will be easy; making it the gorgeous oasis it once was will be harder, but tomorrow’s problems are for tomorrow.
“Come here a sec,” Ben grunts. He takes my hand too fast for me to stop him.
I freeze into a statue, easily placed in the sculpture garden, while Ben examines my palm. My hand is also large, but with shorter fingers than Ben’s. His rough touch slides along my palm’s ridges and hillsides—the divot in my finger where I cut myself sewing my pumpkin jacket—until he clicks his tongue disapprovingly.
“Soft hands,” he says.
I snort. “Yeah, I moisturize. Don’t get all blue-collar warrior on me, Ben.”
