Chapter 9

Jackpot

Thanks to the feelings dredged up by my public late-night therapy, sleeping upstairs is impossible. One gong from the grandfather clock outside my room, and my thoughts instantly spiral toward Ben. Ben—back in my life again. I’m still into him, but that’s only because my dick can’t understand the danger I’m in if I fall for this boy again. The damage I absorbed from my exes is a scratch compared to the gutting when I lost Ben.

Each day I spend here will be a challenge.

Since the upstairs bedroom is too haunted by bad memories, I opt to smother myself in good memories instead and sleep in the basement’s game room. Uncle Dom’s old camping cot is still there from the seventies. It was made for a large child, but I curl into enough of a ball to fit. Its earthy, stale-cracker scent and the texture of the hunter-green canvas activates a happy memory from when I was young, safe, and still loved Ben.

Well, back when I only knew the simple side of Ben. And of myself.

Finally, my brain lets me sleep.

In the morning, I have no idea what time it is. The storm-shielded basement has no windows, and I didn’t bring a charger for my dead phone. Upstairs, the workers’ bandsaws rumble faintly as they continue renovating the West Wing. In the dark, I grasp for a light switch near the stairs. Like the rest of Vero Roseto, the game room is as preserved as a museum. Behind my cot, an ancient dollhouse sits open, its flooring—made of contact paper patterned with sunflowers—now curled and peeling. Dolls and toys of every size (and era) lie scattered throughout the house like the morning after a raging party.

Next to the dollhouse, a library of children’s books wraps the entire back wall. Little Golden Books with shimmering foil spines, stacks of baby-blue titles I recognize as a Nancy Drew collection, and two full rows of Goosebumps. During those frequent summer storms, my sisters would read them out loud by flashlight. There was one that freaked Ben out about a mask that turned a boy into an old man. If it hadn’t been pitch-black, I wouldn’t have had the courage to reach over and rub his back to calm him. It’s something a straight boy wouldn’t think twice about doing for a friend, but when you’re confused—and touching a boy’s back means something—a million internal negotiations happen all at once.

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.