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.