Chapter 22
My Ex Loved Shit Like This
The next few weeks at Vero Roseto are disorienting. Everything appears to have gone back to normal: Aunt Ro doing Mama Bianchi wine tours, Ben maintaining the grounds, and me upstairs drafting sketches for the festival on my tablet. Between sketches, I start auto-sending applications to design schools across Europe and the UK. My biggest swing is University of the Arts London. Their reputation is impeccable, their website is top-notch, and…it’s only a handful of hours from Edinburgh.
Am I coldly strategizing for my future? Yes. Is it healthy? That’s for Dr. Patty to decide.
Everything feels different in a post-kissing-Ben world. My heart’s greatest desire for the last billion years has been fulfilled, and I’m supposed to just go on with my life as usual?
Yes, dummy.
Ben doesn’t do relationships, and I no longer do the thing where I let my career dreams get entangled with boys I like.
We kissed, but we’re not dating. Maybe we’ll have some fun, but it’s better for me if I keep things simple and…disappointing. Maybe there’s no great love story here, just a sweet epilogue to a great friendship before I start my life over.
But I want Ben. As my digital pen crosses over my tablet, all I can think about is that caramel-sweet kiss (and wondering when the hell it’s going to happen again). I want Ben, but I have to be smart. This whole situation will be mental health quicksand for both of us if I don’t step around it correctly. Besides, Ben and I have too much work to do for the festival, and our situation (whatever it is) can be a highly disruptive force.
“I appreciate you being so honest with me about becoming intimate with Ben,” Dr. Patty says during our virtual session (our fourth so far). Unlike the other times we’ve talked over Zoom, I’m showered and dressed in something other than pajamas. Despite her affirming words, Dr. Patty’s brow is wrinkled with worry. “And I’m relieved to hear that he was not as duplicitous as we once thought.”
“But?” I ask.
“But nothing. I think you’re a smart boy who’s aware of the pitfalls of getting closer with someone who’s been so much baggage for you, so I don’t need to remind you to be careful.”
A numb, heavy weight settles over me. “Him leaving?”
“There’s that. But that’s just geography. The real issue is trust. In our first session, when you were so desperate, you told me whether it was his issue or yours, you felt you couldn’t trust him. Now, you may have learned some new truths since then that alleviates his guilt, but…you said his issue or yours. And trauma, based in truth or not, leaves scar tissue. If you are going to keep this boy in your life”—I launch forward in bed to correct her, but she’s way ahead of me—“whether you date him, whether you build a life with him, or whether you are just casually kissing him this summer…you’re going to have to deal with your scar tissue. You lost him, you lost Hutch, you lost your grandparents, you lost your big family summers, and you felt abandoned by your family’s myth—which is really about feeling abandoned by your family—all in a single moment.” Dr. Patty raises a finger to the camera, her creased eyes filling with compassion, and I hold my breath. “Your life changed overnight, and it was so disruptive, you were so vulnerable, that you felt you had to become a new person just to survive. That’s a lot for a thirteen-year-old. It’s a lot for anyone.”
I cursed myself.
The kid I was, the person I was becoming before the events of that summer happened…he died. A beast took his place. He wore my face, but he lived with a new anger that grew and grew until it became his whole identity.
On the bed, I mop tears from the corners of my eyes with tissues I now keep handy on the side table. Dr. Patty’s expression softens. “I’m not trying to bring you down, Grant,” she says. “I’m so happy you get this second chance. You’ve been such a serious grown-up since you were thirteen, and I’ve wanted to see you be a boy again so badly. But for years, Ben McKittrick was the face of your pain. And that might not go away quickly. So, whatever you two do…treat him carefully.”
I want to.
Five years ago, I gave in to my hurt and lashed out at Ben before he could explain. If I had just let him explain, the truth would’ve come out right away, and it would’ve saved Ben and myself years of bullshit. The problem is me. This time, I’m going to be strong. I’m going to trust.
An hour later, it’s noon: my daily date with Lexi. The white pill lands on my tongue, and I chug her down with a full glass of water. She’s such a good friend—no matter how long we go without talking, she’s there for me when I come back.
Shaking the bottle of Lexapro, I slip it back into the medicine cabinet and tell it, “Love you, see you tomorrow, honeyyyy.”
In the few weeks I’ve been back with Lexi, I’ve been sleeping more than I’d like. Having so much work to do and being this tired has been frustrating, but the calm she’s brought back to me has been worth it. It’ll probably take another week before I really feel the effects, but just the idea of being in control again has been like an electric charge.
And so far, I don’t need to worry about the sexual side effects. The mere memory of Ben’s toughened fingers grazing my cheek has kept my junk in a constant state of heaviness. It feels like I’m walking around with a chunk of alabaster stone in my jeans.
Now that I’ve completed the self-work portion of the day, I continue into the next part of my journey: creative self-expression. It’s time to actually construct the living sculpture gowns I’ve sketched. The festival is in early August—almost two weeks from today—and Team Vero Roseto has to wrangle materials for my “crying rose garden” installation, resod the sculpture garden’s chessboard pattern, and build the flower gowns.
Thanks to my post-Patty confidence, I finally let Eshana see my designs. One at a time, I text her screenshots of the six gown sketches, each one featuring a different flower: red roses, white roses, lilies, magnolias, hydrangeas, and tulips.
SCREAAAAAAAM, she replies. I haven’t seen a Grant Rossi design in months! Gawd, I have missed this! I hearted my faves!
Lying facedown on my bed, I quickly swipe through the pics to see which ones she’s hearted. Babes, I text. You hearted all of them.
I LOVE ALL OF THEM, YES. Grant Rossi is back in business!!
Strength returns to me with each passing moment I talk to her. I type feverishly: And it’ll be simple to assemble! The flowers will be installed on light wire frames, and the models just slip inside it, like a cage. Biggest problem will be installing irrigation tubes throughout to keep the flowers all fresh and dewy, but my uncle Paul is pretty confident with plumbing to make it work.
Cool cool, Eshana texts, getting into business mode. Lemme know if you need models. Irene and Coco and Luisa from my Art Institute show would drop EVERYTHING to do something ’grammable like this.
Flipping over to my Notes app, I jot down the models’ names. Thank God for them. Putting this show together so quickly is going to need all the help it can get.
The next day, after compiling the full list of supplies I’ll need for the gowns and garden installations, Paul breaks the bad news to me: Valle won’t have everything we need. Some of these supplies, like the water filtration systems that’ll create a river around the Wishing Rose, can be assembled from Slava’s Hardware in town. But the living sculpture gowns are trickier. The tubing must be custom-made to hide inside the silhouettes.
When I was designing at the Art Institute, finding materials was easy, but now there’s no choice: I have to go back to Chicago. I’ll need the half-body mannequin forms from my studio, and the rest of the materials can be rented from city shops.
“So, when do we leave for the big city?” Ben asks over lunch. He, Ro, Paul, and I huddle around the kitchen table, ravenously devouring food so we can stick to our overwhelmed schedules. Blessedly, Ro made macaroni pie, which is amazingly gobbleable. Like all Italian dishes, it’s just pasta, cheese, egg yolk, and gravy, this time in cube form, like a Rice Krispies Treat of spaghetti.
“Ah, I can go alone, you’re busy,” I tell Ben as I gulp another square whole.
“You can’t go alone,” Ben says, eating his own square in one bite. “It’ll take you twice as long without help.”
Anxious acids roil through my stomach, threatening to send back everything I’ve just eaten. “Well, I’ll need the truck for it, so why don’t you come with, Paul?”
Uncle Paul mops his sauce-stained mustache and shakes his head. “Can’t do it. The Rose Festival isn’t just Vero Roseto. We’re the last grand finale stop on the tour of other homes in town. I have to make sure everyone is still participating. We’ve had a lot of drop-offs the last few years because our festival…you know…started to be nothing special.”
He eyes Ro warily, like maybe he shouldn’t have been so blunt about her past festivals.
After a stung moment, she shrugs and takes a hit of Grato red wine. “You don’t need to be so polite. My last three festivals have been shangad.”
Paul scoffs. “They were not shangad.”
Ro downs the rest of her glass. “Shan! Gad!” She makes the sign of the cross. “If Mama Bianchi saw what I’ve done.”
“What’s ‘shangad’ mean?” Ben asks.
“Tacky,” I say. “Cheap. Poorly done.” I glance at Ro. “Sorry.”
“It’s true!” Ro bused her plate to the sink. “I run Vero Roseto like a boss, but I can’t put on a show. People can’t do everything on their own. And neither can you, Grant, so take Ben to the city with you. End of subject.”
Both Ro and Ben instantly catch me struggling for a way to say no.
As Ben’s eyes narrow, I realize this is not a great way for us to heal our situation. My shoulders slump as I embrace an embarrassing truth: “We’d have to go to my studio, and it looks out of control. I didn’t clean it before I hopped a train out here on a whim—on a spiral. I’m not…my best self in that city, and I have no idea how I’m gonna act when I’m back there. Ben, you’ve dealt with a lot of me already.”
At the sink, Ro watches me. So does Paul. Ben calmly walks over and grazes my chin: “Little Italian boy, you’re so dramatic. Thank you, but I’ve seen worse, and you’re gonna be okay. Now let’s hit the road.”
I hate him, but I can’t stop smiling. Those fingers on my chin. Those little touches.
Life could be so easy if it were just him and me here. But I know our futures are going different places. If I pour more hope into this, it’s just going to be worse when it ends. When whatever is going on between us gets ruined by my curse—or his. These little touches can’t mean anything more.
On the same whim that brought me to Vero Roseto in the dead of night, Ben and I decide to just kill the day and leave immediately. The stores we’re renting from don’t close until seven, so we can round everything up, get on the road, and be back in Valle before it’s too late.
We stop to gas up just as the Valle forests end and long, blank cornfields begin. “I’ll get it!” I say, hopping out of the passenger seat to reach the pump before Ben can open his door. While I fill up Paul’s dinged flatbed truck, Ben laughs. “What are you being so nice for?”
I shrug. “It’s just gas, no reason.”
Yes, just pumping gas. Certainly not me trying to make up for years of unwarranted asshole behavior.
However, Ben’s suspicions really come alive when I come back from inside the gas station with Snapple Apple and a box of Junior Mints. His absolute favorites from when we were kids. He takes them with narrowed eyes and says, “Okay, please just make fun of me or something. I can’t take this Nice Robot Grant.”
“What?” I say, trying to sound innocent as I buckle myself in. “Snacks for the road!”
Ben doesn’t blink. “Okay. I’m watching you, but you better start acting rotted again soon.”
I hold up three fingers (scout’s honor!), and with that, our journey to Chicago begins. The drive is three hours through mostly woods and cornfields, so while I busy myself with my tablet designs, Ben listens to the ancient radio. He jumps around through a lot of static, but eventually lands on a death metal station he’s pretty happy about.
When that becomes too much noise for me, we chat. Even though we’ve spent the whole summer catching up, our new, romantic-adjacent dynamic has spread a sugary glaze of importance on these stories.
“So, here’s a rotted question for you: How long were you and the great Nicholas Hutchinson together?” I ask, resting my feet on the dashboard.
“Four weeks,” he replies, rolling his eyes as if it were the most annoying era of his life.
“You two ruined my goddamn life over a four-week fling?”
“You let your goddamn life get ruined over a couple of middle schoolers?”
“Fair.” Chuckling, I reach over to flick his ear. He hisses and elbows me away.
“Anyway, you’d know that already if you hadn’t unfollowed us both.”
“Didn’t unfollow you.” Ben glances over, confused. My joy deflating slightly, I pick at a cluster of dirt under my nail. “Took a social media break for about a year. Just deleted everything. Dr. Patty’s orders. It helped a lot, and Lexi did the rest.”
For a long minute, Ben drives in silence. The country road flies by in a monotonous but pleasing hum. “Didn’t know we messed you up that bad—”
“It wasn’t you.” I pet his leg, which is something I hadn’t planned on doing, but I need to make myself clear. “Not you. Okay? Just a soup of my brain chemistry and family stuff. This…misunderstanding with us, it was just the spark.”
Ben nods, satisfied but looking miles away. “So, this Dr. Patty is really mother, huh?”
“Oh yeah!” I drum my hands against my knees. “My mom rankings go: Ro, Dr. Patty, Melissa McCarthy, then my own mom.”
“Ouch, Mom.”
“She’s good! The other three are just better. My mom never…got it with what was going on with me, and after a while, she started getting impatient.”
A fresh surge of guilt courses through my chest at how flippant I’ve been about Mom, who has eight kids and four grandkids to wrangle, but whatever, it’s not my fault. If she wanted things simpler, she should’ve given birth to a lower-maintenance kid.
“My mom got so much better once she left my dad,” Ben says.
“Divorce is weird. Like, when mine split up, I thought it would calm everyone down, but they just got more…”
“More what?”
“MORE.”
Laughing, Ben reaches over to smack my chest. I wince at the exquisite pain. The tiny touches are starting again, but the longer we spend in this car, the more I crave them.
“You said you came out during their divorce?” I ask Ben, remembering our tense chat weeks ago when we were replanting Grandpa’s garden.
Ben nods. “Best thing I ever did. Unmasked my dad as a creep, got me a one-way plane ticket to Edinburgh, and my mom went into hyperdrive rainbow support mode.” He throws back his head luxuriously, taken by some beautiful memory. “Grant…She bought me so much shite that year.”
“Damn you.” Lowering my feet from the dash, I turn to Ben, eager for details. “Tell me everything.”
Rapidly, Ben counts items on his fingers against the steering wheel. “Designer shoes. Imported cable-knit sweaters from Sweden. Whenever they put out a new iPhone, I got it. Personal trainer sessions five times a week.” He flashes his taut bicep, his shirt material straining to contain it. “Eyebrow threading.”
A guffaw rips out of me. “Stop.”
“Blue contact lenses.”
“Shut up—” But the word “up” gets strangled in my wheezing laughter.
Smiling smugly, Ben snaps his fingers. “Laugh all you want, miss. Those next few years, I got dick on dick on dick.”
“I’m happy for you,” I groan. “I got Dr. Patty.”
“Don’t mope. My dad got sick, and the party was over. It was like he knew we were having too good a time, and he manifested the cancer.”
I just let him talk. Ben sounds like he hasn’t shared these heavy caretaker woes with anyone, probably not even his mom, and she hates his dad.
“But hey,” I say, making spirit fingers over my face. “Brought you and me back together.”
Laughter escapes Ben in an exhausted moan. “I forgot, what a blessing!”
As we fall back into comfortable silence, I smile, letting my eyes travel over Ben’s strong, unshakable beauty as he handles the unfamiliar truck with ease. His hint of reddish scruff that, if I lived in a different, simpler universe, I would want to watch become a powerful beard someday.
After several hours of midwestern country landscapes, our drive becomes industrial—following a long stretch of highway leading toward the outline of the Chicago skyline. As soon as I spot the familiar towers, an odd calm sweeps over me. It’s not the PTSD trauma bomb I was expecting. I’m strangely relaxed, like all my months away at Vero Roseto cleared my head enough to allow the many positive memories of the city to return.
Ben slaps my knee. “Need me to strap you down?”
“What?” I ask, thinking, Yes, please.
He grins slyly. “You made it sound like just being in the city would turn you into a werewolf or something.”
“You are so obnoxious!” I burst out laughing, and joy stays with me the rest of the drive.
Hitting up stores before nightfall is easier said than done. We collect the wire frames and bolts of fabric for the dresses in the garment district, but by the time we finish our scavenger hunt for the tubing, pumps, and miniature spray nozzles needed for the interior irrigation systems, it’s a race to closing time. Even when complicated feelings come up with Ben, I’m too busy to linger on them.
But it’s so cute watching Ben, out of breath from dashing around the store, fight through his accent as he tries explaining to the stunned cashier that he’s looking for “nozzles,” and not “nuzzles” or “noodles.”
I laugh so hard my guard briefly slips, and a horrible thought invades my mind:
Ben would be such a good father.
Oh, goddamn it, where did that shit come from? I was doing so well!
These awkward feelings only intensify when it’s time to hit up my studio. I almost got away with Ben not seeing inside. We have this huge flatbed, and I thought he’d have to wait double-parked while I ran up to get the mannequins. But the universe laughed, and for the first time in history, there’s plenty of parking on my block.
At least I picked my mountain of clothes off the floor before I left.
The room is dark, but my three mannequins—half-body forms on metal pegs—are bunched together neatly right when we walk in. Of course they’re neatly bundled; I’ve barely touched them since my last show.
Ben scans my simple studio, which I never had time (or energy) to decorate or do anything notable with. He shrugs. “This is what you were worried I’d see? Just a messy room?”
He’s right. There’s nothing scary here. I walk through the space cautiously, like I’m a paranormal investigator hunting for ghosts. Maybe that’s what I was afraid he’d see—some Grudge-like specter created from the endless bad vibes I’ve poured into this place since I moved in.
Then I see it on the floor beside my bed. My stomach twists like a wrung-dry towel.
The magazine.
The one I hurt my feelings with whenever I get how I get. The Art Institute magazine with me and my ex as cover boys on the red carpet of our debut show. The show that would be my last professional high in almost a year. I kneel to pick it up and stroke the cover…and the frantic pen scratches I used to carve out my face. My deluded smile. I left my ex’s picture how it is—he wasn’t the problem.
All of it was me. Partly for giving up on Lexi, and partly for letting down my guard and mingling boys with work. I can’t make this mistake again. These pen scratches are too serious.
On a pained sigh, I stand and walk the magazine over to Ben. “Since we’re sharing,” I say. “Since I’m healing and not avoiding the tough parts, I want you to see what I was afraid you’d see.”
Ben doesn’t judge. He accepts things as they are. Carefully, he runs his fingers over the pen scratches, and I watch his eyes shimmer with tears. “Grant…”
I don’t snatch the magazine back. My feet remain firmly planted, my chest out proudly as I show him something I planned never to show anyone. “I’m not who I was when I did that. I wouldn’t do it again. I regret doing it. It’s my only copy, and there aren’t any more, so my memories of that show—the best work I’ve ever done—will always remind me of how crazy I am.”
“That’s not nice.” Ben glances up seriously.
“Yeah, but it’s the truth.”
“It’s not.” He lobs the magazine onto my mattress. “And your best work is ahead of you. You’ve still got this festival. And then after…”
“After…” We don’t have to say it: after the festival in two weeks, I’ll pursue designing somewhere else, somewhere most likely not Edinburgh, which is where Ben is most definitely returning to.
After. Horrible word.
Gazing deeply into my eyes, Ben reaches for my shoulder…but his hand lands on the back of my neck. He strokes it lovingly, and a coat of fizzing, beautiful energy courses down my limbs. Slowly, he navigates his hand up, sinking his fingers deep into my curls. He massages and tugs and never looks away…
Bzzzzzzzt!
My back jerks in surprise as Ben’s phone and mine go off at the same time. Our spell briefly broken, we glance at our new text message, sent to both of us from Uncle Paul:
Gentlemen, you’ve worked so hard for us all summer instead of just getting to be kids one last time. We are so grateful, but you deserve a night off. Don’t get back on the road when you’re done. Ro and I booked you a hotel at the Mayflower downtown. Find a garage for the truck. It’s on us. Have a good time.
This is the nicest—and most manipulative—thing Ro has ever done.
She wants Ben and me to shack up, and she wants it to happen now.
To keep me here? To ensure a successful festival? Because she loves us?
I want what Ro wants, but even though Ben was just being so affectionate with me, I have to stay focused and not stumble down a rabbit hole falling in love with my childhood best friend just when I’m starting to get my shit together again! Ben and I will enjoy the nice hotel for the night, have a slamming breakfast, and then get back to work.
When we arrive at the hotel and flick on the light, my stomach drops. It’s a pretty hotel—nothing fancy, fairly basic and old-fashioned—but there’s one giant problem.
“There’s only one bed,” Ben says, raising his eyebrows devilishly.
Indeed, there is. The king-size bed waits for us, like a big, quilted invitation to fuck.
“Ro,” I groan. “The old there’s only one bed trick?”
Giggling, Ben kicks off his shoes and cannonballs onto the bed. “I love when that happens in movies.”
I scoff and slide out of my shoes. “Oh, my ex loved shit like this. Romance novel shenanigans.”
“Talk about your ex again, I’m getting so hot.” Ben can’t stop chortling as he tests the bed’s springs, which sound creaky as hell. He spreads across the covers and looks back over his shoulder at me in a very suggestive pose.
ENOUGH! I want to scream. But I settle on a restrained, more dignified:
“Hey, what is this?”
“What’s what?” Ben asks, peeling off his socks—slowly, and making constant eye contact. I better stop him before he gets serious.
Standing in the entryway, balled-up fists perched huffily on my waist, I ask, “You want something to happen? Because I thought we were focusing on the festival.”
And I thought you didn’t want this to turn into a relationship. But I can’t say that yet. That’s an intense card to play, and if I play it now, the answer alone could topple me, Lexi be damned.
As Ben silently wiggles his toes and unbuttons his flannel top, an ominous weight grows in my jeans. I’m not ready. I want this, but I haven’t had meaningful sex in way too long. I don’t think I’m ready. I’ve hooked up with plenty of guys since my last ex, but this would be sex that matters. It has importance, prominence, and weight. Weight that fills my jeans like a damn bowling pin with each second Ben lies there, summoning me with his eyes.
“We’ve worked on the festival enough,” he says, flapping his hand. “Here.”
It’s so commanding, like I’m a dog. I hate it, but goddamn it, I love it, too.
Glancing anxiously at the bathroom next to me, I rake my fingers through my curls and say, “I think I’m just gonna sleep in the tub tonight, I—”
In a flash, Ben launches off the bed and gallops toward me. He throws a strong, muscular arm between me and the bathroom doorway. His chest, visible beneath his half-unbuttoned top, heaves as he eyes me not like my old friend. That boy is nowhere to be found in his face. This boy’s eyes are wild. He brings himself within a centimeter of my lips.
His breath is hot.
I don’t argue, nor do I want to.
Ben whispers, “All summer, I wanted you to get out of your head, forget about all our stuff and whatever more’s coming, and just be here and now. You showed me today you could do that. You’re finally in the moment. And it makes me want to take you.” His lips are closer than ever. “It doesn’t have to be serious. You’ve always wanted this. I’ve always wanted this. What if this is our last chance? Do you really want me to leave, and you never let me do…this…”
He grips my belt loop with his pinkie and starts tugging down.
We can do this. This isn’t a relationship, it’s a sexy situation.
It’s friends with perks. It doesn’t have to be complicated. We both want this, and I’d be silly to turn it down over what might happen. Ro and Paul are right. Ben is right. We’ve worked so hard—not just on this festival, but with all the struggling he and I have gone through over the last five years.
We want it.
We’ve earned it.
Let’s go.
My lips quiver as Ben closes the last incremental gap between us. Our lips finally touching, I whisper, “Take me.”
And as he turns off the lights, he does.