Prologue

 

Ronnie

 

Seven years ago…

 

It was not a pretty sweater. I’d tried my best, but perhaps a sweater was not the best, or smartest, first project for a beginning knitter to attempt. I always feel like I can do anything I set my mind to, and that confidence usually serves me well. But this time, not so much. Even I have to admit that’s the case. “Look at it; it sucks.”

​

Guido groans. “For the last time,” my best friend insists loyally. “It doesn’t suck. It’s got two sleeves, four holes and it’s big enough to cover even Jackson’s overgrown torso. I call that good enough.”

 

“Good enough is not good enough,” I say, shooting a scowl in his direction.

​

Guido rolls his eyes. “Do you even hear yourself? Yes, it literally is.”

​

“Don’t come at me with semantics,” I tell him. “That’s not the vibe I’m going for, and you know it. I want him to love it.”

 

“Look, you spent four months making it—which is about three and a half months more effort than Jackson deserves if you ask me. He oughta love it for that fact alone. Now can we please stop talking about it? I’m bored already.”

 

“No, I won’t stop.” I turn and glare at him. He’s flopped on my bed with a stack of fashion magazines. “This is important, Gee. I don’t think the sleeves are the same length. I just want…” I let my voice away. I want so much, too much to explain. I want things that I don’t necessarily want to share with Guido who doesn’t much like Jackson in the first place; doesn’t think he’s good enough for me, in the second; and who (if I know him, and, oh, I do!) will probably blurt it all out the first time he comes face to face with my boyfriend in an effort to convince Jack to up his game and start doing better by me.

 

Like that has ever worked.

 

But if I could have finished the thought, it would have sounded something like, “I want Jackson to look at this sweater and know how much I thought about him while he was gone. I want him to take this sweater with him when he goes back to college and wear it every day…or at least until the weather breaks. I want him to be reminded of me each time he puts it on. And I want that connection—that sense of his being literally, physically, virtually, and in every-other-which-way wrapped in my love—to help us both feel closer to each other. And maybe a little less lonely.”

 

No, I really can’t say any of that, can I? Guido would laugh, and then he’d look hurt, and then he’d say something like, whaddaya mean lonely? I’m right here, aren’t I? But he isn’t. Not really. He’s had his own issues to deal with this year and those have been occupying all his attention lately. As I suppose they should.

 

But yes, if I’m honest, I’ve been missing both him and Jackson these past few months, and it sucks. Besides, on top of all of that, he has his own boyfriend trouble—or whatever the hell Ben is to him—to deal with.

 

“Okay, okay,” Guido says, so suddenly that I feel my eyes narrow suspiciously. “I got it. I know what we’ll do.”

 

“What?” Swear to God, if he starts cracking jokes, I’m gonna find a new and painful alternative use for my knitting needles.

 

“We’ll Christmas it up.”

 

“We’ll do what now?”

 

“We’ll make a Christmas sweater out of it—you’ve heard of them, right?”

 

“Of course, I’ve heard of them!” Enough to know that the term was usually prefaced with another, unflattering word. “Are you calling my sweater ugly?”

 

“No, you did that. What I’m saying is that if we cover it with enough bling and glittery stuff it will be fabulous.  And if you add some trim to the cuff of the shorter sleeve…”

​

“I can at least make them look even. You’re a genius!”

 

“I know,” Guido replies, looking affronted. “Why you gotta sound so surprised?”

​

Three hours and one trip to the fabric store later, I stand back to admire my handiwork. “Well? What do you think?”

 

Guido, glancing up from his phone, does a double take. “Omigod,” he says, eyes widening, mouth dropping open. “That’s… Wow. That looks fantastic. Even better than I imagined it.”

​

“Really?” I ask hopefully.  Color block patches cover most of the front, disguising the worst of my dropped stitches. They look (I hope) like an abstract rendering of colorful packages surrounding a Christmas tree. Alternating rows of rope, and ribbon, and rickrack circle each sleeve and (thanks to a little creativity, and a few well-placed stitches) have left them hanging evenly. Holly leaf and berry appliques border the neck, giving the garment some needed structure, so that it doesn’t gape open quite so much.

​

“Yes, really. There’s just one problem.”

​

“There’s a problem?”

 

“Yes. It’s too professional looking. Jackson’s never going to believe you made this yourself.”

 

“So…not ugly anymore?”

 

“Not ugly at all. You could sell these. In fact, you should sell these.”

​

“Are you kidding? It took me months just to make this one! What kind of business model is that?”

​

“Ah, the prototype always takes longer,” Guido insists, brushing my concerns away, although why he thinks he knows anything about anything is a mystery. “I’m serious. Forget following Jackson to Cornell next August. Transfer to someplace local; stay in Atlas Beach. We’ll go into business together.”

 

I feel a twinge of guilt. I know Guido wants me to stay, to support him in his journey but, “I can’t. I don’t want to leave him all alone in Ithaca. It sounds like he’s been having a horrible time there.”

 

  “Well, I’ll be having a horrible time here if you go. And I hope you don’t think he’s going to inconvenience himself spending an extra year in bumfuck after he graduates just so he can wait for you, do you? You’ll be the one all alone then.”

 

“No, I won’t. That’s years from now. I’ll have made friends by then. More friends,” I correct, after clocking the look on his face.

“Friends there, I mean. You and I will always be ride or die. You know that—right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

You could go away to school too, I almost say, but I know he can’t. He’s made his decision about what he wants to do with the money his grandfather left him, and school isn’t it. But he’s sworn me to secrecy about it, and I don’t even let myself think of him as anything other than ‘he’ in case I slip. But I still think keeping something this big and life-changing a secret is a disaster in the making.

 

“Have you told Ben yet?”

 

“No, not yet.”

 

“Gee! C’mon, dude. We talked about this! Why not?”

 

“Because I don’t know where that will leave us. We’re not all like you and Jackson, you know. I’m not convinced there’s a happily ever after in store for Ben and me. What if he’s just in love with this?” he asks, gesturing to his body.

 

“Then he’s an idiot and he doesn’t deserve you, either,” I tell him, but inside I’m screaming; but we kissed—you and Ben, me and Jackson—on the stone! We all kissed. How can we not get happy endings? 

 

See, there’s this magic kissing stone in the lobby of the Wild Geese Inn. And I know that sounds ridiculous, and I don’t think any of us were ever really one hundred percent convinced, but we’d been hearing about it all our lives. So, at last year’s Spring Fling Dance, just a month before Ben and Jackson graduated, we did it. And…

​

I dunno about anyone else, but I felt something. Could’ve been my imagination, I guess. But I definitely felt something. And if it’s magic, shouldn’t it work the same way for everyone? If there’s no happy-ever-after for Guido and Ben, what does that say about Jackson and me?

 

***

 

Three weeks later…

 

“Hey. What’s going on?” Guido asks, pausing in the door to my room, eyes widening as he takes in the chaos. Strips of fabric, balls of yarn, rolls of ribbon, basically everything that had been in my craft cabinet, along with several items from my closet, are strewn across the floor—with me at the center seated in front of my desk. Turned on its side, it’s surprisingly effective as an ad hoc loom. “Ronnie?”

 

“What?” I reply. Ignoring the tears that slide down my face, I set my jaw and continue with my weaving. “Why are you here?”

 

It’s late December, shortly after Christmas. We hadn’t made plans to hang out today, mostly because we both assumed we’d be otherwise occupied with our respective boyfriends, who are home from college. But Gee often stops by when he’s at loose ends. 

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, ignoring my question, taking a few cautious steps into the room.

 

But I just shake my head. I don’t really want to talk about it; and I can’t stop crying long enough to explain anyway.

 

“That fucker.” Falling to his knees by my side, he pulls me into a hug. “What’d he do this time?”

 

Startled by his words, my first response is to pull away, to demand to know why he’s jumping to conclusions, why he thinks this has anything to do with Jackson, when it hits me that holy shit. He’s right. It does. And then I really do start to cry.

 

“He broke up with me,” I say, finally finding the words. But just hearing myself say it out loud, makes it so real—too real—and now I’m sobbing even harder.

 

Guido pulls me in for another quick hug before he guides me over to the bed and makes me sit down. Then he sits beside me, rubbing my back and murmuring nonsense. “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’ll all be okay.” And even though we both know he’s lying, it’s comforting enough that, after a few minutes I’m calm enough to talk about the night before. About how Jackson had shown up at my parents’ annual White Elephant Gift Exchange party with a gift.

 

I didn’t think anything of it, at the time; I’d just put it with the others. But I noticed he was acting stand-offiish and weird. When I asked what was going on, he’d asked if there was somewhere we could talk privately—which should have tipped me off, I suppose.

 

“And?” Guido demands impatiently.

 

“And then he just… He just broke up with me,” I finish. “He said we were over, that he didn’t want to see me anymore.”

 

“That… that’s it?” Guido asks, staring at me in disbelief, waiting for the rest of it. But there is no rest of it; that’s all I’ve got.

 

“Yep,” I reply, shrugging a little in apology. I know it sounds lame, but I can’t help that, can I? It sounded lame to me last night as well.

 

“Didn’t you ask why?” Guido demands.

 

 “Of course, I asked!” I tell him. “But he just kept saying, you know why. And he wouldn’t say anything more. But I don’t know why! And he, he… What does that even mean?”

 

“It means he’s a bastard,” Guido growls as he jumps to his feet and starts pacing around the room. Which is a relief, to be honest. It means I don’t have to tell him the rest—the worst part. I don’t have to tell him that the ‘garbage gift’ Jack brought for the party turned out to be the sweater I’d made for him.

 

“Hey. Do you want me to beat him up for you?” Guido pauses to ask.

 

But I just shake my head. “No, of course not.”

 

 “Why not? He hasn’t left town yet, has he? Lemme call my cousins. I’m sure they’ll help.”

 

“No,” I say again. “Stop it. He’s not worth it.”

 

“You got that right,” Guido agrees.

 

“Besides,” I tell him. “That’s not how girls act. You’re going to have to quit thinking that way.”

 

“The hell I will,” Guido laughs. “Are you saying you think Jersey Girls don’t fight? Oh, honey. I’mma take you with me next time I visit the Mazzi side of the family, up in Hudson County. Then you’ll see.”

 

“Stop it,” I say again. “The answer’s still no. Just leave it alone. That’s not gonna help. It doesn’t fix anything.”

 

 “Fine,” Guido says as he drops back down to the bed. “I suppose you’re right. And I guess I wouldn’t want anyone roughing Ben up, either. Even if he does deserve it.

 

I look at him then—really look at him. His gaze is bleak, his expression strained. His eyes are red-rimmed, just like mine. He looks like shit. I pull in a sharp breath. “Oh, no. Gee… What happened?”

 

And now it’s Guido who shrugs and doesn’t answer, whose gaze is shuttered, whose hands are twisted together in his lap.

 

“Omigod,” I gasp. “Did you tell him? Did it not go well?”

 

He shakes his head. “No.” Then he shakes it again. “I mean, no. And also…no, not really.”

 

I shake my head too—in hopes of clearing it. It doesn’t work. “What?”

 

“I didn’t tell him. I didn’t get the chance.”

 

“Oh. Okay, so then, why…?”

 

“I broke up with him, that’s why. After that, there didn’t seem to be much point.”

 

 “Unngh,” I scream softly. I’m surrounded by idiots. I don’t want to insult him by pointing out that he’s acting like a man, but really? “But why would you do that, G? You love him, don’t you?”

 

“Of course, I do.”

 

“And…? Is there some new kind of algae in the water that’s messing with people’s brains?” And by people, I mean men—obviously. “Did some comets collide overnight? Are the stars misaligned? What the fuck is going on?”

 

“What? Oh, no.” Guido scowls at me. “Don’t you dare lump me in with that turd Jackson. We are not the same.”

 

“Well, then why would you do that?”

 

“Because!” he replies explosively. For a moment, I think he’s about to get back up and start pacing again. Instead, he falls back on the bed and stares at the ceiling.

 

“Because…?” I prompt gently.

 

“He likes men,” Guido sighs. “Which we knew.”

 

“True.”

 

“And I…” He sighs again then turns his head to look at me. “It’s too much, that’s all. I’ve been pretending with him for months now, you know I have. And I just couldn’t keep doing it any longer. I mean, what did I think was going to happen? It’s obvious it won’t work out. And I’m gonna be disappointing enough people as it is. It’s better this way. I didn’t need to see that on his face, too.”

 

“If anyone is disappointed in you, they’re not worth caring about,” I tell him.

 

“Thanks, but…well, that’s easy to say, you know? I just keep imagining my mother’s face, and I…”

 

 “She loves you,” I tell him. “She’ll come around—you’ll see.”

 

“Yeah. Maybe. Someday. But I don’t think it’s gonna be anytime soon. I think I’m going to be alone for a really long time.”

 

“But then why…?”

 

“Because I had to! Because it was always going to fall apart, anyway. It could never have worked out long term. You know that as well as I do.”

 

Actually, I don’t know that. But I do know when it’s time to keep my mouth shut. This is one of those times.

 

“I’d rather say good-bye now,” Guido continues. “While I can still do it on my own terms. Before the hormones really start kicking in and…and he does it for me.” 

 

“I guess that makes sense,” I tell him. “But I know you’re wrong about at least one thing.”

 

“Yeah? What’s that?”

 

“You won’t be alone. I’m not going away to school. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

 

“Yeah?” he asks, gazing at me so hopefully that it near to breaks my heart.

 

 “Yeah,” I promise. “Cross my heart, etc, etc.”

 

“That’s actually…a relief,” he sighs. Then he smiles and reaches for my hand. “A big relief. Thank you.”

 

“Of course,” I say as I squeeze his hand. “Anytime.” And then I smile, too. It’s a watery smile, and it feels pretty shaky, but it’s a smile, nonetheless. “We’ll be okay,” I tell him—like he did for me. “We’ll just fake it ’til we make it.”

 

“Yeah, we will,” he says, blinking furiously, nodding with conviction. “It’s on. It’s you and me, babe. And we’re in it to win it.”

 

"Uh-huh." What we are, of course, is full of shit—the both of us. And I’m pretty sure we both know it, too. But I’m not going to be the one to admit it. And, apparently, neither is he. “Besties forever, ride or die.”

​

“Ride or die.” Guido nods in agreement. “Absofuckinglutely.”