Prologue

Twelve Years Ago

Playlist: August | Taylor Swift

“I don’t want to go,” I whine. “I’m fifteen. I should be able to make this decision for myself.”

“We’ll go to Queenie’s after,” my dad promises, bent over to tie Leo’s dress shoes.

I let out a huff. “Fine. But you have to let me have a sip of beer.”

My dad straightens and squeezes my youngest brother’s shoulder. “All set, buddy.” He turns his head to me. “You know that only happens on Football Sundays. It’s not football season, Joey. But you can get a milkshake, if you’re feeling well enough. Just make sure to check your blood sugar after Mass.”

Mass. Blood Sugar. Words that remind me my life isn’t mine. That I live under my parents’ roof and and under the control of Type 1 Diabetes’ whims.

That I’m not my own person.

I guess that’s the case for most sixteen-year-olds. But it’s one thing to have to do what my parents say, it’s another to have a chronic illness pulling the strings.

“If you really don’t want to go, maybe you have a stomachache?” Dad suggests with a playful wink.

“Will you bring me back something from Queenie’s?” I ask hopefully, pushing away the strands of hair that fell into my face.

“Not if you want your mom to think you have a stomachache. It’s just an hour.”

Technically he’s right. Mass is just an hour. An hour including prayers to a god who hasn’t answered my prayers. An hour in a building with pamphlets titled: “The Sacrament of Marriage: God’s Plan For Men and Women.” An hour surrounded by people who shake their heads and whisper about how downhill the country is going since gay marriage is legal in Connecticut. The feelings of shame and self-hatred caused by that hour last much, much longer.

But I really want Queenies.

“Okay,” I agree reluctantly.

We only live a few blocks from Our Lady of Hope, and since it’s nice out, Mom insists we walk.

“You need sun, Nicoletta Jane,” Mom insists to my older sister who, for the third week in a row, refuses to come to Mass.

Nic wrinkles her nose. “I’ll just get more freckles, no thanks. Text me when you’re on your way home and I’ll be ready for Queenie’s.”

I spin furiously toward my dad, who at least has the decency to look guilty. “So she gets to skip church and go to Queenie’s, but I don’t?”

“Joey.” Dad rubs his hand over his face, an exhausted look on his face. “Can we discuss this later?”

“It’s always later,” I snap. “And then even later. And then it gets forgotten, and we never talk about it.” Angry tears sting in my eyes, and I hate it.

“Oh my god, Jo,” my eldest sister, Kat, hisses, rolling her eyes. “Grow up.”

“Stay in your lane, Kat. Let me be the parent,” Dad says firmly, giving her a look .

“Jo,” he says gently, turning his head back to me. “What’s going on? You’re acting-Alexandria!” And just like that, I’m forgotten and his attention lands on one of my seven siblings. “Look both ways before crossing the street, Jesus Christ.” He’s gone, speeding toward my younger sister, Alex, who apparently experienced a brush with death.

I swipe at my eyes, feeling Kat’s judgmental gaze still on me. “Just because you’re in college doesn’t mean you’re better than me,” I mumble as we trail after everyone else on the walk to church. I’m in such a sour mood I can’t even enjoy the beautiful day. Hydrangeas are blooming in our neighbors’ lawns, and the smell fills the air. It’s warm, but not uncomfortably hot, and I should be happy.

Key word: should.

“I’m better than you for lots of other reasons,” Kat says simply.

“Fuck off.”

She gasps and stops short as I continue to walk. “I’m so telling Mom and Dad you said that,” she threatens, quickening her pace to catch up to me.

“Fine. I don’t care,” I snap, increasing my speed to get away from her. “Tell them.”

“I will,” she promises from behind me.

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna do it, Jo. You’re gonna be in so much trouble.” I can hear her heels click-click-clicking on the sidewalk behind me as she tries to catch up to me again.

“Great.”

Upon our arrival at Our Lady of Hope, Dad holds the door open for all of us while Mom wrestles Izzy’s scooter from her.

“I want to ride it when we go to communion!” my seven-year-old sister whines, engaged in a vicious game of tug-of-war over her beloved yellow scooter. Personally, I agree with her. That would liven up Father Gilligan’s service for sure.

Finally, the nine of us are seated, Izzy’s scooter folded up on the end of our pew next to Dad, my youngest sister pouting between Mom and Leo.

Ren, who’s a year younger than me, leans into me. “Why didn’t Nic have to come?”

I grit my teeth. “Because she’s Nic.”

“Because she’s a selfish brat,” Kat mutters.

My brother and I openly glare at Kat as she unfolds the kneeler. Despite our annoyance for Nic right now, our dislike of our eldest sister and the “holier-than-thou” attitude she brought home after her freshman year of college is stronger.

Mom reaches over to me and strokes my hair. “Why don’t you say a prayer, love?”

My stomach churns at the thought. “No, thanks.”

Despite staring straight ahead toward the sanctuary, I can see Mom glance at Dad out of the corner of my eye.

As the seven hundred year old cantor announces the opening hymn, my eye is drawn to someone on the other side of the aisle. She’s sitting next to Mr. and Mrs. MacIntyre, an older couple who lives down the street from us, and wearing a sunshine yellow sundress. Her blonde curls dance over her shoulders like a waterfall, and a kaleidoscope of colors from the stained glass windows reflect onto her skin. As she stands for the opening hymn, she gathers her hair to one shoulder, exposing the skin covered only by the thin strap of her sundress.

I try to sing, to blend in, but my mouth is dry.

I’d had crushes on girls before this. I knew I was gay. But I had never felt this undeniable draw, this unignorable need for anyone before.

I stare at her for the entirety of the service. After mass, she follows Mr. and Mrs. McIntyre as they greet us outside the church.

“Hunter,” Mrs. McIntyre says, pulling the girl forward. She has sparkling blue eyes that make her look like she’s keeping a secret, and long blonde curls I want to tangle my fingers in. “This is Giovanna, she’s your age and lives down the street.”

I opened my mouth to correct them, to remind them yet again that I go by Jo, but Hunter speaks before I can.

“Giovanna,” she says slowly, like she’s tasting each syllable. She has a southern accent, so there’s a lilt to her pronunciation of my name. It’s the best sound I’ve ever heard. Her shimmering lips turn upward in a coy smile. “That’s a pretty name.”

I knew right then and there that Hunter had the ability to change everything, and she did. She changed my life, changed me.

And at the end of the summer, she broke my heart.

I never expected to see her again, and I didn’t.

Not until she came strolling back into my life twelve years later, and made me as hopeless as I was at fifteen.