Page 26 of When Love Gives You Lemons
Just kidding.
Though not really.
Monroe and Benny are great distractions, though.
At the airport baggage claim, after spending an hour in a hot line going through customs, Matty, Monroe, Benny, and Tyler create a protective barrier around me, making me the center of attention, laughing loudly, all to make Ricky jealous.
Except he doesn’t seem to care. In fact, he looks away!
As the Lemon wedding party makes its way to the Sprinter vans Topher booked for us—the Lemon clan plus Tyler in one, and the other seven, including Monroe and Benny, in the other—Ma makes small talk with Ricky and I want to die. Granted, he was like her second son, but I’m her actual son! I do my best to eavesdrop without getting too close, but I think I catch him saying, “I’ve missed you, too.”
My head throbs, and I’m unsure how to process all this. I need to get to the villa, take a nap, and uncoil to prepare and think—
—about strategy: how to get Ricky alone to see if there’s anything still between us, free of any onlookers and airplane pining. If there is,howto woo him back in one week surrounded by family and friends amid the backdrop of an Amalfi Coast wedding? See above plan, as concocted by Benny, courtesy ofMy Best Friend’s Wedding.
—about what to doifRicky still loves me, but also loves Cam. How do I surgically remove the boyfriend without coming off as the villain in my own book? This whole thing is bound to cause newbie Cam some complicated emotions. (Insert: world’s smallest violin here.) At least he’s in Italy, right? No need to feeltotallysorry for the guy.
—about how to survive this next week because (a) I’m about to be in paradise, and want to enjoy it as best I canandbe there for my cousin, and (b) because there’s a good chance Ricky will reject me, again, especially if I don’t go about this the right way, which is quite possibly the worst feeling in the world, and I know what you’re thinking—why don’t I let this go, ignore Rickyaltogether, and enjoy the wedding? And to that, I say absolutely not. I have no chill. I’m a mess, I realize this.
So, no. It’s not as easy as “just talk to him and solve all my problems” because the fact of the matter is that I haven’t seen or spoken to Ricky in over thirteen months, and as much as I’ve changed, I bet he’s changed, too. Though I’ve known him practically my entire life, I probably don’t know him at all anymore.
The words to Ricky’s poem “Home” rattle in my brain, and I can’t help but think it was a plea for me to wait for him. In the months after he left, as I read through his journal over and over again, I guessed by the placement of that poem before “Clarity” that he must have written it after he learned he got the mentor-ship and would be leaving New York for Seattle, but before he decided to end our relationship.
Call me delusional, but it was something I held on to, a little bit of hope. A clue that let me know he would come back to me one day.
Because despite Cam, Ricky adored me for twelve goddamn years!
Not Cam.Me!
Cam’s known Ricky for, like, five seconds.
And this might be the jetlag or Benny’s insistence that I’m Julia Roberts talking, but I don’t feel sorry for anything that’s about to happen.
MONDAY
Chapter 7
I’ve Got Exactly One Week to Use This Wedding to Win Back the Bride’s Man of Honor and I Haven’t One Clue How to Do It
The drive from Naples to Amalfi is among the most harrowing experiences of my life. Strada Statale Amalfitana, the two-way single-lane “highway” carved into lush green mountains lining the Amalfi Coast connecting Sorrento to Salerno is about as wide as an American sidewalk. The road is cut into steep cliffs a few hundred feet over the Tyrrhenian Sea. Its turquoise waters lap against a cloudless cerulean sky in a stunning, breathtaking panoramic view. I take out my phone and film some segments for the “Destination: Amalfi” video I started filming when I got on the PJ in New York.
Endless expanse of blue waters dotted with white sailboats and yachts. Mountainside gardens with flowers of pink and white and yellow nestled into the rock as if they’ve always been there, like altars to the nature gods. It’s as if we found a majestic road to the heavens with towering bluffs and pastel villages built into the hillsides. Roadside fruit stands with the brightest oranges, biggest lemons, garlands of dried red chili peppers,plump vine clusters of grapes, baskets of ripened pomegranates, and the most mouthwatering cherry tomatoes that look like fake berries because they’re so red and juicy. When the van stops from a traffic standstill, I dash out quickly for the tomatoes, recording the entire interaction.
“Oh, hell,” Matty groans.
“What the hell is this crazy sonovabitch doing?” Nonna yells after me.
Matty shouts, “He’s living his European girl vacation fantasy.”
Drool escapes the corners of my lips as I reach for a vine of tomatoes. I spent the past few weeks brushing up on my Italian—thank you, Duolingo and Nonna, so it comes quickly: “Quanto costa?”
An older woman who looks a lot like Nonna, graying hair pulled back into a tight bun and wearing a deeply beige sundress, says, “Tre euro.”
The horn honks, and the fruit stand worker points behind me. The whole family is screaming at me as I reach into my pocket and pull out three one-euro coins that I got from the airport in Naples and turn on my heels to dash back to the van.
The driver is cursing in Italian, throwing his hands in the air, but I don’t care. I hand my phone to Matty to keep recording as I rip the first tomato off the vine with my teeth.
Bright and sweet and beautifully acidic, the tomato pops in my mouth, seeds bursting on my tongue. “Madonna Mia!”
