Page 43 of When Love Gives You Lemons
“A little harsh, bro, dontcha think?” Matty whispers to Topher.
Cam looks squarely at me. “It’s totally fine. I’m happy to be here.” He grabs Ricky’s hand. “I can go shopping in the square.”
“Cam can have my spot,” I suggest.
“Fielder, you’re my best man,” Topher says, eyebrows arching in shock.
“It’s totally okay,” I say. “I can come back. I don’t want Cam to feel left out.”
A tall, slender man with starched caramel-colored chinos and a wrinkle-free linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves emerges in a doorway, arms crossed. He glares at Cam over the rims of his turquoise-and-gold thin-framed octagonal glasses. Clears his throat. Then starts rattling off something in rapid-fire Italian, throwing his hands in the air, gesturing toward each group and their fitting rooms. I catch some of the words, like “spicciare,” as he rushes us inside.
“No,” Massimo says. “No coming back. No more appointments this week!”
What a loud, angry man.
This is where I shine. Best man duties and all. “Mr. Andreozzi, look, this is my cousin’s wedding, and we have one additional person,” I say, cozying up next to him, laying it on thick, draping my arm around him. “Is there any way we can squeeze him in at all? I can be quick.”
“It’s not about quick,” Massimo says. “It’s not about quick. You cannot rush fashion.” His thick brows furrow.
Topher comes up beside me and slyly slips what feels like a few hundred euros in my hands.
“I understand. It’s a great imposition. And we really don’t want to disrespect you and your art. We really do appreciate you being able to accommodate us,” I say, pulling back and taking his free hand in both of mine, casually slipping the money inside, a trick we all learned as kids from Nonna at the local bingo hall. If you don’t grow up learning how to bribe your way through gambling, are you really Italian? “If there’s anything you can do, our family would be forever grateful to you. My cousin is getting married, you know. This doesn’t happen all the time.”
Massimo puts his hand in his pocket and, without so much as a second thought, says, “This is not a problem.” He points to Cam. “You can wait in the lobby. We already have too many in the dressing rooms, yes?”
Ricky mouths a “thank you” to me before Matty and I are ushered into our fitting room. Matty closes the curtain quickly.
“Damn, that scored you some serious points,” he says. “You should have seen Ricky’s face. He was floored.”
“Was he?”
“Cam too, honestly,” Matty says. “Oof, this espresso is hittingthe spot.” He squeezes his eyelids tight. I grab a biscotti from a tray and walk it over to him, running it under his nose. Without opening his eyes, he snatches it and shoves it in his mouth. Big golden retriever energy. “Why’d you do it?”
“It was the right thing,” I say.
He opens one eye and concedes. “Bet.”
“And if Ricky and his dad and everyone else thinks it was an act of kindness, score one for me.”
“You crafty sonovabitch. I have much to learn.”
My pocket buzzes. “Topher wants me to come to his fitting room.”
“Enjoy. I’ll be here, alone,” Matty says through gritted teeth.
Problem: Which fitting room is Topher’s? By process of elimination, I follow Tyler and Trav’s voices and move past theirs; then I hear Ricky’s dad singing to himself in another. Then Massimo’s voice booms, and I’m sure he’s still working on Topher’s garments, so I follow the sound of his voice.
“Bellissimo!” Massimo bursts out from a curtain and makes his way into another, his seamstress in tow, and I recognize one word from the stream of Italian emanating from his mouth: sposo. Groom. That must be Topher.
“Dude, what’s up?” I toss back that same curtain, fully expecting Topher.
It’s Ricky. Bare-chested, in nothing but tight boxer briefs and socks.
He looks up, very deer in headlights.
I grip the curtain, white-knuckled, unable to stop staring at him. His body, the body I once knew so well like a map of the world and I was Magellan, has changed so much. From workingout or woodworking, his biceps have grown exponentially; his midsection is also broader, more defined.
Compose yourself, Fielder.
