Page 6 of When Love Gives You Lemons
“Dude, you actually kissed me.Thatwas weird.”
“Was it? I-I—”
“Shut up, I was kidding. Of course I want to kiss you. I’ve always wanted to kiss you.” As much as I wanted it to be a movie moment where I grabbed him and pulled him in quickly, I was too nervous.
I gently placed my hand at the side of his face; my thumb brushed his lips. Before I could lean in, he gingerly grabbed ahold of me and placed his soft lips on mine. It was delicate, light, innocent, beautiful. His lips were pillows I wanted to rest on forever.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you, too.”
Two and a half years later, we never stopped kissing.
“Fielder?”
I looked over at Ricky, moonlight in his eyes. Or was that irritation?
“Sorry. Got lost in the moment.” I could feel his tension, and it pooled in my chest. I pulled out my phone instinctively. Scrolling made me feel less anxious. I had a few new notifications from my growing Clock channel. I’d posted a review of a cool new local food truck earlier, the most amazing Indian-French fusion dosas/crepes, and it was doing great numbers. “Y-you okay?”
He scoffed. “Why wouldn’t I be? Got the sand. Waves. Moon in my eyes.” Ricky’s shoulders and upper body were tense, like hewas holding his breath. “Or maybe it’s just the reflection of your phone screen. As always.”
“Ouch. Sorry. My bad.”One last look, sleep mode.“It’s our last night in Topher’s Hamptons paradise bubble. And we haven’t talked about what’s next for you. Not in a while—I feel like you’ve been avoiding talking about it with me?”
Like me, Ricky never aspired to attend college. Though Ricky could be an incredible poet one day, he came from a long line of Capital M Men who worked with their hands. Woodworkers. Ricky idolized his nonno, and that became his dream: to be a woodworker. He dreamed of one day building his own artisan tiny home, having his own line of wood pieces—furniture and such—and living in the middle of the woods, completely off the grid. Live off the land. Write poetry in a journal of his own handmade paper. Ricky was impossibly cool.
College wasn’t for me, either. Unlike Ricky, though, I’d never really known exactly what I wanted to do with my life. As a rising senior, all I wanted to do was spend time with my boyfriend, but I had a lot of pressure from Ma; we had no expendable cash. Not since Dad died. Well, not before that either, but it only got worse. Like a good Italian son who had no choice but to become the head of his household, I had a duty to help Ma.
I started @LemonAtFirstSight, a food-slash-restaurant review account on Clock last year because I loved to eat (shocking for an Italian, I know) and try new places and cuisines. Ma and I had been driving up and down the entirety of New York State looking for hole-in-the-wall restaurants with banger food. The account was steadily growing, and I’d had a few viral moments, even asound that made the rounds. My follower count grew when Ricky and I posted boyfriend content, especially when we reviewed together. Nonna, my biggest fan, was convinced I could have my own show on Food Network. When the account started to pick up, I figured maybe I could grow it enough to monetize. Become an influencer (in addition to working as a busboy on the weekends and after school) to help Ma make ends meet.
“I have something for you.” Ricky reached around the other side of his body, grabbing at his backpack.
“For me?” My birthday wasn’t until August, but as any good Leo would, I gladly took the present. “I thought I was supposed to get you a commencement gift. I figured my presence would be present enough, but—”
He rolled his eyes.
“You love me.”
He closed his eyes. “More than you know, Fielder.” His words, the same ones he always said to me, hung in the air between us, and I wanted so badly to kiss him, draw whatever was on his mind out like venom from a bite.
“I don’t want this to end.” I stared up at the night sky, the endless pattern of stars I could never reach. “I wish we could get in a rowboat and sail out into the middle of the ocean and be surrounded by stars.”
“Where the horizon meets the sky,” he said.
“Like dancing among them. Just you and me. I’d stay there forever.”
Then he whispered, “If only,” and handed me an unwrapped wooden box, the finish natural, almost raw. He had hand-carvedthe top with an intricate lemon on a vine. There was an iron hitch and hook on one side, and small hinges that allowed it to open on the other.
“It’s a dream box,” he explained. “It’s kind of like a time capsule. But not. Instead of a box of the past, it’s a box for your future. The idea is to put what you want for yourself in there, places you want to go, things you want to accomplish, whatever! And it manifests!”
“If Nonna heard you right now—”
“She’d call me a hippie-dippie, I know.” He smirked like a kid who’d gotten into the cookie jar.
My fingers ran along the crushed velvet interior. “It’s empty.”
“Only for now.” He closed the lid and tapped it. I studied his face, his moonlit eyes flickering over the surface of the wood like flames. Following his line of sight, I realized the lemon notched into the oak had the map of Earth etched into its bulbous body. “The world is yours, Fielder Lemon.”
I leaned over the box and into him, kissing him. “Ours.”
Through our interlocked lips, he hummed, “Ours.” His stubble scratched my upper lip. His hands found mine. He played with the ring on my thumb.
