Page 75 of When Love Gives You Lemons
Not together, I almost finish for him.
When I don’t respond, he says, “No more FTV.”
“Hmm.” I study his face, the confidence in his voice. He seems calmer, and I want to peel back the layers of the last year, see what else I missed.
“It’s a relatively new development,” he says, turning to look at me. Though I don’t turn to face him, I feel his stares. “Being here feels transformative . . . I honestly haven’t felt the need to be on my phone as much since I’ve been here, the lemon groves notwithstanding. I’m living in the moment. Been doing a lot of that since the Great Commencement Massacre.”
“The what?”
“Oh, that’s what I call our, um—”
I laugh, maybe too hard. “Wow. Harsh, but . . . it’s good.”
“I thought so.”
“I wish I could live in the moment.”
He scoffs. “You’re king of living in the moment. Remember when your parents took us upstate to Ithaca right before your senior year, and we were hiking in the gorges, and found that swimming hole?”
“We lost them we were so far ahead of them,” I say.
“I was dying of heat, and you took off your shirt and jumped in, even though there were No Trespassing and Warning signs everywhere not to.”
“My dad was so pissed,” I say with a chuckle.
“You were like, ‘Field, get off your phone,’ and you pulled me in and—” He stops because he remembers what happened next. Though he was self-conscious of swimming without a shirt, I told him that we were the only two around, and that I loved his body. I wanted him to be as free as I felt in that moment, to see what I saw. As he peeled off his shirt and tried to cover his soft midsection, I pulled him into the water and ran my hands across his sides and told him how hot he looked. We swam across the pooland found an alcove and kissed for what felt like hours. It was only minutes, but it was heaven.
He clears his throat. “I still think about how we sat in that alcove on the rocks, kicking our feet in the water and played I Spy.” We took turns describing every little detail of what surrounded us. “I felt like a kid. You were always good at that. Seizing the moment, making everything fun.”
“I haven’t felt like that in a while,” I confess.
The closer we get to the center of town, the more crowded it becomes.
“What do you mean?” he asks.
How do I say the second I made the decision to break up with him was the second I stopped living in the moment? I let fear of holding Fielder (and myself) back, geographical distance, the improbability of high school love lasting worry me, until all I could think about was the future and how it might destroy us, this idea that I needed Fielder to have his entire life together, direction and all, that I needed him to know who he was going to be when I myself was afraid of the unknown.
I robbed us of the ability to see how it might play out in real time.
Proceeded with caution.
And look where it’s gotten me.
What would Nonno think? Despite seeming like an old-school conservative Italian on the outside, he loved love, and believed in diving headfirst into the now. Taking risks. That’s why he married Nonna and moved their entire lives to the States. Why he always said to say what I needed to say, and to never be afraid of love.
Maybe that’s been what’s held me back from Cam.
Fielder elbows me. Deep in thought, I hadn’t been paying attention to where we were walking. Apparently, Fielder led me through the winding streets, carved a path for us between hordes of tourists, to the alley where Niccolò said I would find the best woodworker in Amalfi, Guiseppe Bernadi.
Fielder jiggles the door handle to no avail and curses. Locked. “They’re closed. Sorry, Ric, I know how badly you wanted to come here.” He peers through the window and shouts, “Hello! Buongiorno! Anybody . . . home?” His knocking grows frantic.
There’s a small sign on the door above the handle: Guiseppe Bernadi è andato a Milano e tornerà ad Agosto. Vista guiseppe-bernadi .it per maggiori informazioni!
“Nobody’s inside, but wow, you should see some of these pieces!” He moves out of the way so I can get a closer look.
But I’m watching him, the way his face is a mixture of concern for my happiness, but also excitement from wanting me to see the beautiful work inside. Though Fielder has always been slightly self-focused, it’s never at my expense. When it’s time for Fielder to entermyworld, he’s always first in line and ready to ride.
“I really am sorry, Ricky—”
