Matty punches my arm. “Topher keeps calling.” He stares at my phone’s lock screen. “Pick up, tell him you’re gonna be his best man with me. Do it for Topher. But also for you because you’re a fucking Lemon.”
Fist bump. He’s right.
I pick up the FaceTime call. “Sorry, Toph, I didn’t mean—”
“Fielder! Please don’t hate me!” Topher shouts quickly. I don’t see any sign of Sienna. “You know I love you, man, so much.”
“I know, I know, I’m not—”
“I wanted to tell you about Sienna so badly; you have no idea! I didn’t know how because, well, the Ricky part. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize! I’m happy for you guys. Iam.” I may be trying to convince myself here a little bit, pushing away the twinge of anger about why he didn’t tell me if he’s my brother, but despite everything, Sienna’s like a sister.
He exhales in relief. “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me to hear. You’re my brother. I love you.Andthere’s no pressure for the wedding—I’ll take care of everything, all the expenses. I only want my two brothers next to me.”
“If I didn’t make it clear,” I say, “I can’t wait to celebrate you.” As the words tumble out, I realize I’m tearing up because I really do love him, and I want him to have the best wedding ever, and if his version of that includes me standing right next to him, probably staring at Ricky, I’ll do it. For Topher. “As one of your best men.”
Topher cheeses into the camera as he howls, “Let’s gooooooooooooo!”
Fielder–
Hi.
Hope you’re well.
Neither of us want to talk to each other, but for the sake of our soon-to-be shared family, let’s be cool in Italy.
Olive branch extended.
Ricky
Fielder Lemon 104
Blossom Ave
Hudson Valley, NY
Chapter 3
When Life Hands You Sour Lemons . . .
. . . you spiral out of control!
It’s two weeks before we depart for Italy when a handwritten postcard from Ricky shows up.In the mail.Like, from the mailman. With a stamp!
I shriek, and Nonna thinks the Russians are bombing us.
Turning over the card in my hands like it could catch fire, I study the picture on the front and actively avoid reading his message: it’s a cheesy postcard of the Space Needle in Seattle, one you can get at any souvenir shop or corner bodega. The art is very 1950s “space race” with bold colors and a cheesy “Reach for the Stars!” slogan splashed across the front.
Nonna waddles into the kitchen behind me and peers over my shoulder. She sucks in a deep breath. “FromRicky?! Madonna mia. What’s it say?”
