“What happened to romance?”
“Always romance, dude!” Matty says. “But, ya know. Both is optimal.”
At that exact moment, a golf cart carrying Nonna whizzes by, and she cackles, lifting her purse in the air like she just scored a touchdown. “Suckers!”
Matty’s ears go bright red. His breathing gets shallow.
“Nonna can barely hear the TV when it’s on max volume, relax.” I knock into him. “My little Matty, all grown up. I’m so proud. Why now, though?”
“No place more romantic than Italy to meet the man of my dreams.” Matty’s face beams with excitement, but the way he swings his arms as he walks, flexing and stretching like he’s prepping for a track meet, betrays his nerves. “When it’s right, it’ll be right. Right?”
“Right,” I say confidently, hoping he eases up. He overthinks sex and wants perfection, but if anybody deserves a rom-com moment, it’s big, beautiful Matty.
Just up ahead, at the top of the aircraft stairway into the PJ, a flight attendant descends toward the tarmac to greet Nonna.
“What do you think the guys in Amalfi are like? Think they’re cool?” Matty grimaces, a blend of excitement and nerves on his face. Though he talks a big game around other people, he’s a puppy. He won’t have any problem once he’s ready to have sex. He may be my cousin, but he’s objectively hot. He’s got auburn hair and hazel eyes with flecks of green—the Sicilian jumped out. He’s paler than Topher and the Coven, like me, but unlike me, he tans instantly in the sun, so he’s got a nice pre-glow from the summer already. A total himbo, hence the inspiration, he works out like a maniac, having played nearly every sport in high school, so again, objectively great body. He’s never dated anybody, partially because he claims that high school guys are too immature and he wants someone more “worldly,” less concerned about getting head and more focused on getting ahead. “I don’t want just anyone. I want a big ole Italian romance, like in the movies. You know, a guy who’s a little rough around the edges, maybe workswith his hands so he’s strong and—” He shifts his junk in his shorts. “I want someone who isn’t afraid of emotions. Every guy who’s asked me out is so quick to just, like, ditch once it gets real. I don’t want that.”
Sounds like Ricky. “So when you go off to Stony Brook at the end of August, you’ll be long distance with some dude who lives in Campania?”
He makes a lovesick face. “You think that could happen?”
“You’re hopeless.”
“Speaking of hopeless,” he starts, “how’re you? You know, seeing Ricky tomorrow.”
“Concocting an evil plan to make him love me. The usual.”
He pops his tongue and glares at me. “For real though, you ready? Because we haven’t really had the chance to plan our attack the last few weeks. You’ve been MIA since you got that postcard from Ricky, filming content andavoidingfeelings.”
“I’m going to see him, and he’s obviously going to drool because I look damn good.” I wait for Matty to validate, but all he does is roll his eyes. “And like one of those movies you always watch, I’ll give this big speech about how I’ve changed and grown, which will make him realize he made a huge mistake, and then I’ll use the powers of Amalfi and the romance of it all to make him love me.”
Matty squints. “Cool. But, like, how? That postcard . . .”
I blink, then shrug. “That was a fluke. I have a ten-hour plane ride to think about thehowbecause, according to Topher, Ricky is flying to Italy directly from Seattle, so at least I have time. But in my head, the way I’ve been picturing it, dreaming of him and our reunion, Ricky’s face will soften and the cold words of hispostcard will be erased, and he’ll be excited to see me, drawn to me like a magnet, and our bodies will press together beneath the orange Italian sunset, and just as a slight breeze brushes his hair across his face, he’ll apologize for letting me go and grab me like he used to, and our lips will meet, and music will play for us and—
Matty smacks my chest in approval. “Be honest. Raw. Not rehearsed, real. Bareback it.”
I squeeze my eyes tight. “Never again.”
Matty laughs. “Speaking of. Think Topher’s friends are hot?”
I roll my eyes and laugh.
Now Zias Rosa and Gabriella are bickering so loudly with Ma that their voices carry over the quiet tarmac. Not even the sound of nearby airplane engines revving can drown them out.
“Tea?” Matty leans in and whispers so low not even the Coven’s collective bionic ears can hear. “Topher told me Sienna’s parents flew to Italy a few days early to spend extra time with them. Zia Gab doesn’t know.”
I bet Ricky did, too.
Matty eyes me because of course I said that out loud.
“Zia Gab is gonna spiral,” I say. Zia Gabriella is—how do I put this delicately?—mildly obsessed with Topher. Like Ma and Zia Rosa, she’s a single Italian mother who lives and breathes for her kid, often telling people Topher is her best friend. She’s got serious FOMO. It killed her when he moved out of New York, so she’s been trying to find a way to take her custom jewelry-making business on the road to follow him to LA, or wherever he ends up next. She’d never say this out loud, but I don’t think Zia Gab likes the idea of sharing Topher with Sienna. Which, for anyone whodidn’t grow up in an Italian family, probably seems weird, but for us, it’s standard.
“I think she already is.” Matty elbows me, clueing me into the Coven arguing over Topher paying for everyone to fly to his wedding on a PJ.
Zia Gab hates how generous Topher is with his money.
As someone who grew up poor and on SNAP benefits, surrounded by poor extended family, if my wildly successful and rich-ass cousin wants to pamper us, why shouldn’t he? I would do the same if I had the means, in a heartbeat.
