Zia Rosa throws her hands in the air and storms past us. “You two are unbelievable.” Then she mutters something in Italian—“Va funculo!”
Nonna hisses from inside the now-parked golf cart at the foot of the jet.
“Sorry, Ma.” Zia Rosa grabs hold of Nonna’s underarm with one hand to steady her as she hobbles out of the golf cart.
“I feel like royalty,” Nonna says, waving a cupped hand like the queen mother. “What the hell does my hair look like? I told the driver to slow down!” Firmly on the tarmac, she primps her coifed chestnut-brown pixie cut, voluminous and freshly dyed.
“You look gorgeous, Nonna.” I bend down to kiss her cheek.
She grabs my cheeks and squeezes. “Love you, kid.”
Matty, not to be outdone, does the same to Nonna’s opposite cheek, and, in an effort not to seem biased, Nonna grabs Matty’s face next. Rinse and repeat.
I grab my phone and start recording for @LemonAtFirst-Sight; a private jet is the exact opposite of “sustainability,” so itsurely won’t win me the prize, but I won’t tag @FoodForChange. I also doubt I’ll find much in a tourist destination about conservation, so the real contest-worthy content will most likely happen once I’m back in the States, post-wedding chaos. Hopefully.
I don’t have a plan for that yet. So . . .
Fingers crossed.
The lens starts on Nonna, then pans to Matty who sticks out his tongue and flexes his biceps before ascending the stairs up into the bowels of the private jet.
Which,ohmygod.
Flying private is a completely different world than flying with the unwashed masses of a regular airliner, and honestly if I sound like a privileged bitch, it’s because in this moment, after nearly eighteen years of being so poor it hurts, this feels like a small victory.
Large white leather couches facing inward line the walls of the jet, with a few rows of regular seats—and by regular, I mean massive La-Z-Boy recliner-looking monsters. There are pillows and built-in champagne buckets and a massive TV in the center of the plane with state-of-the-art surround sound. I could cartwheel down the center with how much space is here. There’s a freaking bed, which I’m sure Nonna will claim. I make sure to film every square inch; with a well-timed song, a spontaneous video that’s slightly (okay, majorly) off brand can do relatively decent numbers. I also plan to find hidden-gem restaurants and eateries in Amalfi for the channel. Right before I stop recording, everyone already seated waves right on cue.
I recognize virtually none of these people. Except Siennaand Ricky’s older cousin, Benny Gorga, and his mom-slash-their-maternal-aunt, Francesca, who I know from countless Christmas Eves with the DeLucas. Me and Ricky used to idolize Benny because he was so brazenly out he called himself a walking stereotype. Everyone made fun of him because of his flamboyance, but I loved growing up seeing him live his truth. Growing up, he was our gay sherpa, but after Ricky dumped me—breathe—I haven’t so much as liked a picture on Benny’s Instagram.
I wasn’t ready for the knot in my stomach from beingthisclose to Ricky’s bloodline.
“Ohmygod, shut the cockpit!” Benny jumps up and rushes at me, wrapping his long-ass arms around me. “You’ve grown up, my little gayling! I’m sorry about you and my dumbass cousin.”
“Thanks, but I’m—I’m over it.” I quickly add, “Him.I barely think about him anymore.”
Benny narrows his eyes. “To quote Jinkx Monsoon: ‘Delusion, convince yourself,’ ” he says, and Matty chokes out an incredulous laugh from behind us. “If you ask me, he’s still not over you. Definitely wasn’t at Christmas, or at—”
“You saw him at Christmas?”
Right as I’m about to probe Benny for more, Zia Gabriella bursts through the doors like Kuzco inThe Emperor’s New Groove, shimmying, doing a cringy dance, and screaming, “Benvenuti al mio matrimonio Italiano!”
“It’s not your wedding, Gab,” Ma says.
Zia Gabriella ignores her and instead makes her way down the aisle to hug and greet everybody.
“Ma, relax,” I say. “It’s her big day.”
“You’re bad,” Zia Rosa chimes in.
“I just can’t deal with her.” Ma leans in. “Who are all these people? Besides you, Benny!” Ma and Benny hug. “You’ve grown up!” Then she moves on to Francesca.
Zia Gabriella claps, demanding attention. “Does everybody know everybody?” She doesn’t wait. “You all know me, Gabriella Limone.” My entire body crumples from secondhand embarrassment when she turns our last name into a showpiece. “Topher’s mom! Mother of the groom!” She whoops, or raises the roof, or some other old-person move. “If you don’t know my beautiful mother, Topher’s nonna.”
“No name, just Nonna. Like Beyoncé,” I add.
Topher and Sienna’s friends laugh.
It’s clear nobody quite knows what to do—do they stand up and greet the matriarch of the Lemon family, or wave awkwardly from their cushy seats? The deer-in-headlights of it all makes me chuckle.
