“Uh . . .” Approximately one million questions zip through my mind, anger I’ve suppressed for the last year bubbling to the surface. Still, I love him and want us to be who we were before the Great Commencement Massacre. The urge to grab hold of him and kiss him is there. It’s confusing as hell, especially because it makes me want to cry remembering what his lips feel like against mine, and—
“Your wheels are spinning.” Ricky turns toward me. “Your eyes are doing that fluttery thing.”
Is he being flirty? He doesn’t sound like he is, but there’s onlyone way to find out: “You don’t know me.” A hint of a smile grows on my lips.
He doesn’t smile back. “Guess not.” His tone is stony.
Ouch.
“It’s been a while.” I straighten my back, puff out my chest, hoping the last few weeks pulling double duty at the gym did something for my chest. “I’ve got moves you’ve never seen.” Pop my ass, and—augh!—too far, still not properly stretched out from the plane! Now I’m hopping like I pinched a nerve trying to steady my breathing!
I expect Ricky to laugh like he would every time I made a fool of myself in front of strangers because I have zero chill, but he doesn’t.
His face grows cold; his body goes rigid. “You’re right, I don’t know you.”
“I—what?” I wasn’t expecting that.
“Don’t worry about it, Field.” His voice is ice and I have frostbite.
I move beside him and do the same, resting my arms on the cold, gritty surface.
“No, what do you mean by that?”
He clenches his jaw, the way he does when he’s looking for ways to swallow his anger. He doesn’t bother to look at me. “You really want to do this now?”
“Do what, Ricky?”
“Talk, Fielder. Actually talk to me.” His bottom lip is quivering and he bites it back.
“I don’t understand whatyou’retalking about—you broke up with me, andyou’remad at me?”
He lets out a howl-laugh like an evil villain before shooting his hands through his long hair in frustration. “You’re so freaking dense, Fielder, ergh!” He paces back and forth, back and forth before landing in the same spot.
I don’t know this version of Ricky. The one from the postcard he sent me, where apparently I am the monster in his story.
We both study the warm, bright lights of the stacked buildings and houses of Amalfi glowing against the dark mountain like strands of Christmas lights. Haunting how beautiful that can be while we continue to find ways to fall apart.
“Beautiful, huh?” The words are so frail they nearly break on the shores of his lips.
“What happened, Ricky?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” he says.
“Doesn’t it?” I ask, the air between us so fragile.
He used to tell me that I couldn’t hide around him. Now he’s the one hiding.
Our eyes meet.
I’m right here.
He hums in recognition, and every bone in my body turns to mush. “You look”—his lips flap—“really good, Fielder.” He glances to where the dining room is, and I wonder if he’s feeling guilt for complimenting me.
As much as he looks the same, up close, I see the last year on him. A bit fuller, weight and muscle from working with his hands day in and day out. I can see new calluses on his fingers. They were in the process of hardening his fingers, and now they’re more pronounced, his fingers thicker, wider. His shoulders are broader, and he fills out his shirts more. Ricky was one of those guys who had afive-o’clock shadow by the middle of freshman year, but now he’s got an actual beard. His brown eyes with flecks of green sparkle in the moonlight. His larger nose now fits his face. Nonna used to say Ricky looks like a younger version of some Italian actor, Giulio Berruti. I Googled him and thought,Someday.Now, I see it. Ricky does look older, but he always did.
I open my mouth, but clamp it shut.
“What?”
