“I don’t even know what I saw. It’s all fuzzy now.” I rub my temples, wondering if it would even matter. “Can two people still know each other after a long time apart?”
Monroe hums. We hit a bump in the rocky road, which aids her in swiveling her body toward me. “You’ll always know a version of that person.”
“I find it hard to believe that after knowing him for over twelve years, us being apart for a year means we’re suddenly strangers.”
“Can’t both be true?”
This is too big of a conundrum for my brain to work through.
“Are you the same person you were when you were together?” she asks, and I shrug. “Do you think you are? Keep in mind, Imet you two days ago, so you can tell me anything you want and I’ll believe it.”
“Sometimes. Ricky always had his woodworking dreams and a mentorship that took him to Seattle. Meanwhile I was all ‘L-O-L, I’ll become Clock famous.’ ” I make peace signs with both hands. “Sure, I actually managed to monetize my account and gain, like, a million followers since we were together, and I have this internship I’m gunning for, even though I haven’t done a damn thing for it, but I still feel like I’m floundering. I’m a joke.”
Matty smacks me. “You’re not a joke. Don’t say that about yourself. A couple years ago, you never would have done anything without Ricky. Now, you do everything on your own. You just don’t see it because you’ve had no choice but to do everything on your own this past year.”
“Sometimes we can’t see our own growth,” Monroe says.
The thing is, I’m not sure I have grown—I’m no closer to figuring out my life now than I was last year.
Each golf cart stops in front of a congested area full of parked Fiats and other short, stout cars, some with wooden flatbeds in the back for carrying fruits and other goods to market, made specifically for tight European streets.
“Is this where we die?” Monroe whispers.
“I’ll protect you,” Tyler says, hopping out.
“I’ll protect myself, thankyouverymuch,” Monroe says.
I high-five her. “Werk.”
“I-I didn’t mean—” Tyler stutters. “Sorry. My sister would punch me if she heard me. I was just—”
“Flirting,” Monroe finishes with a lip cringe. “Do better.” She winks, then links arms with me and pulls me toward a man whowaits under a small faded wooden sign that reads Avello Family Lemon Groves Tour hanging from a trellis of vines and white flowers.
Ricky and Cam are off to the side, arm in arm, and my stomach sours.
Tucked in the middle of a valley, far away from the busy center of Amalfi and the crashing waves of the sea, tall lush green mountains envelop us on three sides, looming over us like we’ve entered an entirely new province. Next to the almost hidden entrance to the towering strata of luxurious groves that climb the foothills is an inconspicuous doorway that’s currently closed with an aged metal sign that says Museo in gold script.
“Benvenuto!” A middle-aged man with olive skin dressed in a floral Hawaiian shirt and lemon-shaped sunglasses stands arms outstretched, beaming ear to ear. “Welcome to Avello Family Lemon Groves Tour! I’m Niccolò Avello, the owner of Avello Family Lemon Groves. I hear we have a special occasion today.”
“We’re getting married this week.” Sienna rests her head on Topher’s shoulder.
“Wonderful, moltissime felicitazioni!” Niccolò doesn’t know us personally, but he seems genuinely happy for them.
“Grazie,” Topher says, extending his hand.
“Va bene, va bene.” Niccolò shakes it vigorously. “We are going to take you up into the mountains, through the groves, and end the tour today in our museo and limoncello factory before heading up to the outdoor kitchen for fresh homemade lemon pasta, va bene?”
“Amazing,” Topher says. “Not sure Nonna can do all the stairs.”
“Nonsense.” Nonna pushes her way in between Topher and Sienna. In Italian, she says what I think is, “I let no man speak for me. I can walk.”
Niccolò holds out his arm for her. “I’ll escort this beautiful woman myself.”
Okay, that’s a baller move.
She makes sure to squeeze his bicep. For an older man, one certainly far too young for Nonna but who could easily be my father’s age, Niccolò Avello is a chiseled statue of a man. The sun hasn’t aged him the way I would think being out in the sun all day would. Time has carved him, but carefully. Etched in his dark skin are wisdom lines. His hands are massive, and I notice his skin is cracking and his fingernails are dirty, no doubt a byproduct of farming. He looks a lot like actor Jon Hamm, but with a choppy, unruly haircut that sticks up in odd places.
“Get it, Nonna!” Sienna yells.
