Even straight Tyler concedes. “Okay, fine. That’s a good-looking dude.”
I turn to Matty, but he’s on the move.
Niccolò introduces everyone to his son, Nic Jr., as Matty pushes to the front of the line and holds his hand out.
The spark is instant. EvenIfeel it.
Their hands meet.
Nic Jr. blushes. “Buongiorno.”
“Hi. Err, Buongiorno! I’m Matty,” he stutters, nearly drooling. “You can call me Matty. Or, um, Matt-thew.” His face scrunches in disgust. “Or whatever.”
I smack my hand against my skull. Zero chill.
“Matty,” Nic Jr. repeats with an Italian flare, his voice deep.
They gaze at each other for a bit too long, neither letting go. If I know Matty, he’s so deep inside his head that he’s imagining some movie dream sequence where they’re dancing alone under the stars in a sweeping musical number.
Niccolò coughs, and his son drops Matty’s hand, raising his own behind his head in a show of embarrassment, perhaps for being caught lingering too long on Matty. His muscles pop as he scratches the back of his neck; a tuft of hair peeks out from under his arm.
“If I wasn’t getting married . . . ,” Sienna says, breaking through the tension and moving forward to stick out her own hand.
“My son will help with the rest of the tour if he doesn’t get distracted,” Niccolò says. “Va bene?”
Nic Jr.’s gaze falls. “Si, va bene.”
I slide up beside Matty. “You good?”
Starry-eyed and goofy, Matty turns slowly and says, “When did you get there?”
Before lunch, we end the tour in the Avello family museum full of rusted centuries-old farming equipment and black-and-white photos of the Avello family in their prized groves, followed by a quick look into the limoncello factory. Inside, a man in a chef’s coat and hat bottles fresh limoncello and offers us sample tastings, which we’ll have more of with lunch. There’s a small shop full of all the products Niccolò mentioned earlier, oils and candles and soaps and crates of massive Amalfi lemons. I want to buy everything. But one item in particular sticks out to me: a journal made from lemon rind cured like leather. Ricky is palming it.
“That’s really cool,” I say. “Unique.”
“I lost my journal. Last year, at—” He stops himself.
Do I tell him I found it? That I’ve read it every single day he’s been gone, searching it with Matty for clues as to how to win him back? Sounds stalkerish, huh?
“I miss writing,” he says.
“You haven’t been writing?”
He shrugs. “Haven’t been inspired. No muses like you.”
“Not even Cam?”
“Oh, I, um—” He coughs. “Obviously Cam. I just meant—” He sputters out a laugh.
I take the book from him and go straight to the register. “Happy early birthday.”
“My birthday isn’t for another four months.”
“Happy July, then.” I smile as he takes hold of the journal. “Maybe you’ll be inspired again.”
“Why’d you do this for me?”
I say the only thing I can: “Possibility. You deserve to be inspired, Ric. Maybe this is the seed you need to plant.”
