“You’re a better person than me.” She stops to check her makeup in a hallway mirror. She looks Instagram-ready, glammed to within an inch of her life with a bridal-white, almost pearlescent one-piece bathing suit with massive cutouts on either side of her body to show off her curves. Her blond hair is curled and bounces as she fluffs it. “Ready to party? I need my brother up there! I’ve barely spent any time with you this week, and I hate it.” She grabs my hand like we’re kids again. “You’ve spent more time with your two boyfriends.” She eyes me over her white-framed bug-eyed sunglasses with gold accents.
Emerging from the staterooms below deck to the main salon of the hundred-foot superyacht—which I didn’t know was a term until we all arrived at the docks and were greeted by the captain, first mate, and ten-person crew—and out onto the sundeck, I take in the sheer magnitude of the vessel, and how stunning the mountains and coastline look from this angle. I didn’t get a chance to appreciate it because when we all boarded the superyacht, Fielder avoided me and Cam, so I dwelled on that. I also noticed Matty brought the hot farmer’s son, Nic Avello Jr., as his date.
The rich, cerulean sky is cloudless, contrasting the rugged mountains jutting up from the land, dotted with lush greenery set back against the rolling towns built into the rock. Amalfi is in our rear as we jet toward Praiano, which is a less assuming, more enchanting local town built into the cliffs.
We sail by Positano soon, the picturesque town associated with the glossy pictures on social media and videos on Clock with its layers of multicolored houses that rise up into the mountain.
Bright turquoise waters surround us. Smaller wooden boats and catamarans zip across the water along the coast. The hull of the boat cuts smoothly through the waves, creating a welcome breeze that’s cool in the shadeandsun. Synth-y music with sick 808 beats blasts through the speakers, and though it feels a lot like a fancy music video, I wish it were silent so I could lean over the edge and stare at the shoreline and think, dream.
No such luck, though.
Benny, clad in a matching white-and-blue terry cloth short and button-down set with a nautical neck scarf in a double wrap French knot, bounds toward us. Monroe and Jenni Lee flank him on either side. He hands us some sort of pink concoction.
“All my besties together!” Sienna squeals.
“Drink up,” Benny encourages.
I stare at the glittery sugar swirling like a lava lamp. Whatever it is, I don’t want it in my body. “I’m good.”
Sienna laughs. “He’s salty he’s not with his boo.”
“Which boo?” Benny tongues at his straw. He takes another sip.
Topher’s mom, Gabriella, holding on to the sides of her floppy straw hat that’s so big it needs its own carry-on for the plane ride home, bounds over. “What’re we doing, kids? Shots?” She slides right into the mix quickly and grabs hold of Sienna as if they’re girlfriends. “Guisy, Rosa, get your asses over here!”
“The Coven, yes!” Sienna shouts. “Shots for the Coven!”
Guisy pulls her gauzy black wrap over her shoulders. “I want to nap.”
“Nap when you’re dead,” Gabriella snaps.
Guisy sticks out her tongue.
“I want a shot too!” Rosa yells, appearing from nowhere.
Guisy sidles up next to me. “Lookit my little Ricky, so grown up!” She squeezes my cheeks like she did when I was a young boy. “Get your mom over here.” She winds up like an old wooden toy to shout, “Bianca! Bee! Come here, we’re doing shots.”
When my mom drinks, she’s basically Regina George’s mom fromMean Girls, the “cool mom.” Mom throws her hands in the air and screams like she’s in a sorority, and grabs Benny’s mom, Zia Francesca, and pulls her over, too.
This whole scene is strange. I don’t really drink, not like other guys my age. I like wine and limoncello, but it’s more of a family tradition than to get drunk.
Sienna was right. IamNonno.
“This is amazing,” Monroe says.
“I want to yeet myself off the balcony,” I whisper, slyly pouring the pink drink into the sea and pretending to throw it back.
Guisy turns to me. “I’ve missed having you around the house.”
I nod and say, “Me too.” Guisy was a second mom to me. Growing up next door and dating her son for my entire life will do that. Whenever the Lemons and DeLucas would get together, the story of how Bianca DeLuca met Guisy Lemon never failed to come up. Our family had just moved in next door. Fielder’s mom and Nonna weren’t home, and Fielder’s dad was supposed to be watching Fielder, but Fielder was a handful, so his dad went next door and asked my mom—a stranger—to watch him to give him a break. When Guisy came home, she panicked, unable to find Fielder, when she heard his voice coming from the house next door. She didn’t even get to the front door when my mom openedit and said, “I think I have something that belongs to you.” They’ve been best friends ever since.
Guisy, Gab, Rosa, and Mom pound back shots like champs. Soon they’re all cackling, cheering, and drinking Sienna and her friends under the table, who eventually migrate (with Gabriella in tow) to the sundeck on the bow of the yacht to take pictures.
“One thing I’ve wanted to say to you, Ricky,” Guisy says, the way moms do when they’re about to teach a lesson. “My son will never love anyone the way he loves you. I’m not one of those people who trusts love so easily, just ask Fielder’s father’s grave.” She pauses, then bursts out laughing before doing the sign of the cross and begging Jesus to forgive her. “What I’m trying to say is, what you two had doesn’t come around often.”
“Oh, Madonna mia,” Rosa exclaims, pulling her away from me. “He’s moved on. He has a boyfriend. A whole new life.” Rosa looks at me, eyes full of empathy. “I love my nephew more than anything, but you need to be happy, too. Fielder will thrive. Life always goes on; that’s what makes it so beautiful.”
Rosa and Guisy leave me to make their way toward the sundeck.
