I empty my lungs with a force flap of my lips. “Sometimes it’s hard to be your cousin.Topheris the smart one.Topheris the successful one. Matty is the funny, lovable one. I’m the lost one who spends too much time on his phone.” Ma and Zia Rosa tell me and Matty all the time not to compare ourselves to Topher. His success is not our failure, but when your cousin is a tech start-up millionaire at twenty-five and you’ve decided not to go to college to instead make content eating and reviewing food, it’s hard not to compare.
He takes his sunglasses off and stashes them in the breast pocket of his silk orange Gucci short-sleeve button-down. “Didn’t know you felt this way.”
Guilt arrests me. “I-I don’t mean it in a bad way—”
He holds out a hand for me to stop. “I know, Field. I want my family to succeed. I wantyouto succeed. I don’t want you to feel like I’m overshadowing your ability to become the best version of yourself. But can I let you in on a secret? You don’t need to have everything figured out at eighteen. You may have been born wearing sneakers, but that’s not a bad thing. You’re searching for a comfortable place to stop running. One day you’ll realize you’re a great guy. Smart. Talented. Successful. All the things you think I am.” He drapes his arm around me again, and I settle there. “I heard through the grapevine you’ve been researching Avello’s lemon groves and how climate change impacts the ecosystem and their way of life here, for your channel. I think that’s amazing.” What he says next shocks me: “Believe me, I know with all the money I’ve made, I can and should be doing more. For people. For the planet. To make a difference. I want to. Maybe once you do enough research, you can pitch me something, and we can get some funding going. I’d love to help.”
After going through and editing all my footage last night, I realized that people like Topher are part of the problem. Chartering private jets with the ease of ordering an Uber—using all that disgustingly wasteful fuel, which is infinitely more destructive than a standard airplane. I never thought much about my carbon footprint and the impact one person can have on the planet until meeting Niccolò Avello and connecting with the lemon groves in ways I never expected. It’s hard to find time to look inward about something as global as climate change when every dollar I make goes to help Ma pay the mortgage and keep the hot water on, but that doesn’t absolve me. I’ve made the decision to talk about thatin a separate video since I already posted a Clock video on the PJ that’s gained way too much attention. I can’t ignore that, especially in the wake of the contest. Hopefully contextualizing why I was here in the first place will help my cause, though I suspect it will work against me. People in the comment section online don’t care about nuance or intention or personal history. To my followers, and everyone else, I’m a privileged kid who comes from money, despite that being so far from the truth it makes me laugh. I acknowledge how I appear, though, and it’s my responsibility to use my voice. Now that my eyes are open willfully, I can’t close them. If I do, I’m ignoring everything I’m learning. But I don’t want to bring down the mood today. I’m sure Topher would help, but there’s no need to ruffle feathers while on a boat. Besides, contest or not, my passion for the Avello farm is stretching beyond the internship. I want to do all I can to raise awareness.
The captain’s voice comes over the loudspeakers to direct our attention to the faraglioni, tall “stacks” of oceanic rocks eroded by waves off the island of Capri as part of the Campanian Archipelago. Rising up out of the sea, the rock formations tower over us, and for a moment I feel like I’m in an entirely different world, like anAvatarmovie. It’s as if they’re floating, suspended in the sky, though they’re grounded and surrounded by water. The ancient, almost mythical stature of the stacks makes me feel both small and alive, like I’ve discovered something that nobody else has and needs to be protected. The captain tells us their names are Stella, Mezzo, and Scopolo, and I nod in gracioushelloto them as if they’re gods.
“Tell me more about this scheme to win back Ricky?” Topher asks after the captain says he will anchor at one of the faraglioniafter visiting the Blue Grotto to swim and eat. He moves in closer, hunching like a goblin.
My ears prickle.
“Dai!” he commands, and I tell him about Operation: Ricky @ Second Glance, and everything that has transpired, to which he says, “It’s obvious to everyone at this point except you and Ricky, but Ricky is still very much in love with you.”
A reel of us in the lemon groves—pinkies touching, bodies pressed together, the way I lost myself in his eyes and swore he did the same—plays in my head.
If it’s that obvious, where does that leave us? Me? Cam?
If I take one step further, I risk getting my heart broken. Again. He’s done it before, and he can do it again, by choosing Cam over me, or running away without warning.
Except it’s different. Unlike last year, I’m not blind to our obstacles. And I can always be hurt. Anyone can. But Ricky is worth the risk. I’m stronger now. Fortified. I have my eyes open, and I know who I am. I’ll survive.
But I have to try.
“Guys!” Matty bum-rushes us. “Did you hear what the captain said? See that mega yacht?” I follow his finger to a charcoal cruise ship. “That’s Beyoncé and Jay-Z’s! And Mariah Carey’s Capri house is lit’rally right there! Wild! And some old actress named Sophia Loren maybe lives on the coast, too. Nonna nearly shat her pants.”
I’m searching the bow for Ricky, but he’s gone.
Matty’s hands pound my chest like defibrillator paddles. “Did you hear me?”
“Where’s Ricky?” I grab Matty by the shoulders, pleading.
Matty dips out from my grasp and says, “Hot tub with Nic Jr. and the other guys.”
Quickly, my eyes a high-def spy lens, Ricky DeLuca comes into focus.
In one swift crossed-arm supermodel move, he tears his shirt off, baring his hairy chest. The sun catches the circular pendant and reflects back. A ring on a chain, the one I “made” him. He never took it off.
He turns and spots me, a warm, goofy smile spreading across his face.
“Go get him,” Topher says.
“Finally,” Matty says. “I’m sick of this story.”
I’m gliding across the sundeck as the chorus to Harry Styles’s “Golden” swells.
What do I do once I reach him—hop into the hot tub fully clothed, gently take his face in my hands, and tell him I love him before we have a movie kiss?
My heart isthump-thump-thumpingso fast I’m lightheaded.
He stands, and beads of water drip down his sculpted torso.
Before I can reach him, the captain’s booming voice patches through on the loudspeaker: “Benvenuti a Capri, wanderlusters! Welcome to the Blue Grotto!”
RICKY DELUCA
