Page 12

I’ve Got Exactly One Week to Use This Wedding to Win Back the Bride’s Man of Honor and I Haven’t One Clue How to Do It

The drive from Naples to Amalfi is among the most harrowing experiences of my life.

Strada Statale Amalfitana, the two-way single-lane “highway” carved into lush green mountains lining the Amalfi Coast connecting Sorrento to Salerno is about as wide as an American sidewalk.

The road is cut into steep cliffs a few hundred feet over the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Its turquoise waters lap against a cloudless cerulean sky in a stunning, breathtaking panoramic view.

I take out my phone and film some segments for the “Destination: Amalfi” video I started filming when I got on the PJ in New York.

Endless expanse of blue waters dotted with white sailboats and yachts.

Mountainside gardens with flowers of pink and white and yellow nestled into the rock as if they’ve always been there, like altars to the nature gods.

It’s as if we found a majestic road to the heavens with towering bluffs and pastel villages built into the hillsides.

Roadside fruit stands with the brightest oranges, biggest lemons, garlands of dried red chili peppers, plump vine clusters of grapes, baskets of ripened pomegranates, and the most mouthwatering cherry tomatoes that look like fake berries because they’re so red and juicy.

When the van stops from a traffic standstill, I dash out quickly for the tomatoes, recording the entire interaction.

“Oh, hell,” Matty groans.

“What the hell is this crazy sonovabitch doing?” Nonna yells after me.

Matty shouts, “He’s living his European girl vacation fantasy.”

Drool escapes the corners of my lips as I reach for a vine of tomatoes. I spent the past few weeks brushing up on my Italian—thank you, Duolingo and Nonna, so it comes quickly: “Quanto costa?”

An older woman who looks a lot like Nonna, graying hair pulled back into a tight bun and wearing a deeply beige sundress, says, “Tre euro.”

The horn honks, and the fruit stand worker points behind me. The whole family is screaming at me as I reach into my pocket and pull out three one-euro coins that I got from the airport in Naples and turn on my heels to dash back to the van.

The driver is cursing in Italian, throwing his hands in the air, but I don’t care. I hand my phone to Matty to keep recording as I rip the first tomato off the vine with my teeth.

Bright and sweet and beautifully acidic, the tomato pops in my mouth, seeds bursting on my tongue. “Madonna Mia!”

“Dammi,” Nonna demands, and I hand the vine to her. After partaking, she passes it on until everyone in the van has tasted the fruit.

It doesn’t take long before the winding, perilous drive brings acid to my throat and burns.

It’s easily the most anxiety-inducing ride of my life.

Cars zip around hairpin turns at alarming speeds as our driver hugs the very edge of the bluffs.

But it’s not just the cars—it’s the buses, massive tourist caravans maneuvering the turns like they’re race cars that legit take my breath away.

Like, sucking my soul straight out of my body.

The road bends, zigging and zagging so often I have to shut my eyes or I’ll throw up.

Nonna shouts for the driver to “watch out,” and Ma keeps yelling for her to shut her eyes until we get to the villa, but apparently we have to weave through the highly dense Positano to get to Praiano, where the traffic won’t be as harrowing, and then head through Conca dei Marini until we reach the town of Amalfi.

With how this driver bobs and weaves and nearly sideswipes every jalopy on the road, I’m certain none of us are making it out alive.

“Dude, you look green,” Matty says.

I press my finger hard to his lips. “Shut up.” I swallow acid.

“Close your eyes, go to sleep,” Ma commands.

I do as told partially because I fear Ma’s wrath, but it’s also the only way I won’t succumb to carsickness. I can’t fall out of the van and straight into Ricky and Cam covered in my own puke, right?

Right. My resolve to look as cute and unbothered as possible is stronger than any of the ancient stone buildings we pass as we carve through Positano, the car braking and accelerating, braking and accelerating, braking and accelerating, without warning until the car stops near piers in Amalfi that stretch out like arms into the Tyrrhenian Sea and I burst out of the car and puke up my lunch.

Right in front of Ricky and Cam.

Kill me now.

For a moment, Ricky looks like he might feign concern, but Cam lurches and turns away from the gross scene and Ricky turns to comfort him. Not me.

Once my green skin turns back to normal and everyone stops fussing over me and force-feeding me water, we have to drag our luggage into the thick of the town, across the cobblestones of Via Lorenzo D’Amalfi to the Piazza del Duomo, right in front of a cathedral wedged in between shops and cafés.

The steps lead up to the striking sanctuary of black-and-white alternating marble, adorned with golden cross-work tiles that make the building itself look like a three-dimensional mosaic, setting it apart from the soft pinks and peaches of the stone buildings surrounding it.

Topher’s explicit instructions: wait for a man named Vin-cenze, a hairy ape of a middle-aged man with thick dark sunglasses and a beard leading a troop of golf carts to pick us up a few at a time and take us through the city and up into the mountains, past endless lemon groves toward the villa.

The carts bounce and zip up the winding streets, which narrow the farther we get from the bustling Piazza.

I record more content for my channel, making sure to capture the carts behind and in front of mine and Matty’s.

The air smells of crisp citrus, fresh salt water, and, oddly enough, old library books.

As the road turns from cobblestone to cement to dirt and rubble, I feel like I’m in a horse-drawn carriage.

It makes me want to put my phone away and just be . To not worry and breathe .

But I don’t because this is great content for the channel and I have to capture it.

The road winds farther from civilization up a mountain through dense trees; it seems we left the town entirely until the shaky-ass carts seemingly weave us back toward the sea and down the mountainside again. The constant change in elevation is messing with my head.

We reach a plateau in the dirt road. Sun bursts through the canopy, and the sound of crashing waves in the distance is carried on the breeze.

It’s like we’ve entered Narnia, or the Shire, or a travel influencer’s Clock channel.

Except no amount of editing and tropical filters or CGI enhancements could do this place justice.

Nestled in the rolling hills, atop vertical rock cliffs that cascade down to the sea, sits the private villa.

Lemons the size of small cantaloupes drip like dewdrops from low-hanging trees lining the river rock and painted terracotta paver entryway.

Large black iron gates with swirling lemons dipped in gold swing open to Villa Limone Regale (appropriately named, huh?

Well done, Topher!). It’s, well, exactly as its namesake suggests: fit for a king, queen, or nonbinary royal.

Its expansive white stone exterior is enrobed in ivy, giving it the appearance of being part of the mountains it’s built into, and the driver of our golf cart explains to us how the villa is multi-floored, but what we see on the ground is the top level—every other floor descends into the cliffs closer toward the sea.

The guide suggests we spend time exploring the property once we settle in, to meander through the orange and lemon tree groves and to get lost on the private passage down to the shoreline and wade in the cerulean waters.

Find the expansive infinity pool carved into the rocks that appears to spill directly into the Tyr-rhenian, but instead has a waterfall that cascades over a cavern below into a smaller pool designed to look like one of the famous Amalfi Coast grottos.

My mind wanders to Ricky, shirtless, next to me in the cave, hidden from view as the sound of crashing water drowns out everything.

A picturesque sunset in the distance as his hands wander across my thigh—

The golf cart stops short, and we jerk forward.

“Thank god we’re here,” Matty says, voice shaky. I look over, and his skin is a pale green. “I need a nap. You okay?”

Before I can answer, the oversized white arch doors push open and white curtains billow in the wind in slow motion like a freaking movie, revealing Topher and Sienna dressed head to toe in chic white linen, both wearing tortoise sunglasses, a lit cigar dangling between Topher’s lips as the wind blows back the curls on the top of his head.

Topher always did like an entrance.

He’s unshaven, but it’s not sloppy, it’s meticulous.

Planned chaos. Beauty in mess. In the days since he announced his engagement, he’s been taking to his own social media for a hard debut of his impending nuptials with Sienna, who always looks airbrushed to within an inch of her life, which she’s not and I’m here to attest—she’s model-hot.

Long honey-blond hair in blown-out waves, pore-free skin with makeup meant to look natural.

Like she just got out of bed. If her bed was a red carpet.

I haven’t seen her since Ricky’s graduation party before we went off to the Hamptons and he annihilated my soul, and though she hasn’t fundamentally changed, she’s always been stunning; she’s discovered the power of Topher’s money in labels and traveling glam squads.

It’s unfair how attractive they are together, the perfect image of curated hotness.

Yet all I can do is look at Ricky, who beams when he sees his sister, cherub cheeked and waving with a champagne flute in her perfectly manicured hand.