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As we climb farther up, carefully traversing stone steps, Niccolò explains to us how tourism has kept Amalfi—and the crops it survives on—alive.

“When we have a less than fruitful year, it’s harder to pay workers, so they don’t come back.

” The Avello family is the last surviving family of lemon farmers.

Every other family has left the region, moved to Rome or Milan, started new businesses and livelihoods.

“What keeps you here?” Topher asks, threading his fingers in between Sienna’s.

Niccolò leads us to a break in the terraces, and we can see the expanse of his grove, and the workers who climb tirelessly to harvest and reinforce the structures the Avello family have been using for centuries.

Rolling hills blanketed in lemon trees. Patches of nets that protect the groves.

Donkeys being led by farmers over a ridge through a patchy grove across from us.

A glimmer of the Tyrrhenian Sea sparkles in the distance, a soft blue jewel set against tall mountains.

“This.” Niccolò’s voice catches as he shows us his bounty, his reason, his purpose.

“Two hundred years, my family, our history, this land. Mio primo amore. You never get over your first love, and I’ll never stop fighting to save it.” His fingers gently lift a small bulb on a nearby branch. “Funny what can grow from love.”

I’m usually not an emotional wreck (lies), but something about the way Niccolò talks about his legacy and the deep ties his family has to this land makes me think about who I am as a Lemon, our family, and what I want my own legacy to be.

Before today, I never would have thought about something like this, and maybe it’s being here in Italy, our origin country, surrounded by the people I love most that has me in my feelings.

An overwhelming wave of emotions crashes over me, floods me like a tsunami: What am I doing with my life?

Where am I going? Does any of it matter?

All the followers and content buzzing around me that consumes my daily thoughts, is it real?

Like Ricky wrote in his journal, I’m a seed from a mother tree that hasn’t blossomed yet, stuck in a juvenile state, waiting to fruit.

“Lemons are the most versatile food source here in Amalfi— we use them for everything,” Niccolò continues.

“The lemon is the lifeblood of the local economy and ecosystem, and commerce throughout Italy, from seafood to desserts to limoncello to candles, oils, soaps, and anything you can think of. Here, nothing is wasted.”

“I always told you, boys,” Nonna says looking to me, Topher, and Matty. “La Famiglia Limone è forte!”

Matty flexes a bicep and Topher says, “Let’s goooooo!” but I’m struggling.

Ricky places a hand delicately on my back, and together we walk to a secluded spot, tucked away from the prying eyes of the Coven and our families.

I take a deep breath and feel the air coat my lungs as we take in the stunning views.

“You okay?” he asks.

I clear my throat and shake off these feelings as best I can. “I could totally move here and work as a lemon farmer.” I nod toward two workers clad in jeans in thick work boots in the blistering sun scaling the terraces and carrying baskets of the mutant lemons.

Ricky laughs heartily. “You have many strengths, Fielder Lemon, but manual labor? Not one.”

“Burn, and touché, but also how dare you?” I laugh and shift my body until we’re parallel leaning against the railing.

Neither of us move, not consciously anyway.

My mouth is dry, so I lick my lips, and his eyes travel down to watch me do so.

Following his lead, I study the balls of his cheeks, the scruff dotting his jawline, the way his plump lips part.

Our feet move us toward one another until I can feel his breath.

Though we aren’t touching, it’s as if his arms are wrapped around my back, putting just the right amount of pressure to lure me into his web.

Ricky’s big, beautiful brown eyes with flecks of green like the sea in the sunlight plead. As I drink him in, his smell is intoxicating—cedar and oak, woodchips with a hint of his favorite Dove “clean comfort” deodorant.

One slight touch of his pinkie against mine on the railing and I shiver.

“I almost missed you two!” Niccolò exclaims, shattering our moment.

Ricky steps backward.

Niccolò’s holding what looks like a regular-sized lemon, but it’s rounder and has more of an orange hue.

He holds his paring knife and quickly slices through its skin, juice bursting from its seams. “I was telling the group that we’ve also had some happy accidents.

We also grow oranges here, and the way the trees are planted and the rich volcanic soil sometimes accidentally breed, how you say, hybrids?

” He nods to Topher and Sienna, a Lemon and a DeLuca.

“A marriage between the lemon and the orange, a dazzling pairing that creates a most intriguing flavor.”

Ricky and I hold our cuts.

“Salute!” Ricky says and takes a bite.

“What does it taste like?” I ask him.

“Possibility.”

Hundreds of lemons drip from the overhead terraces as we tour the rest of the groves, winding through endless trees and against stone walls.

Lemons of all shapes and sizes and seasons.

Some that will never reach full maturity in time and will have to be pruned, some that fell and rotted away, and some that look so ripe and juicy and full I resist the urge to pick them off their stems.

Tucked away behind trees are colonies of bees in wooden boxes full of juicy honeycombs from the citrus flowers.

Niccolò explains how the bees are vital in their farming efforts, though, again, the constantly changing climates—colder, longer winters and hotter summers, extreme droughts followed by heavy rainfall in the autumn months—threatens them, too.

When we finally reach the outdoor kitchen near the end of the tour—a sprawling restaurant-esque area with a terracotta tile floor, hand-carved wooden tables and chairs from local wood that makes Ricky drool (and ask a billion questions about local artisan woodworkers), and more lemon trees filling up every available space—Niccolò tells us that the Avello family chefs (his mother and wife) are hard at work preparing traditional Campa-nia dishes, handmade fettucine made from the Amalfi lemon, fresh-caught fish, lemon tiramisu, lemon wine, and of course limoncello in the state-of-the-art facility set into the rock on the far side of the patio.

I record everything, capturing the magic of the Avello farm as best I can.

Then, Niccolò clasps his hands together and exclaims, “My boy!”

We all turn to see one of the most gorgeous guys I’ve ever seen—he looks like a younger Niccolò, tall and tanned olive skin kissed by the gods. Face like the David carved by Michelangelo himself, with cheekbones for days and hazel eyes that sparkle in the sun. He smirks, and I hear Monroe gasp.

Tyler glances at her, clearly jealous.

“Sorry, but wow,” Monroe says.

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. Even I feel 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.”

His eyes narrow. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Possibility.

Fast-forwarding through the footage shot at the villa after a transformational day, I see the story of the Avello Family Lemon Groves.

One simple fruit—the foundation for not only one of the most incredible meals of my entire life—the fresh pasta and the tiramisu, which was light as a feather and melt in my mouth orgasmic—is also the cornerstone of a whole culture.

It’s impossible to shake the reality and trajectory of their livelihoods, the family history, so deeply impacted by global climate change as millions of tourists flock to the Amalfi Coast every single year to take Instagram-worthy shots of Positano and tour the grottos and chow down on the local catches, but how many of them give back?

And I’m no better—my family isn’t, anyway.

We’re doing the exact same thing (on Topher’s dime, since none of us could even Google a trip like this if the entire bill wasn’t being footed by my extremely generous cousin), so we’re not absolved of this.

In fact, now that we know, I feel like we have an obligation.

I have an obligation .

Maybe I’ve been thinking about this @FoodForChange contest all wrong.

It’s not about winning a mentorship—sure, that would really help jump-start me on some sort of path toward a concrete career—and it’s sure as hell not about followers and likes.

It’s about at least trying to make a difference.

I never thought of my platform as something worthy of a cause, of spreading awareness about something important—no, crucial!

It was always about me. Doing what I wanted to do, building an audience around me, trying to find the spotlight to actually make sense of my life, gain purpose.

Topher is a self-made millionaire at twenty-five.

Matty always dreamed of going to college and being an “entrepreneur,” whatever that means.

Even Ricky’s goal of being a woodworker like his father and nonno before him is within his grasp.

Me? Maybe I can use my following to spotlight the Avellos’ lemon groves and the hardships they’re facing, how they’re losing farmers to cities due to a lack of crops, and that their entire way of life here in what outsiders consider to be “paradise” is dying.

I can’t explain it, but I feel a kinship with the Avellos, with the land, my Italian roots burrowing deep into the volcanic soil and spreading, spreading, spreading.

For the first time in my life, there’s a flame for something beyond Ricky and the artificiality of Clock. This goes beyond Clock and even @FoodForChange. It’s small. A spark, but that’s all I need to start a fire.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I save all the footage I’ve filmed to my drafts and make this my goal, not just for the week or the contest, but also to explore more in depth beyond this week.

According to Sienna’s carefully laid out itinerary, tomorrow and Sunday are the only free days, so I’ll go back both days and see if I can interview Niccolò.

Skipping up the steps of the villa toward the pool area, I spot Ricky on the lanai overlooking the pool and the sea, a short, thin cylindrical glass of bright yellow limoncello next to him.

His strong hands furiously work a pencil.

Every few minutes, the wood dangles between his fingers and he looks up and out at the blue water, crinkling his brow.

Returning to the page in front of him, he writes.

My heart swells, then sputters out of sync because as close as he is, he feels completely out of reach. Tears swell as the realization settles I may have to love Ricky DeLuca from right here for the rest of my life.

As long as he’s happy.

He doesn’t see me as he gets back to work, furiously mapping out his emotions in words the way he used to in his former journal all those years we were together.

I wish I knew what he is thinking . . .