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Fielder Lemon and Ricky DeLuca’s Great Commencement Massacre, Precisely One Year, Two Weeks, and Three Days Earlier (But Who’s Counting . . . ?)

Dear reader, did you know “commencement”—as in a commencement ceremony at a high school graduation—means “a beginning”?

It’s supposed to be poetic.

The end of the most vital eighteen years of a person’s life (to date, anyway) is the beginning of a new chapter.

I learned that at Ricky DeLuca’s graduation.

He was a year older than me. As I sat in the crowd watching my boyfriend (and best friend/next door neighbor of the last nearly twelve years) clad in his emerald-green and gold cap and gown, all I could think about was how this was a new beginning for us .

After an epic all-night party, Topher surprised Ricky and me with a free, all-expenses-paid week in the Hamptons at his beach house to celebrate, to give us privacy away from the Coven.

Glittery waves crashed on the Long Island shoreline from a dark obsidian ocean lit by a bright white moon.

Millions of stars dotted the sky, but Ricky and I were the only two on the beach.

A warm breeze wrapped around us, lulling us into a trance.

Nestled against a dune, our legs entangled, we stargazed together. Our tradition.

We spent so many nights wrapped up in the stars.

Something about that night felt delicate, a shaky breath before a plunge.

There were too many strange silences, like we were suspended midair, and nothing moved except the Atlantic tide.

I told myself it was because tomorrow we would head home to face the real world, whatever that looked like for us, Fielder and Ricky.

But mostly for Ricky, who didn’t have high school in the fall to look forward to, unlike me.

On the blanket next to Ricky a battery-operated lantern cast a soft glow on the sand, illuminating a well-worn leather-bound journal I bought him two Christmases earlier.

We’d been best friends since his family moved in next door when I was five and he was six.

We became instantly inseparable. But the summer before I entered high school, a strange tension bubbled its way to the surface; I went from carefree to breathless when I saw him, my sweaty skin prickling with electricity.

Every time we were together, which was every damn day, it felt like we hovered around each other but couldn’t quite connect the way we used to, like someone holding two magnets and pointing their, like, poles at each other, ensuring they never meet.

Our immediate families spent Christmas Eve together—you know, the whole Italian seven fishes shebang that brings everyone together, even non-blood neighbors.

When it came time for us to do our usual best friend gift exchange, and he opened the journal and read the inscription I wrote in the front flap that he was an incredible poet, working words the way he would wood, and how I couldn’t wait to be by his side when he won his first Pulitzer Prize.

His cheeks went beet red, and he dashed outside and into the snow, fluffy piles of the stuff billowing inside as he slammed the door behind him.

I ran after him with a jacket, yelling his name so that he’d stop and at least not freeze to death.

When I caught up to him and yanked on his shoulders so that he would face me, he spun around, and his eyes were red and glassy.

I asked him what was wrong, what I did, and when I grabbed his hand, it was like the magnet poles flipped, and he leaned forward and—

—kissed me.

Middle of the street. Golden glow from the streetlamps, massive snowflakes fluttering around our heads like we were in a damn snow globe. It was sloppy and messy as he mashed his teeth against mine in a way that reverberated through my skull. Horrible. Borderline painful. Wet. Yet perfect .

“I’ve never done this before . . . kissed a dude .” He shuddered. “Or anyone.”

“Neither have I.” My words trembled, from the cold or nerves I couldn’t tell.

“But you’ve been out for, like, years already!” he said.

“I’ve kissed lots of dudes in my head.”

“Have you ever kissed me?” He looked down, dragged his foot in concentric circles in the snow. “You know. In your head?”

My cheeks got so hot I no longer cared about the snow. I swallowed hard. “I—”

“Sorry—that was weird. Did I make it weird?”

“Dude, you actually kissed me. That was weird.”

“Was it? I-I—”

“Shut up, I was kidding. Of course I want to kiss you. I’ve always wanted to kiss you.” As much as I wanted it to be a movie moment where I grabbed him and pulled him in quickly, I was too nervous.

I gently placed my hand at the side of his face; my thumb brushed his lips. Before I could lean in, he gingerly grabbed ahold of me and placed his soft lips on mine. It was delicate, light, innocent, beautiful. His lips were pillows I wanted to rest on forever.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you, too.”

Two and a half years later, we never stopped kissing.

“Fielder?”

I looked over at Ricky, moonlight in his eyes. Or was that irritation?

“Sorry. Got lost in the moment.” I could feel his tension, and it pooled in my chest. I pulled out my phone instinctively.

Scrolling made me feel less anxious. I had a few new notifications from my growing Clock channel.

I’d posted a review of a cool new local food truck earlier, the most amazing Indian-French fusion dosas/crepes, and it was doing great numbers. “Y-you okay?”

He scoffed. “Why wouldn’t I be? Got the sand. Waves. Moon in my eyes.” Ricky’s shoulders and upper body were tense, like he was holding his breath. “Or maybe it’s just the reflection of your phone screen. As always.”

“Ouch. Sorry. My bad.” One last look, sleep mode. “It’s our last night in Topher’s Hamptons paradise bubble. And we haven’t talked about what’s next for you. Not in a while—I feel like you’ve been avoiding talking about it with me?”

Like me, Ricky never aspired to attend college.

Though Ricky could be an incredible poet one day, he came from a long line of Capital M Men who worked with their hands.

Woodworkers. Ricky idolized his nonno, and that became his dream: to be a woodworker.

He dreamed of one day building his own artisan tiny home, having his own line of wood pieces—furniture and such—and living in the middle of the woods, completely off the grid.

Live off the land. Write poetry in a journal of his own handmade paper. Ricky was impossibly cool.

College wasn’t for me, either. Unlike Ricky, though, I’d never really known exactly what I wanted to do with my life.

As a rising senior, all I wanted to do was spend time with my boyfriend, but I had a lot of pressure from Ma; we had no expendable cash.

Not since Dad died. Well, not before that either, but it only got worse.

Like a good Italian son who had no choice but to become the head of his household, I had a duty to help Ma.

I started @LemonAtFirstSight, a food-slash-restaurant review account on Clock last year because I loved to eat (shocking for an Italian, I know) and try new places and cuisines.

Ma and I had been driving up and down the entirety of New York State looking for hole-in-the-wall restaurants with banger food.

The account was steadily growing, and I’d had a few viral moments, even a sound that made the rounds.

My follower count grew when Ricky and I posted boyfriend content, especially when we reviewed together.

Nonna, my biggest fan, was convinced I could have my own show on Food Network.

When the account started to pick up, I figured maybe I could grow it enough to monetize.

Become an influencer (in addition to working as a busboy on the weekends and after school) to help Ma make ends meet.

“I have something for you.” Ricky reached around the other side of his body, grabbing at his backpack.

“For me?” My birthday wasn’t until August, but as any good Leo would, I gladly took the present. “I thought I was supposed to get you a commencement gift. I figured my presence would be present enough, but—”

He rolled his eyes.

“You love me.”

He closed his eyes. “More than you know, Fielder.” His words, the same ones he always said to me, hung in the air between us, and I wanted so badly to kiss him, draw whatever was on his mind out like venom from a bite.

“I don’t want this to end.” I stared up at the night sky, the endless pattern of stars I could never reach. “I wish we could get in a rowboat and sail out into the middle of the ocean and be surrounded by stars.”

“Where the horizon meets the sky,” he said.

“Like dancing among them. Just you and me. I’d stay there forever.”

Then he whispered, “If only,” and handed me an unwrapped wooden box, the finish natural, almost raw. He had hand-carved the top with an intricate lemon on a vine. There was an iron hitch and hook on one side, and small hinges that allowed it to open on the other.

“It’s a dream box,” he explained. “It’s kind of like a time capsule. But not. Instead of a box of the past, it’s a box for your future. The idea is to put what you want for yourself in there, places you want to go, things you want to accomplish, whatever! And it manifests!”

“If Nonna heard you right now—”

“She’d call me a hippie-dippie, I know.” He smirked like a kid who’d gotten into the cookie jar.

My fingers ran along the crushed velvet interior. “It’s empty.”

“Only for now.” He closed the lid and tapped it. I studied his face, his moonlit eyes flickering over the surface of the wood like flames. Following his line of sight, I realized the lemon notched into the oak had the map of Earth etched into its bulbous body. “The world is yours, Fielder Lemon.”

I leaned over the box and into him, kissing him. “Ours.”

Through our interlocked lips, he hummed, “Ours.” His stubble scratched my upper lip. His hands found mine. He played with the ring on my thumb.

“I love you,” I told him.

He didn’t say it back that time.

What happens now?