Page 49

Lost in the Undertow

Kidding! That was mean.

But that is how Ricky DeLuca became a mermaid! Bet you didn’t see that plot twist—this is now a full-blown fantasy! The plot of Luca !

Also kidding.

Ricky is neither dead nor a mermaid. Although to be honest, as I race to the side of the gozzo, screaming his name like an absolute raving banshee lunatic in a sheer state of panic, I do have fleeting thoughts of him drowning, spliced with scenes from Titanic of a frostbitten Jack clinging to that damn door as Rose just chilled (lol) there.

Normally, my brain would have led me down the road of, Of course this would happen to me. Typical backward Fielder Lemon. Falls back in love with a dead guy. How Queen Guisy of me. Like mother like son and all that.

Kudos to me for not going down that slippery slope.

I’m about to hurl myself off the side because this is actually how people end up on the news when he breaks through the surface, coughing and struggling with the blanket . . . while laughing !

Instantly, the captain dives in with a red lifesaver and swims it toward Ricky, who grabs hold. The caption dips below the surface and seemingly unravels the blanket from Ricky’s feet so that together, they paddle toward the back of the boat, talking in Italian.

Ricky hoists himself up and back into the boat.

Bathed in moonlight, his shirt clings to his toned chest, and I nearly faint. (Sorry, I can’t help it—if you could see Ricky right now, you’d swoon, too. Plus, there’s something hot about skirting death and emerging triumphantly.)

The blanket lands on the floor with a loud thwack , spraying me with water.

“Oh, I’m sorry, princess, do you not want to get wet?” Ricky holds his hands out like the creature from the black lagoon, dripping and hungry, and he jolts forward to chase me.

“Madonna mia, non più!” the captain shouts sternly. “Please, be safe!”

“Mi dispiace,” Ricky says before asking him in Italian to take us back to shore.

The captain nods, and I move out of Ricky’s way, but he grabs me and wraps his wet arms around me and kisses my entire face like a dog.

“So, bad news,” he says. “I lost my phone. Fell out of my hand when I hit the water. I asked the captain, and it’s way too deep to dive down. It’s too dark anyway.”

He looks unfazed. Casual. As if he said he just ate a slice of pizza. No biggie.

My eyes go wide. “What are you gonna do?!”

“Get a new phone when we’re back in the States.”

“On Monday night?! Or TUESDAY!? That’s forever.”

He shrugs. “What does it matter? Life goes on, and I have everything I need here.”

I check my pocket instinctually. My entire life is on my phone—

Wait. My breathing steadies. He’s right. My entire life isn’t on my phone. It’s right here. I nuzzle into his slick, slimy neck, and I don’t care that he’s freezing or that the water is soaking through my shirt.

The slow glide back to Positano is awe-inducing. The soft glow of lights cast against buildings that climb up the mountain make the city look like a layered hive from a sci-fi film. There’s nowhere on earth I’d rather be.

Okay, remember what I said a few lines ago? That my phone isn’t my life?

Lies!

Because when we get back to shore and go to where Ricky says a car is supposed to be waiting for us, the spot is empty.

Not a problem, right? I can just call Topher—

Except my phone is dead and I don’t have a charger.

It’s late. No idea how late, but it must be after midnight.

The streets are empty.

We have no way of contacting anyone. Even if we somehow find a phone in a restaurant or by begging a fellow American tourist somewhere, I don’t know anyone’s number by heart.

Ricky’s hands go clammy. He wriggles out from my grip, shakes his wrists, and starts to pace.

He’s muttering to himself like his nonno used to, chest rising and falling rapidly in panic.

Anytime something gets too complicated, and he doesn’t have control, without a clear, concise plan, Ricky flounders.

Seeing him like this is a reminder of how much I’ve changed because my instinct would be blaming the universe or panicking alongside him, essentially forcing Ricky to straighten his back and suppress his emotions in favor of protecting mine.

I place my hand on Ricky’s back and force him to take a deep breath in, then out.

“Hey,” I coo. “It’s okay. We got this. We’ll figure it out.”

He stops marching. “You’re not worried?”

I shake my head. “We’re in Italy, and we have each other. Why worry?”

In the distance, past the beach, situated directly on the boardwalk is an old, dramatically lit building that has a turret with a dome towering over the others at shore level.

A bustling restaurant on the ground floor and a few floors of balconies with what looks like tourists lounging and sipping wine.

Someone inside must have a charger, or a phone we could use. Not that I know how to dial internationally, or who to even dial.

My head spins.

Breathe , Fielder . You got this. What do straight footballers chant to pump themselves up? Big dick, full hole, can’t lose? I feel better already.

Ricky follows my line of sight. “You thinking a room for the night?”

“That’s not the worst idea. But we need to find a charger for my phone.”

He grabs my hand.

With a fire warming our bellies, we start hand in hand toward the grand hotel, hopeful, knowing we have each other to get us out of this mess.

We deflate pretty fast when the receptionist says she doesn’t have a phone charger, and according to her, any stores that carry chargers don’t open until 10:00 a.m. tomorrow.

“We could comb the restaurant and hope someone has a ch—”

“Restaurant is closed,” the receptionist cuts me off with her thick Italian accent, drumming her apple-red nails on the counter.

“But I saw people inside.”

“Is closed.” She looks high, half-closed eyes fluttering, hair frayed and mussed. Still, she’s looking Ricky up and down, bending over the counter to see the puddle beneath his feet. To be fair, his vibe is very much “drowned rat.”

Ricky shakes his head, a signal for me not to argue with her.

“How much is a room for the night?”

Without flinching, she says, “Two hundred fifty euro.”

“That’s a lot of money,” I say, not having anticipated anything outside of the rehearsal dinner and helping Topher with his surprise for Sienna. I figured I’d be in bed crying over Ricky by now, not stranded with a boyfriend. Life is funny that way. I laugh to myself. “I don’t have my wallet.”

“I have mine.” Ricky pulls out his wallet. “Dad gave me some euros, in case.”

“Lifesaver!” I don’t say that I’m also worried we won’t make it back to the villa in time tomorrow for the wedding.

According to Sienna’s carefully planned itinerary, pictures start around 10:30 a.m., so already we’re going to be late.

How late depends on when we can find a store open with a charger and can charge enough to order an Uber.

That’s Tomorrow Fielder’s problem.

There’s nothing more we can do. We have no choice.

Life handed us lemons, might as well take a damn bite.

The small room is a far cry from the luxuries of Topher’s villa.

Dirty, cracked tile floor. One old, chipped plaster dresser.

Yellow cigarette-stained walls. One blue-framed painting of Positano.

A desk so small it looks like it was made by Fisher-Price next to a skinny shelf that houses the board game Yahtzee from the 1970s and a vase of dead flowers.

A musty smell clings to everything and makes the air thick. I dash to the large picture window and throw it open, letting a gust of fresh air in.

But the pièce de résistance: one queen bed.

I laugh. “Only one bed, huh? What a cliché!”

“What are we gonna do?” Ricky raises his brows devilishly.

The door barely clicks shut, and I’m peeling his shirt off and tossing it to the floor. It lands with a shlocky clap .

“Wanna play Yahtzee?”

“Sexy Yahtzee?” He struggles to wriggle out of his jeans, his hairy thighs red from irritation. He moves quickly toward me, grabs the back of my head, and kisses me. He spins me around and throws me onto the bed, pinning me down.

The mattress is hard as marble, and the frame creaks, but it’s perfect.

Our noses graze. He closes his eyes and purrs.

“We’re really doing this, huh, you and me?”

“Wanna renege? Again? Already?” I joke.

He laughs and it’s unencumbered. “Never.”

Then he kisses me and kisses me and kisses me and kisses me until I’m drowning in him over and over again, lost in his undertow.

I close my eyes.

He arches his brows, then his back, as I slide down and take him into my mouth.

Our bodies wriggle into each other until we’re face-to-face with entangled legs, our hands dancing fingertip to fingertip, intertwining and unwinding.

“I got you,” he whispers as I sink deeper into the pillow.

Then he surprises me, and maybe even himself, when he says, “I’m proud of you, Fielder.

Seeing you prioritize your passions during this trip makes me more certain than ever that I am—have been, won’t ever stop being—unequivocally in love with you.

I let you get away once, but I won’t ever let you go again. ”

His body is a wood-burning furnace, and he is my fire.

This time, I write a poem on his skin as he holds me.

One thing the room does not, in fact, have—an alarm clock.

When the sun streams in through the window, illuminating our entangled bodies in the morning, I rocket launch out of bed.

The cobblestone streets are already bustling.

There’s a tall clock in the square, and I squint to read the hands and Roman numerals: 10:15 a.m.

Shit.

“RICKY, GET UP, WE’RE LATE FOR THE WEDDING!”