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Good Luck, Babe!

“A private jet is a baller move.” Matty’s eyes widen as we reach the tarmac and he sees the PJ in the distance set against a hazy July sky.

“See—you should go work for Topher, Fielder,” Ma says. “Make real money instead of relying on that ridiculous Clock App.”

Lay off, Ma.

I must’ve said that out loud because she smacks me upside the back of my head. Lightly —relax, readers. It’s not child abuse; it’s a love language for Italian moms.

“I’m just saying, you gotta figure out how to make a sustainable career for yourself, baby. That was the deal. No college, but make something of yourself; don’t just let time pass you by like the hands on a clock. Ticktock, ticktock.”

In other words, Good luck, babe!

“I’m trying. Not everyone can be a college dropout multimillionaire at twenty-one.

” I remind myself to make sure the content I’ve filmed over the last two weeks reviewing restaurants and devouring food is set to post at certain times to keep the algorithm in my favor.

I don’t have anything yet for the @Food-ForChange contest. I haven’t told Ma about it yet to manage her (and my, frankly) expectations.

It’s hard enough being on a trip where I’ll be constantly reminded of how successful Topher is and that I should follow in his footsteps or learn from him. Deep breath. “Don’t worry, Ma.”

“That’s my job,” she says. That and good old-fashioned Italian guilt!

The runway of Westchester County Airport is clear just for us, something I’ve never seen (because it’s far too expensive to fly out of Westchester versus JFK or LaGuardia or even Newark, so this is my first time here, period).

I’m deeply uncomfortable because I feel like a rich douchebag walking toward a private jet, which could not be further from the truth, but if I saw our family traipsing across the tarmac, I’d be hardcore judging us for our extravagant spending and enormous carbon footprint.

But, alas, here I am, craving a cappuccino and knowing I can probably get one aboard the flight. Being human is weird like that.

Lush green trees and flat plots of perfectly trimmed grass present a kind of serenity that major New York metropolitan airports don’t. It’s free of city noise.

The air is slightly dewy.

Zia Gabriella scoffs. “I cannot believe Topher did this.” Her suitcase has one wheel that pulls maddeningly to the right, and she keeps having to yank it with every five steps she takes. “He spent too much money on us.”

“That’s not what she said when Topher flew her out to LA for Mother’s Day,” Zia Rosa whispers. Except nobody in the Coven ever whispers, so it’s more like a dull scream.

“I’m just saying,” Zia Gabriella continues. “We could have flown coach on a regular plane. It’s not like any of us are strangers to that.” She eyes Ma up and down. The shade is real. “There are better ways for Topher to spend his money.”

“Than on his family?” Ma scoffs.

“Meanwhile, he’s constantly flying all over the world,” Zia Rosa adds. “Didn’t he post on Instagram last week that he was in Paris just to eat at a Michelin-star restaurant for dinner?”

“He loves luxury, my son.” Zia Gabriella waves Rosa’s comments away like a gnat.

“Really, Gab?” Ma says. “Topher’s generous enough to charter a plane for his family, the little people who can’t afford to up and go to Jersey on a whim, let alone Italy, and you’re complaining? Shut up.”

“ You shut up!” Zia Gabriella quips.

Matty and I exchange knowing glances. Gabriella and Ma are oil and water.

They can’t exist in each other’s orbits for longer than a couple hours without going off on each other.

It’s been like this for as long as I can remember.

According to Lemon legend, the genesis of their feud was when Ma convinced Gabriella, always the weaker willed of the two, to let Ma cut her hair when they were eight and ten, respectively, right before school picture day.

The most prized picture in our family is Zia Gabriella with a scrunched-up face and red, teary eyes, balding with angry, wispy hairs tied into a heinous bow at the top of her head, looking like an onion freshly plucked from the ground.

Zia Gabriella claims she forgave Ma, but I’ve noticed whenever they fight hard, she grabs at her long black hair in an act of protection.

Still, don’t ever get in the middle because they’ll go after you—they fight hard, but love each other harder.

“Can you both shut up?” Zia Rosa shouts.

Matty links his arm with mine and forces us to walk at a gayer speed in hopes of outrunning the Coven.

He’s trembling, his body brimming with excitement, electricity firing in his veins.

“You all right there, Flash?” I ask, tugging at our hooked limbs.

“What do you think Italia will be like?” He emphasizes “Italia” like every other Guido in our neighborhood might. All-American with a Westchester twist. “More importantly, what do you think the guys will be like?”

“One-track mind,” I say.

He cranes his neck and looks behind us, making sure the Coven are far enough away that they can’t hear our conversation—though I’m convinced they all have bionic ears and no private chat is safe. “I’m determined to lose my virginity, bro.”

“What happened to romance?”

“Always romance, dude!” Matty says. “But, ya know. Both is optimal.”

At that exact moment, a golf cart carrying Nonna whizzes by, and she cackles, lifting her purse in the air like she just scored a touchdown. “Suckers!”

Matty’s ears go bright red. His breathing gets shallow.

“Nonna can barely hear the TV when it’s on max volume, relax.” I knock into him. “My little Matty, all grown up. I’m so proud. Why now, though?”

“No place more romantic than Italy to meet the man of my dreams.” Matty’s face beams with excitement, but the way he swings his arms as he walks, flexing and stretching like he’s prepping for a track meet, betrays his nerves. “When it’s right, it’ll be right. Right?”

“Right,” I say confidently, hoping he eases up. He overthinks sex and wants perfection, but if anybody deserves a rom-com moment, it’s big, beautiful Matty.

Just up ahead, at the top of the aircraft stairway into the PJ, a flight attendant descends toward the tarmac to greet Nonna.

“What do you think the guys in Amalfi are like? Think they’re cool?

” Matty grimaces, a blend of excitement and nerves on his face.

Though he talks a big game around other people, he’s a puppy.

He won’t have any problem once he’s ready to have sex.

He may be my cousin, but he’s objectively hot.

He’s got auburn hair and hazel eyes with flecks of green—the Sicilian jumped out.

He’s paler than Topher and the Coven, like me, but unlike me, he tans instantly in the sun, so he’s got a nice pre-glow from the summer already.

A total himbo, hence the inspiration, he works out like a maniac, having played nearly every sport in high school, so again, objectively great body.

He’s never dated anybody, partially because he claims that high school guys are too immature and he wants someone more “worldly,” less concerned about getting head and more focused on getting ahead.

“I don’t want just anyone. I want a big ole Italian romance, like in the movies.

You know, a guy who’s a little rough around the edges, maybe works with his hands so he’s strong and—” He shifts his junk in his shorts.

“I want someone who isn’t afraid of emotions.

Every guy who’s asked me out is so quick to just, like, ditch once it gets real. I don’t want that.”

Sounds like Ricky. “So when you go off to Stony Brook at the end of August, you’ll be long distance with some dude who lives in Campania?”

He makes a lovesick face. “You think that could happen?”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Speaking of hopeless,” he starts, “how’re you? You know, seeing Ricky tomorrow.”

“Concocting an evil plan to make him love me. The usual.”

He pops his tongue and glares at me. “For real though, you ready? Because we haven’t really had the chance to plan our attack the last few weeks. You’ve been MIA since you got that postcard from Ricky, filming content and avoiding feelings.”

“I’m going to see him, and he’s obviously going to drool because I look damn good.

” I wait for Matty to validate, but all he does is roll his eyes.

“And like one of those movies you always watch, I’ll give this big speech about how I’ve changed and grown, which will make him realize he made a huge mistake, and then I’ll use the powers of Amalfi and the romance of it all to make him love me. ”

Matty squints. “Cool. But, like, how? That postcard . . .”

I blink, then shrug. “That was a fluke. I have a ten-hour plane ride to think about the how because, according to Topher, Ricky is flying to Italy directly from Seattle, so at least I have time. But in my head, the way I’ve been picturing it, dreaming of him and our reunion, Ricky’s face will soften and the cold words of his postcard will be erased, and he’ll be excited to see me, drawn to me like a magnet, and our bodies will press together beneath the orange Italian sunset, and just as a slight breeze brushes his hair across his face, he’ll apologize for letting me go and grab me like he used to, and our lips will meet, and music will play for us and—

Matty smacks my chest in approval. “Be honest. Raw. Not rehearsed, real. Bareback it.”

I squeeze my eyes tight. “Never again.”

Matty laughs. “Speaking of. Think Topher’s friends are hot?”

I roll my eyes and laugh.

Now Zias Rosa and Gabriella are bickering so loudly with Ma that their voices carry over the quiet tarmac. Not even the sound of nearby airplane engines revving can drown them out.

“Tea?” Matty leans in and whispers so low not even the Coven’s collective bionic ears can hear. “Topher told me Sienna’s parents flew to Italy a few days early to spend extra time with them. Zia Gab doesn’t know.”

I bet Ricky did, too.