A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (35)

“Ms. Della, that’s not Rihanna, that’s Tiana.”

“Who?”

Ricki raised her voice a bit. “Princess Tiana, ma’am! The Disney heroine?”

“Well, now, who can keep up? Y’all talk so fast.” She waved her hand impatiently.

“Here’s the other thing,” said Ricki, moving on. “It’s embarrassing to admit, but I struggle at big events. I’m not the most graceful socializer.”

“You’re comfy with your customers,” Tuesday pointed out. “Well, the few you’ve had.”

Ms. Della grimaced.

“That’s flower chitchat,” pointed out Ricki. “I could pontificate about plants all day. But small talk? I get nervous and babble about my micro-obsessions. Y’all probably never noticed.”

Tuesday laughed at this, digging into her eggnog waffles. “Never noticed? I witnessed you lecture an Uber driver on the ways inbreeding affected the appearance of European royals.”

“Google ‘Habsburg jaw,’” whispered Ricki. “It’s nuts.”

Ms. Della had heard enough. “Listen to me, young lady. Don’t worry about this wedding, you hear me? You’ll do just fine. No granddaughter of mine is a failure, you hear?”

Ricki sank into the warmth of these words. Elder love, elder approval, it was a new experience for Ricki, and it made her feel boundless. Invincible.

She planned to keep Ms. Della’s voice in her head during the wedding, as a mantra for good luck.


It worked. Not only did she finish all the florals in time, she fucking killed it.

The black-tie wedding ceremony had taken over the top floor of Bar Exquise (the bottom floor, a live performance lounge, was closed for renovation). Ricki had transformed the space into an elegant wintry dreamscape, with arrangements of snowy blossoms, frosted greenery, and ivory candelabras, and centered on every table was a glorious tangle of white orchids and birch branches (onto which she’d hand-painted delicate red hearts as a valentine to each of the guests). And now the sweet ceremony had transitioned to a rowdy, champagne-soaked reception.

It was exactly what she needed to take her mind off Ezra.

Ezra, she thought, fussing with a droopy orchid as guests swilled curated craft cocktails and bopped to dance pop. Mysterious Ezra. Who tries this hard to avoid someone, only to see them all the time?

Ricki didn’t believe in coincidences.

Tuesday, in a strapless gold mermaid gown and crimson lips, came sweeping over to Ricki. “Why so intense? You did it! Aren’t you proud?”

“Extremely,” Ricki said, beaming, as she jolted out of her Ezra daze. This ruminating and fantasizing was becoming almost constant—and a nuisance. She was starting to imagine seeing him in places he clearly wasn’t—a man mirage. When the deejay first walked in, Ricki had actually done a double take, even though he was five inches shorter than Ezra. And Surinamese.

“The flowers are so glam,” raved Tuesday. “And so are you, you saucy bitch.”

Ricki, admittedly, did feel pretty. She’d poured herself into a backless, plunging 1930s gown the color of crushed cranberries, topping it off with berry-stained lips and a hibiscus tucked behind an ear.

“Mysterious femme fatale was the mood board,” purred Ricki, with a slinky pose.

“Femme fatale, yes. But you’re too heart-on-your-sleeve to be mysterious. It’s part of your charm,” said Tuesday, gesturing at a waiter, who appeared with a tray of cocktails.

Ricki took one and then watched her friend grab two.

“I’m not judging,” she whispered, “but I thought you were sober?”

“I’m child star sober,” replied Tuesday, downing one glass. “No heroin.”

“Ah. Noted.”

“Remember when I told you I get horny when I’m tipsy? I have a crush on the best man, and I need him to love me back. But only for the duration of the reception.”

“Why not for longer?”

“No time!” she whisper-screamed. “My plate is full!”

“Tuesday Rowe. Your only plans this week are avoiding writing chapter four, and administering several at-home facial peels.”

“Nurturing my complexion is more rewarding than nurturing a relationship,” she said, downing the other glass. “Oh, look. That’s him.”

Tuesday pointed out a forty-something guy with a dad bod and sparsely attended beard, bobbing his head to the beat. He looked like a rental car agent.

“He’s… cute?” gushed Ricki.

“I like ’em schlubby, baby. Dowdy in the streets, rowdy in the sheets.”

Ricki burst out laughing.

“I’d offer him all my orifices without a shred of dignity. Let’s go entice him.”

She tried to drag Ricki to the dance floor, but she protested, claiming it was an unprofessional look. Truthfully, Ricki hadn’t let herself dance in public since her escapades at Rae’s wedding twelve years ago. In her defense, she’d downed that bottle of Mad Dog only to combat her paralyzing party nerves. It was the most important moment of Rae’s life, and she wanted to be a social success for her! To make her sister proud, for once. But alas, she was only sixteen and not an experienced drinker. She went from “pleasantly tipsy” to “911” within fifteen minutes. She remembered that before blacking out completely, she sloppily twerked on the president of the mid-Atlantic chapter of Jack and Jill, a preppy twelfth grader who was distantly related to both Thurgood Marshall and Al Roker. The damage was done. And no one’s memory was longer than the Black elite’s.