Once Beyoncé’s curvaceous silhouette graced the stage, I was hype. When she opened her mouth to send forth her outrage, I echoed it with all the feeling in my body, eyes clenched tight, joining the chorus of ecstatic-angry fans. Because, really, who the fuck did Ricky think I was? Who the fuck did any of these men who played games with the hearts of women like we weren’t real, breathing, feeling people deserving of respect think they were? I wondered if Ricky would recognize himself in the lyrics, and if he would, at the very least, feel bad. Probably not. He’d probably already rewritten history in his head and absolved himself of any questionable behavior by assuring himself that he’d only wanted to be kind to a damsel in distress. I wondered whether he understood that Lemonade was about men like him, who could smile in the faces of the ones they loved all the while betraying them.
And then the chorus hit, and I forced myself back into the moment and far away from this man who, God willing, I would never have to see again.
Six
The Sanity Circle started the next morning much like we had ended the night, in a groaning heap across the Appiah-Johnson living room. There had been plans, of course, to split off between the couch and our respective bedrooms, but all of those had gone to shit after we’d decided to sit around rehashing our college glory days after the concert instead of going to bed. We ended up falling asleep where we sat, blankets distributed unevenly among us, leaving us with kinks and aches in places we didn’t know we could get kinks and aches.
“That’s your foot in my back, Markus,” Michelle said. She had an arm over her eyes. I didn’t feel too sorry for her. She’d earned that hangover.
“Everyone alive?” Nia asked. We all grumbled in the affirmative and no one moved a muscle until, several minutes later, Markus rolled off the sofa to pee. The next twenty minutes involved stacking bathroom use such that one person was always peeing and another brushing their teeth at a given time, hydrating ourselves via water from the few clean mugs leftover over from the previous night’s shenanigans, and discussing which greasy brunch place was least likely to have a wait.
It was not until we got to Yolk that Diamond revealed her treachery.
“How many?” the hostess asked.
“Five—” I started to say, but Diamond cut in.
“Actually, seven please.” She gave me an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I invited Ricky and Camila.”
I nearly rounded on her, but then remembered that, to Diamond, Ricky and I had only just met yesterday, and that he was the only person who was actually her friend and not just an associate by proxy. I closed my eyes, held back a sigh, then opened them and gave the hostess my most dazzling smile.
“Great,” I said. “Seven.”
Nia was not drunk this time, which meant that the strain in my voice did not go unnoticed. A moment after we’d found a corner to chat away our ten-minute wait in, she looped an arm over my shoulders, announced that we needed to pee, and guided me to the bathroom. Michelle stared after us but said nothing. I winced. I knew I’d have to do damage control for that later.
“Okay, so what was that?” she said the moment the bathroom door had swung shut.
I held up both hands, then dived down to make sure Camila hadn’t made it there before us.
“Michelle is going to be mad,” I said. “Couldn’t we have done this later?”
“Oh please!” Nia said. I realized then that she was actually annoyed, not just hunting for gossip. “You were grumpy all last night. Then just now! Why were you so damn salty? Yeah, maybe Diamond could’ve told you she was going to invite her friends—who you made absolutely no effort to talk to, by the way—but don’t you think you’re being a punk about this?”
I flinched, properly admonished. Nia had put in a lot of work organizing everyone just to make me happy, and I’d managed somehow, someway, to not be. Always over men, I thought with a pang of guilt.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I had so much fun yesterday, Nia. Honest. I just—” I threw up my hands. “Ricky is Art Fair Guy.”
Nia stared at me, hands still on hips, brow still creased, but eyes stuck in a wide stare. She shook herself out of her trance, then said, “Okay, what?”
“That day after Tabatha’s Knocking. When I went to the art fair, and I hung out with a random guy I met? That guy was Ricky.”
“The one who gave you the betrothal necklace?” Understanding flashed over her face, then delighted horror. “Holy shit!”