Page 35 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

Impossible! But it was intriguing, too. Ricki didn’t want to admit it, but she was becoming addicted to the possibility of running into him. The buzzing anticipation, the frantic surprise. Each time, their meeting felt like a breathless high, and then she fell into a dull low until the next time she saw him. Ricki had no time for this emotional roller coaster. She had to produce wedding florals in basically five minutes.

The day before the wedding, Tuesday and Ms. Della had to drag Ricki from her flower-strewn workstation for brunch at Melba’s Restaurant. Good thing, as Ricki was so swamped, she’d barely eaten in thirty-six hours.

“I need to redo the boutonnieres and the table sprays,” said Ricki. She’d stayed up all night crafting arrangements, and she had the frayed nerves to prove it. “I can’t finish in time!”

“Well, now. Can’t never could,” said Ms. Della, the queen of Southern platitudes. She’d just dyed her teeny-weeny Afro a shocking pink, checking off the first bullet on her bucket list. With her caftans and huge designer glasses, she looked like an edgy art gallerist.

“For my first event, this isbig,” said Ricki. “A wedding at Bar Exquise? Everyone will be there.”

Bar Exquise was a swanky two-story restaurant that had opened a few years ago in an underfunded part of town, changingthe neighborhood overnight. Steel-and-glass high-rises replaced low-income housing, potholes were filled in, and an explosion of organic baby boutiques opened to serve trust fundies and French-speaking digital nomads.

“Perfect venue for a glamorous, bisexual, bi-generational couple like Daniel and George,” said Tuesday. “Very New Harlem chic.”

“Exactly. I can’t miss a detail.” Ricki was eating a fried drumstick with a fork, as six of her fingers were bandaged due to injuries sustained from thorns and scissors. “I don’t know if I’m ready to pull off an actual society event.”

Ricki knew that she could produce exquisite arrangements. Her confidence in her design skills was unwavering—she’d always had an innate eye for color, texture, and design. She approached her daily personal style as an art project. And whereas sometimes her words failed her, she had always been able to express herself visually.

But it was the scale of the event, the social pulse of it, the flashiness, that made her nervous. As a Wilde, she grew up attending endless balls and galas, and she was used to all eyes being on her. Admiring eyes, enthralled by the business titan and his glamorous family. A veritable parade of first Blacks! First Black valedictorian of Willowbrook Prep. First Black girl crowned Miss Georgia Teen. First Black student body president at Cornell University. First Black chairwoman of the Junior League of Atlanta. First Black treasurer of the American Business Association. And then when those admiring eyes would fall on her, she’d wilt under the weight of the judgment.

There’s the little one—she’s never been a first Black anything. Actually, that’s not true; she was the first Black admitted into the New Hor-eye-zons Summer Camp, that rehab for ritzy teen sluts, where Carole banished her after she got bombed at Rae’s wedding and vomited on Cookie Johnson’s sequined Valentino! Pretty girl. It’s a shame she’s such a handful.

Historically, fancy events were nothing but an opportunity to be reminded of her inadequacies. The pressure to be perfect was stifling her. And it was more than the high standards she placed on herself; this wedding was about moving away from that old version of herself, the way people categorized her in her parents’ fancy social circles. It would be a massive boon for her business. She wanted to be seen as more than the black sheep Wilde, the flighty handful. She wanted to be seen as a fully capable businesswoman.

She wondered if she’d ever move past the need to prove to the world (and herself) that she was good enough.

Stabbing a fork into her drumstick, she sighed, “These nuptials are above my pay grade, y’all. Why’d I say yes?”

“Because you currently have no pay grade,” Tuesday reminded her.

“Oh, that’s right.” Ricki sat back in her chair, her eyes traveling to Ms. Della, who was taking a sip of coffee. Was she imagining things, or was Ms. Della trembling a bit more than usual? As she brought the cup up to her lips, her hand was so unsteady that she had to set it back down on the saucer.

It’s early, thought Ricki.Maybe she hasn’t taken her meds yet. I’ll ask her later.

“I forgot, I brought gifts for you two.” Ricki handed them bundles of artfully wrapped four-by-six-inch note cards, culled from the surplus of plantable seed paper she hadn’t been able to sell at the shop. “Tuesday helped me make it from scratch. You bury it, and wildflowers grow.”

Ms. Della smiled politely, then asked, “Now, why would I want to bury paper?”

Ricki sighed. “This is why my business is failing! I don’t know what my clients want.”

“Let me help you manage your creative expectations,” startedTuesday, her Yankees brim pulled super low, shielding her recognizable face. “Do you identify as a Beyoncé or a Rihanna?”

“Mmm. Controversial question,” Ricki remarked. “In terms of what, exactly?”

“Business personas. Rihanna creates art to please herself. If we hate it, we can fuck off. But Beyoncé cares. Every note, choreo, visuals, it’s designed specifically to blow our minds.”

Ricki thought it over, tucking her coils behind her ears. “I’m definitely a Beyoncé. Iwantpeople to love my work. How it’s received matters to me.”

“Which one’s from Texas?” asked Ms. Della, tapping her manicure on her cup. Even if she wasn’t certain who was who, she disliked being excluded from pop culture conversations.

“Beyoncé,” responded Ricki and Tuesday.

“No, no, I like the other one better.”

The next table over, two women wearing identical knotless braids whipped their heads around to glare at Ms. Della. When they saw that she was an elder, they smiled respectfully and returned to their omelets.

Sorry, Ricki mouthed in their direction. The Hive was everywhere.

“Now that girl’s a businesswoman,” continued Ms. Della. “A hardworking young lady who saved waitressing tips to open her own Creole restaurant? A shame she had to kiss a frog to land that handsome Arabian fella, but no one said it’d be easy.”

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