Page 37 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“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 himallmy orifices without ashredof 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 onthe president of the mid-Atlantic chapter of Jack and Jill, a preppy twelfth grader who was distantly related to both Thurgood MarshallandAl Roker. The damage was done. And no one’s memory was longer than the Black elite’s.

Can’t one thing ever be easy with you?Carole had wailed before dropping Ricki off at rehab for the summer and then convalescing for three weeks at Canyon Ranch spa.

Dance floors were on Ricki’s no-go list.

By the time it got to that late-stage part of a reception when everyone’s self-consciousness had evaporated—heels flung off, hair frizzy, ties loosened—the deejay was playing throwback Britney Jean Spears, and Tuesday was grinding on her crush. Ricki observed them having fun, on the outside of the good time. It was an isolating, melancholy feeling. She wondered what it’d be like to be on the outside of thingswithsomeone. A person who understood how it felt to be unable to join in. A guy who was cool with it and willing to stand with her in their own private quiet.

And then, out of nowhere, Ricki heard… something.

It was a faraway tune, softly playing beneath “Toxic.” It was a song she’d heard before but couldn’t quite remember.

She stopped dancing and cocked her head.

She could hear the piano. And the melody was so familiar. Extremely catchy. What…

Ricki’s eyes flew open. “Thank You for Being a Friend.” Coming from where, though?

To her left, she heard a guy yell to his date, “It’sGolden Girls! You hear it, right?”

Across the dance floor, somebody sang along:“And if you threw a party, invited everyone you knew…”

And then the dance floor exploded with drunken delight. The deejay stopped his music, and everyone started warbling off-key to the unseen piano.

Who was playing this banger of a theme song? And why? No one knew! And it didn’t matter. It was unexpected, spontaneous, and silly, all the elements of a good time.

Just as abruptly as theGolden Girlstheme started, it changed… to the theme song fromThe Jeffersons. From there, the piano switched to theGilligan’s Islandtheme. And then those ofThe Flintstones,The Facts of Life,A Different World, andThe Sopranos. The crowd roared each time, happily singing off-key.

The piano switched to theGood Timestheme. And maybe it was because Ricki was the only sober one in the room, but she just couldn’t get over the collective absurdity of one hundred socialites in black tie scream-singing“Scratchin’ and survivin’ good times!”

Intrigued, she went still and listened, attempting to isolate the piano sounds. They were coming from downstairs. Unable to resist her curiosity, Ricki hiked up her gown and flew out of the exit and down a stairwell to the first floor. The whole place was midconstruction, a mess.

She followed the music to a large raised performance platform by the window. In the center of the platform was a piano. And behind the piano was Ezra Walker, his face euphoric as he banged out an indulgent high-gospel version of theCSItheme, to screams from upstairs.

“IT’S YOU,” exclaimed Ricki, throwing her hands up.“Whyyyy?”

Stunned out of his reverie, Ezra looked up and stopped playing, snatching his hands away like the keys were on fire. Through the vent, they heard the crowd upstairs erupt in boos.

“Nooo.” With a long-suffering groan, Ezra buried his face in his hands. “No. No. No.”

“Why on this godforsaken dying earth are you everywhere?” Ricki demanded. “And why are you playing this unhinged medley from hell?”

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