Page 47 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

“You know what? Yeah. I’ve fallen for her. Bad.”

Dr. Arroyo-Abril cheered, waving her fists in the air. “Beautiful work! Take a deep, cleansing breath, and hold space for this emotion.”

He held up a hand. “I told you, I draw the line at ‘hold space.’”

Soulfully, the doctor placed her palm over her heart, noddingwith understanding. “Now that we know you are crazy about her, let us talk solutions. You have two options.”

“I’m listening.” Ezra sat forward again, clasping his hands together eagerly. Finally, the advice he paid her for.

“Option one is to tell Ricki the truth so she has a clear understanding of why you cannot be together. And then book her a flight out of New York City.”

“Emphatic no. What’s option two?”

“Same as option one, but no plane. Instead, Ricki stays here, and both of you figure out how to solve your problem. Together, as a team!”

“So, either way I have to tell the truth?”

“Communication only works when you say what you mean.” Dr. Arroyo-Abril pointed in the air for emphasis. “Anything less than the truth is a lie.”

Ezra shut his eyes and sank against the back of the ultra-pink couch, trying to process this information. When he opened them, he looked defeated. “I suppose I’ll tell her the truth, then.”

“Wonderful!”

“But what if I start linguitching?”

“Do not make fun, Ezra. It is a real word.”

He chuckled. He loved lightly roasting her. Few people in the world understood him like his eccentric life coach, and he appreciated her for it.

“You should go visit her at her flower shop. As soon as possible.”

“I can’t meet her there,” said Ezra, sinking back into seriousness. “You know I can’t.”

I’ve managed to avoid that block since that terrible February, and I’m not ready to face it, he thought.

“You will have to face it at some point,” said Dr. Arroyo-Abril, reading his mind. “And speaking of, when was the last time you played music? Your music?”

I can’t tell her I spent Wednesday night playing TV show theme songs to an invisible audience, he thought.It’s too embarrassing. But quietly? It felt good hearing the reaction upstairs, through the ceiling. Making strangers laugh and stomp and sing. For a little while, it was fun to connect to a crowd again. It’s the best feeling in the world. The only feeling in the world. But I can’t fathom playing anything of my own ever again. I’m too numb to play. No inspiration. No hunger.

Ezra remembered the first time he heard Dizzy Gillespie’s “A Night in Tunisia.” On a frantic high, he named his new Doberman pinscher puppy Tunisia (RIP). He ate at a local Tunisian restaurant exclusively for six months. He was ready to drop everything andrelocateto Tunisia. That was the transcendent power of a song! The really good ones could rearrange the topography of your soul. It was what drove a musician’s sublime hunger.

But no one had prepared Ezra for when it would vanish, when he’d no longer leap out of bed with a thunderous urge to play till the world fell away. No one had warned Ezra of the bleak nothingness that would blanket him when that appetite evaporated.

“You know I don’t play anymore.” Ezra’s tone made clear that the conversation was closed.

“But that is not exactly true, is it?” Dr. Arroyo-Abril wouldn’t be Dr. Arroyo-Abril if she didn’t push.

Ezra let his head fall back against the wall. “Whenever I see her, I hear the pieces of that song in my mind. It’s frustrating. I can sense the melody just on the edge of my brain, but I can’t grasp it. Can’t put it together.”

“Hmm,” she responded. “What do you think it will take for you to complete it?”

Instead of answering her pointed question, Ezra changed the subject.

“You ever think about the fact that your whole life is amemory?” he asked. “Everything is past except for right now. And right now’s gone in a flash.” Slowly, Ezra scratched the back of his neck, musing on this. “What’s the point of anything?”

“Ezra, listen. You have set up your life to be temporary. I know why you have done this. But that florist does not. Tell her the truth.”

And then, because it bore repeating, Dr. Arroyo-Abril placed her hand over his and said, “Anything less than the truth is a lie.”

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