Page 7 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

No time to wonder. Ricki had work to do.

After selling her car and three engagement rings—and emptying the savings she’d earned from her brand partnerships—Ricki could afford to cover living and business expenses for six months. Only. Refusing to spend a dime on renovation help, she stripped the floors till her fingers bled. She borrowed a neighbor’s ladder to paint dreamy designs on the ceiling and then toppled from the third step, spraining her ankle. With bandaged fingers, she refurbished that ancient emerald throne into an Instagrammable set piece and, with a pronounced limp, dragged it from her studio to the shop. She awoke at 5:00 a.m. daily, taking the A to the Chelsea Flower District, filling crates with stock she’d use to practice her whimsical designs, ones she’d reproduce in a few months, for actual clients.

The work was fucking grueling. But she’d never had more fun in her life.

Ricki’s grand opening was set for December 1. She had a little over two months to transform the space into anexperience, a maximalist fantasy blooming with unexpected treasures. And a fantastic name was key! Sadly, Ricki couldn’t trademark Botany Flowers Lately (apparently one couldn’t “own” a question). Her alternate name was even better: Wilde Things.

Drowning in HGTV-level renovations, Ricki realized she hadn’t had a moment to be a proper flaneuse, which was one of her favorite words. It was such a romantic idea, meandering through the city, taking in new sights and sounds while people-watching, solo-dining, and bookstore-browsing with abandon. (Ricki decided that a flaneuse should project adventurous glamour, which translated into a luxe oversized marigold shawl belted over 1950s men’s trousers—all sourced at neighborhood stoop sales.)

One windy afternoon, after visiting all the touristy spots—Red Rooster, Sylvia’s, the Schomburg, the Apollo—Ricki was perched on a barstool at Lenox Coffee. She was delighted with her solo adventure; she felt warm and satisfied, an independent and self-sufficient business owner. While she was sipping a cortado and studying her receipts from the past week, a peal of laughter erupted from a nearby table. Bright-eyed and cool, the group of twenty-somethings was huddled over a phone, giggling. The sound was infectious, and she smiled, too. Then she stopped.

Wait, why am I smiling?she thought, feeling the beginning, panicked pangs of loneliness.I’m not in on their joke. And those aren’t my friends. Besides Ms. Della, I don’t know anyone here! I’m all alone in the most expensive city in the world, where I’ve decided to open a flower shop on a sleepy residential block where the nearest commercial establishment is a restaurant. Did I think about the fact that I’d be sharing foot traffic with a joint called Sexy Taco? No. Will the same person ordering mezcal and burritos want to buy my frou-frou floral arrangements? PROBABLY NOT. I’ve already failed at one career, and if I fail at this, I’ll be a confirmed loser. No home, no money, no family, no pride. And yeah. No friends, either.

Had her family been right about her all along? They always expected her to flail, to fail. But despite them, Ricki had never felt like a loser. She simply felt misplaced. Like a duck raised by squirrels. She’d always suspected that given the chance to do what she did best, she’d succeed.

But right now, Ricki was sure of only one thing. She was lonely. Her Wilde Things woes might be easier to swallow if she had friends. In theory, she’d kill to be a part of that coffee shop friend group. But in actuality, the idea of chitchatting her way into a meaningful friendship felt… impossible. Making friends was difficult for Ricki. Her old introverted instincts told her to fold in on herself and, in lieu of actually speaking to other humans, dream up scenarios in the shower where she and some chick would accidentally grab each other’s orders at a cute smoothie spot, and POOF: instant best friend origin story. It was easier than attempting conversation and then watching someone’s polite dismay as they realized her packaging didn’t match her personality.

Ricki’s prettiness was mainstream, unchallenging. She had a sweetly approachable smile and sparkly doe eyes. People expected her to be palatable. Not a woman with paralyzing social anxiety around anyone she hadn’t known for twenty years. A woman who told weird dad jokes when nervous. A woman who, while grasping for appropriate cocktail party chatter, might stress-babble about the latest nightmare fish discovered in the Mariana Trench. Or the Great Molasses Flood of 1919. Or the top five reasons Mark Zuckerberg should be tried for crimes against humanity.

Out of fear of being rejected or embarrassed, she’d always kept people at arm’s length. And it only hurt Ricki in the end. Did people really think she was a goofy disaster, or were her sisters’ voices in her head psyching her out? Either way, it was clearly time to Get Out There.

When she read on Twitter about a networking event for localBlack creatives, Ricki jumped on it. So on the evening of November 3, she strode into the Edge, a rustic Jamaican British restaurant on Edgecombe, ready to be social. The vibe was sexy. Afro beats and codfish fritters. A quick study ofHELLO MY NAME ISstickers revealed senior directors of this and directors of that. At almost thirty, Ricki was just starting her dream career, but these partygoers had been corporate players for years!

Ricki was wilting. Why did everyone seem to know how to schmooze, be social, be normal, be cool, except for her? Was no one else paralyzed at the thought of unleashing the car crash of their personality on an innocent stranger? Her self-consciousness was a prison.

So she downed two Moscow mules in rapid succession. She shut her eyes and chanted her anxiety app affirmation (I am not in danger, I’m uncomfortable, this will pass, and I am confident). Then she practically threw herself at a friendly-looking woman wearing palazzo pants. Her tag said,LYONNE: SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTOR, DANCE THEATRE OF HARLEM.

“Not to be awkward,” Ricki shouted awkwardly over the thumping bass, “but what’s your perfume? It’s… so pretty.”

“Sorry, can’t hear! What’d you say?”

Stomach sinking, Ricki repeated herself.

“It’s actually an essential-oil-infused cocoa butter,” said Lyonne. “My boyfriend makes it. I can get you some.”

“Really? Thank you.” And then Ricki self-immolated. “I love cocoa butter. My skin’s so dry I identify as an Eczema American.”

Lyonne gasped. “You’re Mexican American?”

“What? No, I…”

“I just saw a TikTok about this community of Black Mexicans descended from escaped enslaved people. You have a fascinating culture. Come on, diaspora!”

In too deep, Ricki just nodded, cheeks aflame.

“Gr-gracias?” she croaked, her soul leaving her body. “Ummm… I think I’m tipsy. I should go. Great meeting you.”

She raced out of the party, aghast.

But then three miracles happened in rapid succession.

The first miracle was Ali. After her fourth injury (a hammer-bruised thumb), Ricki decided she needed a handyman. Enter Ali, a TaskRabbit hire who built shelves and installed an in-store workspace in forty-five minutes. On the app, he was highly rated for his workmanship.

The reviews failed to mention that he was hung like a horse.

One night, he climbed off the ladder, and Ricki passed him a beer. As he stood there, downing a Heineken while resembling a low-res Jesse Williams, Ricki perked up.

Seducing some guy was infinitely easier than making friends. There was no guesswork, especially because it was always a version of the same man. She was attracted to hot guys who, in lieu of having an established career, purported to be “collectors of experiences.” Great kissers with shady living situations. Men who never tried to dig deep into who she was, but instead just happily ate up the easy, sexually agreeable version she showed them.

---