A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

To me, love is like listening to an album. Some people skip to their favorite songs and ignore the rest. Other people listen to the entire album over and over until it's familiar and cherished and they know every note by heart. That's how Dr. Bennett and I loved each other. He was music I could listen to forever.

But identity changes all the time, I've found. There's a few more 'yous' you haven't met yet.

And know this: the villain depends on who's telling the story.

Such a luxury, she thought, having someone who fills in your gaps when you’re depleted.

Love should never hurt. Rejection, abandonment, cruelty, so forth, those things hurt. But love, itself? No.

The beauty you create in the world. Your optimism, your brain. Your fascination with being fascinated. The way your face fits perfectly under my chin when we're sleeping. Your tenderness, whether your focus is on the care of a single flower, or...me." His gaze was unwavering. "Ricki, you've turned me upside down. For so long, I've lived life like it was something to endure, to push through. But with you? I know how precious it can be. And I refuse to live in a world without you in it.

And Breeze knew that what you haven’t reckoned with, you’re doomed to repeat. America was a ghost story with no end.

Please take no offense, but our music was revolutionary before whites liked it, and it will be after.

Well the world may be in shambles around us, said Ricki, ever optimistic, but we're still creating through it. We'll always have art, love, stories, adventures, beauty....

Besides, life sits shoulder to shoulder with death. It's around us all the time.

Your vibe attracts your tribe, babe.

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.

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.

Love well. Eat well. Fuck well. And leave the world better off than you found it. That’s success.

I don't have any education, and neither did they, but learning happens everywhere, if you listen.

I’ve seen beautiful things and terrible things. Until you, I didn’t know that they’re two sides of the same feeling. I want you, Ricki. Actually, it’s not a want. It’s an uncompromising, inconvenient need. But it’ll ruin us both.

You can’t cheat grief, Ricki. You have to work with it. Accommodate it.

But it's different for men. The culture crucifies girls. Fame is a prison.

Transcendent and Ruinous and Soulmate-Perfect

I'm not scared of you," he said. "I'm scared of us.

I’m a horticulturist.” Ms. Della’s mouth dropped open. “A whore-to-what, now?” “No, I’m a HORTICULTURIST,” she pronounced carefully. “Ah. My hearing. Go on.

He'd be beautiful in any era, anytime, anywhere

You ever think about the fact that your whole life is a memory?” 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?

For so long, I’ve lived life like it was something to endure, to push through. But with you? I know how precious it can be. And I refuse to live in a world without you in it.

That smile was potent, special, the kind of smile that should be saved for formal occasions. Like your finest jewelry.

Yes. And I also love delicate, soft things. A beautifully composed song. Handwritten notes. A gorgeous meal. Cultivating beauty energizes me.

No, no, no. I hope you live. Ezra ‘Breeze’ Walker, I curse you with immortality. You will live forever, with no hope of escape. I know you don’t love me, but you will find true love one day. And then you’ll know the pain I feel. I curse you with this.

His dad, his granddad, and so on—all the musically gifted Ezra Walkers before him—their philosophy was, if you’re gonna fall apart, you better just stay in pieces, because whatever happens tomorrow might be a thousand times worse.

What they heard as frenzied abandonment was the sound of his rage. Their joyous release was his escape, his chance to outrun the memories that stalked him. Jazz was freedom. But grief was his fuel. It was that simple and that terrible.