Free Drama Is Her Middle Name by Wendy Williams Page B

time. She should have known that
Robby was trouble when she saw the gold fronts and the huge
faux gold high school class ring with the blue stone.
    â€œWhat grown man wears a high school ring?” thought
Tracee.
    But if that was the worst she had to deal with (and it was),
she would take it. It was still better than the cesspool she left.
    It had been a year in the sticks—a year away from the
stress and hustle of New York City. It was a year of discovery
and peace for Tracee. She focused on building her spiritual
muscles. Was she strong enough to go back? She was going
back, anyway. She was going to be there for her friend’s big
debut. But Tracee was going back for more than Ritz’s Grammy
red carpet event, she was going back to New York to reel her
friend back in. In their last conversation, she could hear Ritz
coming undone.
    â€œI don’t know what I am doing all of this for sometimes,
Tray,” Ritz said. “My ratings are going up. I am getting offers
from everywhere. I am making more money than I ever imagined making in my entire life. But I am not happy. Why’d you
have to leave?”
    â€œBecause
I
wasn’t happy,” Tracee said.
    â€œ
We
were happy. We were having fun. I know if you came
back, things would be better.”
    â€œI couldn’t hear with everything going on, Ritzy. I was
drowning there.”
    â€œI don’t know. Maybe when I get some time, I will come to
country-ass Winter Garden and get some fresh air and clear
my head for a week.”
    â€œYou need more than a week, Ritzy. In the first week it actually gets worse before it gets better.”
    â€œThen I’m staying put. I can’t wait for you to get here. I
think being here without the pressures of your job will be a
big difference.”
    Tracee didn’t comment. She knew that while she planned
on having a good time in New York—where she still had an
apartment—she was never moving back.
    She admittedly had run away from there. But she knew she
wouldn’t be completely free until she was able to go back. After being in Florida for a year, Tracee realized that the drama
wasn’t connected to a place. Drama could be found anywhere, even in Winter Garden, Florida. If you looked hard
enough, you could find drama at the Vatican with the pope.
Tracee had stopped looking for drama. That’s why she took
the buyout package and paid cash for the four-bedroom, three-bath, three-car-garage house on the golf course with a balcony and a swimming pool and a bonus room. It was too much
house for Tracee, but she thought she would meet someone
and have enough children to fill the bedrooms. She envisioned having someone to share this exquisite home with.
    Until then, it provided her with a haven—a place to detox
and get the filth out of her system. Tracee even found solace
in writing. She purged by keeping a journal. She thought
about writing a book about her experiences—a guide for
those wanting to break into the music business with inside
secrets, exposing all of the evils. She knew it was sure to be a
bestseller. But, for now, she was content enjoying her “retirement.”
    Tracee smiled as she remembered telling her mother she
was retiring.
    â€œRetiring?! Retiring?! Chile, you done lost your mind!” her
mother said. “You ain’t but thirty-five years old.
I
haven’t
even retired yet. Who the hell do you think you are?!”
    Tracee was one of the youngest executives ever at Uni-Global Music Group, which had gobbled up just about every
major recording label, leaving just a few independents to
fight over the scraps. She was also the one of the youngest ever
to take a golden parachute—or, rather, a
platinum
parachute—
when the company decided to downsize the black music department. Tracee volunteered to leave.
    Tracee had met Ritz during her ascent at Uni-Global.
She presided over one hit act