Page 75 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

When Ms. Della came back, she was wearing a four-strand pearl bracelet. It was nicked and dull but still beautiful.

“This was Felice’s,” she said. “Glamorous, isn’t it? I once read that showgirls were so desired, they’d receive all sorts of opulent gifts from admirers after shows. The clasp is inscribed, see? BW + FF. I’ve always wondered who BW could be. Now, I betthat’sa story.”

Ricki didn’t hear the last sentence, because she’d fainted dead away.

CHAPTER 18

LITTLE SPOONED

February 19, 2024

Ricki awoke with a start at 4:00 a.m., bathed in sweat, convinced the last couple of days had been a dream. Quickly, her impossible reality set in. And she did the only thing she could think of.

In the chilly dark of the winter morning, Ricki padded across the apartment to Wilde Things and whipped up a bespoke arrangement of amaryllis, primrose, and Chinese evergreen. Before sunrise, she dropped it off at 146 West 133rd Street, laying it down gently in front of a nondescript residential building that was once the site of the infamous gay speakeasy Harry Hansberry’s Clam House. Doing this at a spot owned by Gladys Bentley, pioneering drag king and Black lesbian icon, reminded her that she was just a piece of a larger story. It soothed her soul. Somewhat.

She posted her pic to Instagram, too preoccupied to notice that she had five DMs from two different journalists wanting to interview her. Ricki missed these and the growing number of likes and comments, because heractuallife was hanging in the balance. But she had a plan to save herself.

Hours later, Ricki lurked inside the doorway of the 125th Street Starbucks, looking infinitely more pulled together than she felt. Because she (a) found fashion calming and (b) was dramatic, Ricki had dressed carefully for this occasion. She wore an ivory bodysuit, slouchy jeans, and thepièce de résistance, a ’60s cape coat in lipstick red. Yes, it was a lot of look. But she needed to project confidence and to disguise the fact that she was a wreck.

Ricki was nervous but clearheaded. After Naaz the nurse roused her from that fainting spell at Ms. Della’s the day before, she’d floated back to consciousness with a new clarity.

She had to see Ezra. Because she believed him.

Ms. Della had confirmed the story. Ms. Della waspartof the story. It had to be true. Ricki wasn’t sure what she believed in, in terms of voodoo or folk magic or curses, but there were too many coincidences to ignore.

Hadn’t she been drawn to Harlem, too? The same way Ezra claimed to be pulled back every February of every leap year. What he described—the feeling of being dragged by the heart toward his future—was exactly how she’d felt before moving here.

Ricki was ready to talk. She’d texted, asking him to meet her at Starbucks. It was the perfect location, because it was impossible to romanticize a Starbucks. Ricki couldn’t be anywhere charming or nostalgic with Ezra Walker. Her brain short-circuited around him, and focus was key. Plus, this Starbucks was always packed. If Ezra was, in fact, a nutjob and tried to pull some shit, she’d have witnesses.

And now she’d zeroed in on him across the crowded seating area. There, sitting at a table against the wall, slightly removed from the chaos, was Ezra.

There was no coffee at his table, just him, hands folded patiently, peering out of the window to his left. As usual, he looked casuallycool in a knit pullover and charcoal jeans, but exhaustion clouded his handsome features. Dark circles, bloodshot eyes. Like he’d seen hell.

And she noticed something new. He looked… special. Different than everyone else, somehow. In New York, Ricki saw a lot of celebrities in regular places. And no matter how often they hid behind sunglasses or sat in a dark corner of a bar, they commanded attention. You knew that Someone was in the room. Ezra had that quality. Ricki saw people noticing him, their eyes briefly settling on him. No one knew who he was. But he almost glowed.

Because he used to be Someone, thought Ricki.Maybe it’s a switch you can’t turn off.

Ricki zigzagged her way to Ezra’s table and then stood in front of him, waving energetically, as if she were greeting a distant relative in JFK’s arrivals terminal.

“Hello!” she exclaimed with outsized cheeriness, hoping it hid her nervousness.

“Oh! Hi!” Instantly he stood up and reached around the table, pulling out her chair.

Now that she knew how old Ezra really was, the out-of-time politesse, not cursing in front of ladies, pulling out her chair, all the “ma’ams” he doled out, made more sense. He was from a time when Black women were treated delicately. A flash of shame passed through her. Why had she been so alarmed by good manners?

“I came early,” said Ezra, taking his seat once Ricki was settled. “I guess… well, I was surprised to hear from you.”

“I can imagine,” she said evenly, trying to seem normal.

“I, uh, gave you a lot of information the other day,” said Ezra, looking as nervous as Ricki felt. There was so much hanging in the air, unsaid and unaddressed.

How do I pretend like this man didn’t give me the most transcendent sexual experience of my life?Ricki thought.How do I act cool when I want to projectile launch myself into his lap?

Scrambling to find something to say, Ezra blurted out, “I’ve never been to Starbucks.”

“Stop it. Are you one of those extremely discerning coffee connoisseurs?”

“The opposite. I’m not a big coffee guy. Caffeine makes my hands jittery, and I need my fingers.” He lowered his voice and leaned his head toward hers. “Is the service always this terrible? I’ve been sitting here for forty minutes. No one’s taken my order.”

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