Page 94 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

Ricki and Ezra looked at each other. These women were not budging. And just like that, Ricki slipped into an old habit. Being around her family turned her back into that sixteen-year-old who wanted so desperately to please them. To be accepted, to be validated. Even though she always came up short, she always tried.

“Fine. Do you… um… How about we go to dinner? Le Bernardin or Jean-Georges? They’re legendary New York City restaurants. Michelin stars, very elite.”

“Oh, spare us. New York’s culinary scene is no chicer than Atlanta’s,” Rashida said with a sigh. “You’ve lived here for five minutes—calm down. And by the way, your shirt’s on inside out.”

With that, the sisters pushed past Ricki and Ezra and stormed into the shop, wandering around and touching everything.

“We don’t want to go to a restaurant; we want to seeyourplace,” said Rae. “Invite us over for dinner! Where do you live?”

“I live… here,” said Ricki quietly.

“In your shop?”Rae was horrified. “This is worse than we thought.”

“No! Behind the shop, behind that back door. But it’s so small, I don’t think…”

Ricki’s stomach sank. She wasn’t prepared for her sisters to see her extremely humble private sanctuary. She shared a quick, furtive glance with Ezra. And his eyes were so open and welcoming,she almost burst into tears.For as much time as we have, he’d said to her that morning,I’ve got you.

He calmed her down just with one look, automatically understanding the stress and anxiety her sisters brought her. And he’d take care of it. He took care of everything.

“I have an idea,” said Ezra. “Why don’t I make y’all dinner?”

“Where?” asked Ricki, Rashida, Regina, and Rae.

“Here,” he told them. “I’m an excellent cook. Where are you staying?”

“The Wallace Hotel,” answered the eldest sister.

“That’s just a fifteen-minute ride down Amsterdam. Tell you what, if you go back there for a couple hours, it’ll give me time to grab some groceries and get it ready. Uber’s on me, round trip.”

Ricki understood that he was also buying her time to emotionally prep.

“I’ll make y’all dinner and then I’ll go home,” continued Ezra, “so you can catch up.”

The three older sisters mulled this over. They were visibly shocked that Ricki was dating a person with actual practical real-life skills. And this was far too interesting a situation for him to go home early.

“But we don’t want you to go home after,” purred Regina, with all the sincerity of the Cheshire Cat. “We want to get to know you better.”

He quickly looked at Ricki, whose eyes were pleading.

“I’ll stay.”

Three hours later, they were all sitting around Ricki’s stoop-sale coffee table on the rickety stools she’d refurbished and hand-painted. Her sisters were in high-judgment mode. Rashida kept asking “Where’s the rest of it?” while Rae marveled at her abilityto maximize a space “the size of a Nissan Sentra.” Regina glared at the radiator every time it hissed and clanged.

While her sisters hung out at the Wallace, Ezra had gone food shopping and Ricki had cleaned her studio. She felt like sex was all over her apartment: in the rumpled, rainy-day sheets, the coffee mugs on the nightstand, the pile of his clothes in her hamper. What was hers had quickly turned into theirs, and it was intimate, beautiful and sacred. Ricki didn’t want to share it with her sisters, who’d never understood her and didn’t want to. They thought she was a kooky slut with no impulse control.

By the time her sisters returned, the space was spotless. And Ezra had whipped up a delicious menu of shrimp purloo, Gullah red rice, and fried corn cake, ending with peaches-and-cream pie.

And she knew, without them explicitly saying so, that her sisters were impressed. She could tell by the way they’d stopped being so judgy and they could talk only about the food.

Not that I care, Ricki reminded herself.

“Frankly, I’m shocked,” said Regina, tapping a napkin to the corner of her mouth. “Given Ricki’s track record in the kitchen, I was expecting a variety pack of cereal boxes for dinner. Ezra, you’re a keeper.”

“Down-home delicious,” gushed Rae.

“What’s this vegetable I’m tasting?” asked Rashida, spooning the thick, rich soup.

“Okra,” said Ezra, visibly proud of his hastily prepared but delicious dinner. “My mom taught me how to cook. She was originally from Daufuskie Island, South Carolina. You know, real Low Country Gullah folk put okra in everything down there.”

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