Page 72 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

Ricki hadn’t left her apartment—or opened Wilde Things—since coming home with Ezra the night before last. She was spiraling just a smidge. She’d started to think the piano was watching her, and so whenever she needed to cross the room, she walked in an exaggeratedly broad circle around it. She curled up with her laptop on the shag rug where she and Ezra had slept, and obsessively googled every piece of his tall tale, from his anecdotes with famous musicians to details about Eden Lounge. She watched interviews, read liner notes, and bought multiple ebooks by music historians (there was no time to wait for physical books to be snail-mailed). She’d devoted an entire wall to multicolored Post-its tracking key details, like a TV detective. And she refused to take off Ezra’s shirt.

Ricki was going nuts.

What was she supposed to do? Everything Ezra told her was completely unbelievable: a fever dream of a story. He was creative; she’d give him that. But utterly crazy.

At least, she kept telling herself that. The more she analyzed everything he’d said, the less insane it seemed. Ricki had to admit that if she’d been hearing this story as an uninvolved third party—like, if she’d been following it on a podcast or a documentary series—she might have believed it.

Ricki wasn’tnotopen to metaphysical stuff or the idea that there was more to the universe than what she could see. Her favorite books were Eva Mercy’sCursedseries, about a witch and a vampire in endless love (the author’s signing later that week was the only thing keeping her going at this point). She sort of believed in the power of crystals, specifically amethysts to bring luck in business and pyrite to combat imposter syndrome—the only partof the Ali experience that had any value. She crossed the street when she saw a black cat. She was in touch with her internal witchiness enough to at least consider the possibility that burning sage cleared negative energy. Did Ricki name her plants? Yes. Did she talk to them? Also yes. Did she think that maybe, somewhere deep inside their stamens, they could perceive her voice in some way? Absolutely. After all, she was convinced that peace lilies couldn’t grow without Stevie Wonder.

Her eyes fluttered closed. Ezra had supposedly worked on that Stevie Wonder album.

To believe insomemagic is to believe inall. You couldn’t be terrified of demons without believing in angels, too. If you believe your good Yelp reviews, you’ve got to deal with the shitty ones, too.

Ninety percent of her believed Ezra’s story was impossible. It was the other ten percent that had kept her up all night.

Night-blooming jasmine flourishing in winter was impossible, too. And yet they’d both smelled it in the community garden. And what about the inarguable erotic power of that goddamn piano? And Ezra’s sheet music throughout time? And what about the song he played for her—withher,throughher,inher—was that the one he’d been piecing together for a century, finally come together?

Either this was the most complicated con of all time, or it was true. There was no in-between. And if it was a con, what for? Her parents were wealthy, but she was barely scraping by. There was too much unexplainable shit happening, too many connections tying them together. Even now, being away from him, she felt an inexplicable tug she couldn’t do a single fucking thing about.

With every man before Ezra, Ricki realized that she was playing a role. With one guy, she was a seducer. With someone else, an innocent. Within five minutes of meeting a man, she knew who and what he wanted, and she’d mold herself into their dream girl.She rarely gave men her true opinion; she usually acquiesced to their harebrained schemes, and the worst part was she actually thought she was being savvy by preventing men from really knowing her. Who could hurt her if she was unknowable?

But now Ricki realized that was a lie. She’d wanted to be easy to be around, because deep down, she believed that her true self wastoo much. The Wildes had certainly reinforced this idea her whole life. Ricki was always too much. Unlovable.

With Ezra, she hadn’t had a chance to be anything other than herself. He never gave her the option. Every encounter felt so big and all-consuming that she never found her footing enough to put on an act. He was a mystery; she had no clue what he wanted. So Ricki was Ricki.

And he really seemed to enjoy her. He delighted in the things about her that her family made her feel were absurd. Nothing seemed to surprise this man, which, if his story was true, would make sense. What would shock a 124-year-old guy?

But how could it be true?

She lay on her bed, the clock ticking closer and closer to her scheduled tea with her de facto grandmother. Ms. Della—a woman who minded everyone else’s business without a degree of subtlety—knew she’d gone on the date Friday and was going to ask about Ezra. What the hell would she tell her? The truth? No chance. Ms. Della was the most stridently practical person she’d ever known. She wasn’t about to have her new grandma out here thinking she’d gone nuts.

Even though all signs did in fact point to “nuts.” Ricki was too scared to leave her apartment, because she knew she’d run into Ezra. And yet the house freaked her out now, too! She considered the details she’d taken for granted and never thought to investigate.

There’s a boarded-up ground-floor apartment that’s been empty since the 1920s, Ms. Della had said when they first met.Wouldn’t it make a pretty flower shop?

Ezra had told her that Felice’s suicide never made the papers. She trolled the internet for info anyway. But there was no mention of the building, a scandal, or even a rent party anywhere online.

Just then, Ricki bolted upright in bed with a gasp. Her cloudy thoughts cleared. If what Ezra said happened in the early morning hours of February 29, 1928, was true, Ms. Della might know the story. Weren’t property owners and management companies legally obligated to release the history of a building before selling it?

Ricki tore off Ezra’s shirt, replaced it with a Georgia State sweatshirt, threw on holey jeans, and ran upstairs, holding her breath the whole way.

“Ricki Wilde, you look like you’ve seen a ghost! And your cheeks are on fire. Do you have a fever? And why are you so early? Lord knows this is a first.”

Ms. Della placed the back of her hand on Ricki’s forehead. Then, with a disapproving tsk, she hooked her wispy arm through Ricki’s and led her into the living room, depositing her on the chaise lounge. Ricki sat there, trying to catch her breath and attempting to not look as stressed as she felt. Ms. Della handed Ricki a toasty-warm cup of tea and then sat across from her on her favorite plush wing chair.

“You ought to take better care of yourself, dear,” said Ms. Della, straightening the shoulders of her emerald caftan. “All you do is work at your shop. Do you even sleep?”

“I’m fine, Ms. Della. Don’t worry. Um, I… uh… wanted to talk to you…”

“Oh, I know why you look so dazed,” she interrupted, her eyes crinkling with wickedness. She slipped her glasses atop her vividfuchsia ’fro and leaned forward eagerly and shakily. “How was your big date with Ezra?”

“It was great. But I…”

“Good for you!” She winked. “You deserve it. I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but Ali wasn’t right for you. He didn’t look like he was adept at… horizontal refreshments, as it were.” She cocked a brow knowingly. “I saw him dance at your art night, dear. No movement from the waist down. Like one of those floppy, inflatable gas station tube figures.”

“Ms. Della…”

“When you two came up for brunch, he ate a cream doughnutwith utensils. That’s not a man gifted in the sensual arts.”

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