A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (22)
“Respectfully, what the hell is this avant-garde-ass album we’re listening to?”
“Stevie.”
“Nicks?”
“Wonder. He wrote it as the soundtrack for a botanical documentary. The songs activate the spatiotemporal consciousness of my flowers.”
“Thank God you found me,” Tuesday muttered, absentmindedly running a jade roller across her cheekbones. “Okay, let’s go over it again. When you asked the weird lady who her boss was, she responded, ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’ That’s oddly formal.”
“And she sounded a little pissed off. Like, annoyed that I kept asking her questions.” Ricki was perched in her comfort spot, the bench at the antique piano.
She’d furnished her microscopic studio with a clever mix of stoop sale and IKEA finds, but despite creating a cozy-as-hell space with tons of soft surfaces, Ricki’s absolute favorite place to sit, create, and think was at that piano. Sometimes, after a long day at Wilde Things, she’d plop down and fall asleep there, her cheek resting on the smooth lid, inhaling the musky scent of old wood. To Ricki, the piano was as comfy as the softest bed.
Tuesday thought it looked like a kitchen island, and actually, it did. But Ricki didn’t care; she loved it.
“You called the number, and nothing?”
“I’ve called so often I wish I could block myself.” Ricki tucked her foot under her thigh. “But this brings me to motivation. That painting was good, but five thousand dollars?”
“That painting is sexy. I’m telling you, Mysterious Benefactor has a crush. He must’ve seen your portrait on the flyers that were all over the neighborhood. And then sent his assistant to buy it. Please, this is a person playing chess, and now it’s your move. Mysterious Benefactor wants to be found. I feel it.”
“Why are we so sure it’s a man?”
“Intriguing point,” said Tuesday. “It could be anyone. ’Cause if a man’s spending thousands, he’s not sending an assistant. No matter how busy men are, if they’re feeling you, they show up. Look, B2K was in the middle of a world tour, and yet every member attended the premiere of my ABC Family Halloween film, Witch Way to Heaven.”
“The entire band? Even Omarion?”
“Well… no. Just Lil’ Fizz.”
“Make it the whole band in your memoir.”
“Bet,” she agreed, jotting down notes in her phone. Then abruptly she shot up to a sitting position, knocking three pillows onto the floor. “WAIT. Ricki, what’s their phone number? Like, the area code?”
Ricki grabbed her phone off the piano top, scrolling through contacts. “It’s 212. Why?”
“That’s a New York City landline. A landline! Do you know what this means?”
Ricki gasped. “The person didn’t pick up because they’re probably just not home! Maybe they’re on a business trip or something? Who even has a landline in 2024?”
“The point,” said Tuesday patiently, “is that we can trace a landline. To an actual location.”
“You know how to do that?”
“Chile, I used to be so toxic. Gimme your phone.”
A mere twelve minutes later, Tuesday landed on an address.
“592 West 152nd Street. That’s Sugar Hill, expensive as hell. There’s no apartment number, so the person lives in the whole townhouse. Mysterious Millionaire Benefactor.”
Every instinct, every impulse, was telling Ricki to go to the address. But wasn’t that the old her? Hadn’t she uprooted her entire life to start a new chapter?
Her mom always told this story about how on the first day of Ricki’s tadpole swim class, all the other two-year-olds were terrified and clinging to their babysitters, but Ricki was outraged that she wasn’t allowed to swim on her own. Later, at home, when no one was watching, she sprinted outside to their backyard pool and belly flopped into the deep end. Absolutely no hesitation. Luckily, seventeen-year-old Rae saw this play out from her upstairs bedroom window, but by the time she’d frantically fished out her baby sister, Ricki was losing consciousness. After Rae’s frantic mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, Ricki came to, sputtering and coughing like crazy. And then, maddeningly, she fell over on the grass, giggling with delight. It was an adventure!
Ricki still got yearly ear infections from that adventure. She couldn’t afford to risk more consequences. Especially since she had no health insurance.
“Maybe… maybe we shouldn’t go,” she said, backtracking. “Really, Tuesday, what will I gain from finding out who Mysterious Benefactor is? I know my true crime podcasts—what if it’s an elaborate ruse for some sick fuck to lure me out there to my death? Honestly, none of this matters anyway. We’re all just specks stuck to a floating rock hurtling through space.”
“Mysterious Benefactor might, in fact, kill you. But we all die of something.”
Incredulous, Ricki stared at her friend. “See, what I really need right now is a sane person to discourage me from these antics.”
“Your vibe attracts your tribe, babe.” Tuesday shrugged. “I didn’t invent science.”
As badly as Ricki needed to solve this mystery, she recognized this feeling of attraction to a man with an impossible situation. She was battling with herself. That was the old her, and she’d moved a zillion miles from home to rebrand her personality. To be more disciplined, focused.