A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (49)
CHAPTER 13
TRANSCENDENT AND RUINOUS AND SOULMATE-PERFECT
February 16–17, 2024
After that scalding moment outside of Wilde Things, Ricki and Ezra were keeping things as tame as possible while they strolled.
They were careful not to walk too close together. Careful not to discuss anything too real. Careful not to mention the fact that at the end of the day, Ezra would reveal his terrible secret, and they’d go their separate ways.
Ricki and Ezra were careful to avoid becoming hopelessly entangled in each other.
For half an hour, they chatted about generic topics like New Girl supremacy and the Knicks as they were headed for a new locally sourced organic restaurant that Ezra wanted to try.
“I don’t really live here anymore, so I don’t know what’s good,” he admitted. “But I read a great review of the brunch at Pia’s Pantry in New York magazine.”
Ricki’s eyes were bright, her coils loose and lush, billowing around her face. “The actual magazine or online?”
“The actual magazine,” he told her. “I need real, physical pages. And I like writing notes in the margins; it’s an old habit.”
She was in emphatic support of this. “Same! What do you write in the margins?”
“Ideas for songs, mostly. I underline phrases that feel musical in some way or spark a melody.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hands in his pockets, looking bashful.
Ricki barely heard him, as she was mid-epiphany. Was Warm Weather Ezra the sexiest Ezra? Before today, she’d thought that his stern, intense brow and beautiful mouth would be the death of her, but, oh, she wasn’t prepared for the erotic onslaught of his biceps in a short-sleeve shirt. She wanted to bury her face in the velvety skin under his jaw, get drunk on his woody, clean scent. It was torture.
“I like actual paper, too.” Ricki tried to neutralize herself. “Old stuff has my heart. My favorite pieces to wear are from the ’20s, ’30s, and ’60s. Those women could dress. Josephine Baker, Lena Horne, Diana Ross…”
“I love your style. It’s art, truly. Your attention to detail is a throwback to another era.”
“Thank you,” she said shyly. “I’ve just always appreciated the way our ancestors would show up and show out. Those old Van Der Zee portraits of Harlem society folks in the 1920s? Beautiful brown skin, satin gowns, suits, hats, every sexual orientation… all flexing to the nines.”
“Strong flexual content,” Ezra said, nodding.
Ricki gasped. “Are you a pun guy?”
“I’m the pun guy. I’m the punniest.”
“I wanted to name my shop Botany Flowers Lately? But I couldn’t trademark a question. Clever, right?”
“Meh, that one’s kinda rough around the hedges.”
Ricki rolled her eyes melodramatically. Ezra looked so proud. Dimples they didn’t know they had were popping. They were positively goofy on each other. It was enough to make them forget that every moment they shared today would be their last together.
Ezra pointed to a bland restaurant facade up the block, its beige awning spelling out PIA’S PANTRY. “Bottomless Brunch” was written in lilting gold cursive on a chalkboard easel on the sidewalk.
“There’s the place,” he said. “Just up yonder.”
Ricki couldn’t help but smile at him. “I don’t say ‘yonder’ enough.”
At the entrance, Ezra pulled open the door and poured on the charm.
“Ricki Wilde, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to this oasis of libations and farm-to-table delights?”
“I’d love nothing more, Ezra Walker,” she said with flirtatious sweetness. Then they were greeted by a grim hostess in indigo lipstick.
“Welcome,” she mumbled flatly in a strong Bronx accent. “You got a reservation?”
“Apologies, ma’am, I didn’t make one. Any chance y’all have an open table?”
The hostess furrowed her fashionably thick brows and then looked Ezra and Ricki up and down. “Don’t you wanna check anything?”
Ricki shook her head pleasantly. “No, I think we’re good.”
Sighing, the hostess pushed through a curtain. “à chacun ses go?ts. Follow me.”
“To each his own,” Ezra whispered to Ricki.
“You speak French?”
“I used to live in France.”
“What haven’t you done?”
“This.” Eyes sparking with mischief, he reached for her hand and laced his fingers with hers.
They’d never touched before, skin on skin, and a tingly, surging warmth radiated from their palms. For a moment, they were rooted to their spot, eyes locked on each other, grips tightening. Lightly, Ezra ran his thumb against her finger. Ricki let out a small, involuntary gasp.
“Stop,” she hissed.
“You stop,” he commanded, eyes twinkling. “Have some decorum.”
And then Ezra led her into the restaurant, following the hostess to the table. Pia’s Pantry was dimly lit, with faux-leather, graffiti-tagged banquettes lining the walls. Only one was free, nestled in the back. Ambient Europop warbled softly through speakers. The restaurant smelled like cinnamon and good coffee. Releasing their hands, they slid into the banquette, side by side.