A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (64)

Ricki stood before him, shaking all over. Slowly, she lowered the crucifix, but only because her muscles were trembling too much to continue holding them up.

“Ricki, I’m not a vampire. I’m a normal, warm-blooded human like you are. Just with some unique features.”

“Unique features,” she repeated incredulously.

“Yes. Perennials are unkillable. Plus, we don’t feel the effects of aging or get sick. Not even a common cold. We can’t catch or pass on any diseases, and we’re sterile. No babies.”

“No diseases and no babies? Then why’d you wear a condom?”

“Well, uh, because it’s bad manners not to.” Visibly uncomfortable, he cleared his throat. “The other major difference is that we don’t leave a strong imprint.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Meaning we don’t stick in people’s minds,” he explained. “The rule is, if I don’t have regular contact with a mortal for a month, the mortal will forget me.”

She flinched with recognition. You will forget me in a month.

“I become that foggy memory everyone’s felt at some time or another. You ever repeat a story you heard somewhere, and can’t remember who told you? That was a Perennial. You ever have a déjà vu feeling, a flash memory of a person you kinda recall but not really? Perennial. Ever look at old photos of yourself, group shots, and see someone you can’t place? Perennial.”

“Why do I remember you, then? Why does Tuesday remember you, and Ms. Della?”

“Because I see y’all all the time! A month has to pass before I’m forgotten.”

“Mmm,” she said, folding her arms against her chest. “I regret to inform you, Ezra, but there’s no such thing as Perennials. Outside of flowers like peonies, daylilies, and lavender.”

“That fella at the flea market last night? The one who said we were doomed. He was a Perennial. And he said we were a terrible idea because Perennial-mortal relationships are impossible to sustain.”

“Sure, everyone knows that,” Ricki said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Tell me, Ezra, how did he know what you were?”

“Perennials can always see other Perennials. To each other, we look unfocused, hazy. Like watching a 3D movie without 3D glasses, a technology I’m still not convinced elevates the movie experience, by the way.” He paused for a beat. “Let me ask you something. Do you remember who I sent to buy your portrait?”

“Of course I do. It was…” Frowning, Ricki realized she actually had no idea. She strained her brain, trying to remember.

“I… well, I just…”

“You recall the person who gave you my phone number?”

“Well, off the top of my head, I don’t really…”

“You remember a name? What were they wearing? Any details at all?”

This can’t be happening, she thought, mind racing, heart thumping. None of this is real.

“She was my counselor, Dr. Arroyo-Abril. She posed as my assistant as a favor. She’s a Perennial, too. And she’s vanishing from your mind.”

Ricki was speechless. Honestly, she couldn’t recall this woman. There was a vague memory of… something? Her tuberose scent. The sound of her boots—maybe Uggs?—crunching in the snow. But the details were a pixelated blur in the way back of her mind.

“Why did you send her to buy my portrait?”

“Because it was of you. I had to have it.” He paused, looking away. “I’d been dreaming of your face for an eternity.”

And then Ezra begged her to listen to the rest of the story.

Ricki relented. “You have two minutes, tops.”

So he started talking.

He told her that at first, he didn’t believe the curse was real. Who would’ve?

Racked with guilt over Felice’s death, he knew he had to get out of New York City. Fallon County was out of the question, and the only other place he’d lived was France. So he shipped off to Paris—and tried to die. He wanted to test his mortality. One blisteringly hot evening, he drank himself blind and flung himself into the Seine. But he came to hours later, fished out of the river. Alive and without a scratch. In the alley behind a Left Bank café, he tried to set himself on fire with a lighter. But the flames never caught. Finally, he hired a hit man to kill him when he didn’t expect it. When the hulking gunman showed up at his apartment with a pistol, the guy froze and then refused to shoot.

“I know why you’re doing this, but it won’t work,” said the gunman in French. “You’re a Perennial. So am I. Scary at first, but you’ll get used to it. C’est la vie!”

The friendly immortal gunman handed him a business card, shook his hand, and disappeared.


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And thus, he found Dr. Arroyo-Abril. Through the doctor—a longtime immortal, herself—Ezra discovered the vast international network of non-aging folks like him. His diagnosis was immortality, but the proper term for his kind was Perennial. Ezra was a Perennial. Now he was forever twenty-eight years old and carrying more memories and history than any human was meant to. A young man with an old heart, stumbling to catch up with the world, wondering which he should cling to: the past or the present.