A Love Song for Ricki Wilde (79)

Whatever was going on with Ricki, at least she was as punctual as ever for their standing tea party. She arrived upstairs at Della’s triplex at exactly noon, and Naaz welcomed her with a bouquet of sunflowers.

Ricki had been invited to an intervention.

First of all, they were meeting in the dining room, instead of the living room. And instead of Lorna Doones and crustless sandwiches, Della had arranged for Sylvia’s Restaurant to deliver a gourmet meal: Sassy Wings, Catfish Fingers, and Salmon Bites, Ricki’s favorite dishes. Plus, Tuesday was there, legs crossed and arms folded, looking imperious.

Della greeted Ricki with a wide smile on her face. Today, she was feeling weaker than usual, so she blew Ricki several kisses from her dining chair instead of hopping up to give her a hug.

“What… is all of this?” Ricki lowered herself into a chair, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Have a Catfish Finger,” suggested Tuesday, behaving as if her presence at tea was super normal.

“Don’t look so distrustful,” said Della. “Dear, you’ve been acting so strangely. You came to tea and passed clean out, mid-conversation. Naaz had to wallop you back to life! You closed the shop for two days, which you never do. You won’t answer your phone. And Tuesday told me that you’re dating a serial killer.”

Stunned, Ricki shot a betrayed look at her friend.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” asked Tuesday, who was wearing a stiff navy pantsuit with a modest chignon.

“Tuesday, what are you doing here? And why are you dressed like a district attorney?”

“Serious business calls for a serious outfit.”

Naaz poked her head into the living room. “I like the suit; it’s giving Marriott concierge.”

“Naaz, please,” huffed Della, who was in no mood for her relentless enthusiasm.

The nurse threw up a peace sign and exited.





“Look, I know I’ve been acting weird,” started Ricki. “My whole life is turned upside down.” She took a beat, trying to quell her nervousness. “Ms. Della. Tuesday. I have something to tell you both. It won’t make any sense, at all. If you’re worried about my mental health now, you’ll want to have me committed by the end of this story. But please, try to believe me. What I’m about to say is real.”

Ms. Della and Tuesday looked at each other, sighed, and nodded at Ricki.

Then Ricki spilled it all. She was already on the spot, so what good could come from holding back? She told them the story of Ezra “Breeze” Walker, his immortality, and her projected February 29 date with death. Without stopping, she revealed practically every detail, down to their tour of New York City’s highest-rated spiritual specialists the day before.

She did leave out some important details: who cursed him, why, and where.

Without stopping to take a breath—or check to see if her audience was with her—Ricki talked and talked and talked. When she was done with her lengthy confession, she felt blissfully relieved. And starving. With a famished groan, she sat back and tore into a Sassy Wing.

Had she checked, she would’ve seen that her audience was visibly distraught. They both stared at her. Ms. Della had frozen with her teacup halfway to her lips. Tuesday’s mouth was slightly agape, her eyes wide.

The silence was thick. And it lasted for minutes as an oblivious Ricki housed the entire platter of fried chicken. Tuesday was the first to speak. She cleared her throat, tapped her chignon into place, and went in.

“So, what I’m hearing you say is that Ezra Walker is a one-hundred-twenty-four-year-old man in twenty-eight-year-old cosplay, and you two are fated soulmates.”

Ricki nodded eagerly, chomping on chicken. “Yes, that’s it.”

“And the reason y’all keep running into each other is not because he’s a stalker, but because you’re both involuntarily drawn to each other. Like lizards instinctively turning towards the sun.”

“Lizards? I don’t know that I’d put it like that…”

“And Ezra is basically the Forrest Gump of music, weaving in and out of important historical moments over the past century?”

“Forrest Gump is… a reach, but sure.”

“Ricki!” Tuesday burst out laughing. “Bitch, why didn’t you just tell me this when I came over the other day?”

Ricki stopped chewing. “Wait. You believe me?”

“I’m relieved! I really did think you were on meth. You’ve been acting so secretive and shifty. Honestly, your story isn’t that crazy, you know. I once played a teenaged medium in a Hallmark Halloween movie called If You’ve Got It, Haunt It, and it was based on a true story. For a whole summer, I hung out with the medium I was playing. She told me all about Perennials!”

“Seriously?”

“By the way, don’t call Perennials vampires,” Tuesday told Ms. Della. “They hate that.”

Ricki was aghast. “Tuesday Rowe! You broke into Ezra’s house. You told Ms. Della he was a serial killer and got her all worked up into an intervention! How dare you change your mind so easily. You’re so reactive and dramatic.”

Tuesday’s brows shot to the ceiling. “Says the woman fucking a supernatural entity.”

“Ladies, that’s enough.” Ms. Della looked extremely concerned but patient. And then, in the calm tone reserved for reasoning with toddlers and lunatics, she addressed Ricki. “Sugar, are you finished?”