Page 101 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

CHAPTER 23

A LOVE SONG FOR RICKI WILDE

February 28–29, 2024

Leap Day

It was time.

The hours leading up to leap day were warm, in that weird, climate-changey way. To Ricki, the world was off-balance. Everything felt disjointed, surreal, and hazy—especially the energy between Ricki and Ezra. Time seemed to hiccup, jumping from 11:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., then to 4:30. Lost in sorrow, the two of them barely spoke for most of the day. The level of helplessness Ezra felt had ratcheted from cruel to torturous. There was no way to save Ricki. He’d tried to preemptively check her in to the ER, but as it turned out, there was no way to hospitalize and prevent a totally healthy woman’s alleged future death due to circumstances unknown.

Ricki stopped by Tuesday’s condo for a final farewell, but her best friend refused to entertain her dark fate. Instead of saying goodbye, she gave Ricki an aromatherapeutic facial and a glass of chardonnay. Ms. Della wouldn’t say goodbye, either. When Rickiknocked on her door—face dour, shoulders slumped—the elder woman shook her finger in her face, handed her a Lorna Doone, and sent her on her way.

A world without Ricki was too outrageous for her people to accept.

She didn’t contact her family. Saying goodbye to them would involve explaining why, which was impossible. Fading away felt cleaner, somehow. Kinder. Deep down, she prayed that her sisters had told her parents that she was doing well, even if it was a long shot, considering she’d unceremoniously booted them from her abode. She hoped they’d told them about Ezra, his delicious meal, her gorgeous shop, and maybe they would even share the article about her viral flowers. She hoped her dad knew she’d found success, that she’d built all of this herself.

Ricki bargained with every god she could think of for more time, a few extra weeks, even. Days. Hours. But she knew it was futile. Her story was over. Their story was over. The time for deluding themselves into a false sense of security or safety had passed.

As the afternoon drifted into early evening, the two looked at each other across Ricki’s tidy foldout dining table. They’d been silent for ages, picking at their take-out pad thai and avoiding each other’s eyes. Finally, Ricki broke their solemn trance.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I always thought I’d die an old lady in my sleep. Remember the gray-haired couple who died together in their bed at the end ofTitanic? When I was a kid, I thought it was the most devastatingly romantic thing.”

“That was horrible. They drowned,” Ezra said with a sigh, his eyes pools of sadness.

“They drownedold, after a life fully lived. And they were with each other at the end. Sleeping peacefully.”

Letting out a heavy exhale, Ezra shut his eyes and rubbed his brows. This conversation, their reality—pure hell. And there was no way to escape it.

An idea surfaced in his brain, as if literally rising from the murky depths of a dark sea.

“Maybe that’s how we square it, then. We’ll do like that couple.”

Ricki lowered her fork and looked at him quizzically. “What, sleep through it?”

“Of all the choices, it seems like the softest landing.” Ezra reached across the tiny table, taking her hand in his. Dr. Arroyo-Abril had lectured him often about the perils of using avoidance as a coping mechanism. Respectfully, he didn’t give a fuck about her warning tonight.

So they bought an over-the-counter sleeping aid and a bottle of obnoxiously expensive white wine—Le Montrachet Grand Cru 2015—and Ricki whipped up a tray of weed brownies. No doubt, the combination would knock them out before midnight, as the twenty-eighth bled into the twenty-ninth. It was a solid plan. If she had to go, at least she wouldn’t feel it. She just… wouldn’t wake up. And Ezra would be spared the agony of watching his love fade away.

At 6:00 p.m., as Ricki pulled the brownies out of the oven, Ezra and Ricki eyed each other, their expressions twisted with sadness. Her emotions mirrored his; they knew without words that they both felt the same thing. Solemnly, they gathered a blanket, pillows, and a duvet, along with the wine; and as inevitably as they were drawn to each other and to Harlem, an invisible force led Ricki and Ezra upstairs. As if pulled by an invisible string, they were compelled to return to the roof, the scene of the crime. They headed up there in silence and laid out the bedding. For hours, they held each other, cloaked in the darkness of this strangely balmy evening. Ezra sat up, holding Ricki close, herback resting against his chest. His arms were tight around her, clasping her hands. They couldn’t bear to not touch each other. Especially now.

This is it, thought Ricki, gazing up into the endless sky.The end.

And Ricki had dressed for The End. She was wearing a sweeping, low-cut tangerine velvet gown from 1961 (per ReclaimedVintageGowns.com), topped with a faux-fur ivory duster. The velvet was bare in some places, and the lining was torn, but the dress held a sense of grandeur. She wasn’t about to face the afterlife not draped in something epic. After all, it was the last thing she’d ever wear.

“I don’t regret any of it,” she said with bleary finality. Holding the wine bottle by the neck, she took a long, hearty sip and passed it over her shoulder to Ezra.

“What don’t you regret?”

“Us. I wouldn’t take back a second I’ve spent with you.”

Ezra clenched his eyes shut, trying to hold on to her words. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness, and he certainly didn’t deserve her love.

“I’m so sorry, Ricki.”

“Please don’t be sorry. No more apologizing, okay? It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have stopped this.”

“You’ve never done anything to harm anyone in your life. You shouldn’t have to pay for my mistakes. Why you?”

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