Page 48 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

CHAPTER 12

FLOWER SHOWER

February 15–16, 2024

Ezra was bristling with anxiety. For a full half hour, he’d been pacing back and forth in a living room that wasn’t his, while Focaccia, an oversized snow-white Siberian husky who also wasn’t his, trailed behind him. The pacing wasn’t helping, so he stopped abruptly, tripping up the gargantuan furball behind him. Focaccia yelped, looking up at her dog-sitter with surprised wintergreen eyes.

“Awww, did I hurt you? My apologies, good girl.” He bent down to ruffle her fur, and she happily hurled herself at Ezra, knocking him backward and lapping at his face. He loved it. Ezra would argue that while most people were demons, most dogs were angels.

Whenever he was in town, he offered his dog-sitting services on Rover.com. He traveled too much to adopt his own, so this was the next best thing. Out of the twenty or so dogs he’d ever watched, Focaccia was, by far, Ezra’s favorite client. Lovingly, he hooked an arm around her neck, roughing her up a bit.

Now I can tell Dr. Arroyo-Abril I did my hug homework, he thought.

With a sigh, he tossed Focaccia’s tennis ball across the room, and she sprinted after it. Not even Focaccia could distract him from his self-imposed torture.

Ezra had been trying to gather the courage to call Ricki all day, but he was paralyzed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d hesitated before calling a woman. He’d never struggled in this area, because generally speaking, he truly enjoyed their company. In fact, Ezra could usually find something interesting or lovable about every woman he met. Which made it an oddity that he’d never really had a long-term, committed relationship.

The beginning was always so good, with that “how the hell did we find each other” thrill. But Ezra could never take it any further. It would’ve required facing his dismal diagnosis, the perennial thorn in his side, and he just wasn’t brave enough. Which was fine, because within minutes of meeting a woman, Ezra instinctively knew if she’d be up for his casual, no-strings brand of relationship. It took a certain kind of person. They, too, were restless, wrestling with their past and plagued with nihilistic recklessness. Or they were stuck in sexless, boring marriages and needed a quick thrill. His women weren’t into promises. Just short, satisfying bursts of abandon.

But then there was Ricki. She didn’t have the shadow of tragedy like the others. She was all hope and light and captivating artistic vulnerability, as luminous and colorful as sunlight refracted through a stained-glass window. God. There was no way to know her without losing himself. And hurting her.

Tapping his phone against his chin, Ezra sat against the wall of his client’s clean-lined, contemporary condo, with Focaccia curled up against him. He didn’t know how to explain the ruin of his past, nor the pointlessness of his future. He’d never done it before.

Anything less than the truth is a lie.

His heart in his throat, he peered down into Focaccia’s crystalline eyes.

“Tell me I ain’t gotta do this, Focaccia.”

She cocked her head and softly howled. “Awooo.”

“F-sharp. Pitchy but robust. Now gimme a G.”

Focaccia panted happily and then hit the note with piercing precision.“Awooo-ooo!”

She was Ezra’s favorite because he’d taught her how to sing.

“Focaccia is outcheacroonin’,” mumbled Ezra proudly. He pointed at her. She sat up tall. He turned his palm face up, and she raised her chin. Then he slowly raised his hand, and Focaccia belted out a glass-shattering howl.

Grinning, Ezra applauded and tossed her a treat from his pocket. With an impressive lack of grace, she hopped up to catch it in her jaws, missed, and then scuttled after it on the floor.

Why are you forcing this dog to do vocal runs?he asked himself, disgusted.Call Ricki, you cowardly piece of shit. Face it head-on. Call her.

He had no other choice. Ezra finally picked up the phone and dialed Wilde Things’ number. It rang once, twice, and then…

“Wilde Things, this is Ricki.”

Her on-the-phone voice was husky, the sultry rasp of a dangerous woman from a neo-noir film. It was at odds with her radiant demeanor, the permanent twinkle in her eye. Hearing Ricki’s sexy, disembodied voice in his ear knocked him way off-kilter. He couldn’t even respond.

“Wilde Things… What up, what up,what uppp.”

Okay, that snapped Ezra out of his trance. “Hello? Good morning… er, afternoon, Ricki.” He cleared his throat. “It’s Ezra?”

Silence. Three breaths of silence. His stomach in knots, Ezra wondered what she was thinking.

“Hmm,” she said finally. “So. You do have a cell phone.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

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