Page 90 of A Love Song for Ricki Wilde

He flipped her onto her back. In one fluid, decisive motion, he doubled her up and thrust into her. It was so good, Ricki blanked out for a moment, muffling her cries against Ezra’s neck. He kept at it until they broke—too soon and almost simultaneously. They gripped each other in an airtight embrace as dizzying cascades of pleasure crashed over them.

Nothing had ever felt so exquisite. Fucking nothing.

Slowly, they floated back to earth, lost in a languid haze of lips and tongues and hands brushing against hot, sweaty skin. And Ricki realized it was always like this with Ezra. End-of-the-world sex. Catastrophe sex. High-stakes sex. They’d never have the chance to have everyday sex, like a long-term couple who’d been in love for ages. Sweet, paint-by-numbers sex on one of their birthdays, because it was expected. A fumbling “this’ll do” quickie cut short by a kid toddling into the room. That normalcy would never happen for them.

She wept then. Silently at first, and then full-bodied, racking, grieving sobs. Ezra gathered her in his arms, sealing her to him as she grieved for a love story stopped short and a life that had never belonged to her at all.

“Thanks for calling me back. This story is going live at four p.m., so you caught me just in time,” gushed Clementine Rhodes over Zoom. She was an entry-level reporter forNew Yorkmagazine’s The Cut. “Dying to hear more about Wilde Things. Your floral designs have literally taken over Harlem.”

It was now hours later, around 1:00 p.m., and Ricki and Ezra were still in bed. Too lost in the drama of her life, Ricki had only recently noticed that her DMs were flooded with reporters trying to contact her about her Harlem nostalgia floral pop-ups. Her heart leapt at the recognition of her work, but her first instinct was to ignore it. What was the point of doing an interview now? Why spend time engaging a stranger while her fate hung in the balance?

But Ezra, peering over her shoulder at the gushing comments, encouraged her to call at least one reporter back. No one knew more than him the importance of legacy, what it meant to leave a mark.

“Living in the world’s tough right now, don’t you think?” Ricki asked Clementine, balancing the laptop on her knees. She’d thrown on some powder, gloss, and a cute top, effectively masking her postcoital haze for Zoom. “The healing power of nature is real! My goal was to celebrate Harlem’s hidden history and to brighten anyone’s day who walked by them. But the community that’s risen around it, of people taking the flowers and decorating their own neighborhoods with them—it’s an honor. It’s my way of leaving a small mark.”

“Love that. Community building is so important,” agreed Clementine. “So, uh, I read this statistic that less than two percent of all floral designers are Black. Crazy. How does it feel to be a Black-owned floral shop in a white-dominated industry?”

“It’s true; we’re underrepresented in the industry. But look at Justina Blakeney—her Jungalow line is in Target. Hilton Carter’s amagician with green interiors. All over the country, brilliant Black florists are breaking barriers: Andra Collins in Texas, Nikeema Lee in South Carolina, Breigh Jones-Coplin in Denver. Write-ups like yours can only help spread the word.”

“Yes!” On the screen, Ricki watched the reporter nod while clicking keys. “I heard you did wedding florals for quite the elite couple. You must really feel like you’ve made it now.”

“The wedding was so chic. And I’m forever grateful to George and Daniel for the opportunity. They were dream clients, but I don’t believe that because certain people hire you, you’ve ‘made it.’ It’s just as meaningful to me, if not more, that my community has discovered Wilde Things.”

Clementine chewed her lip, tapping a fingernail against her chin. She wasn’t satisfied. “Sorry to ask again, but is there anything you can say about the hardships of being a Black florist? My editor really wants a diversity quote.” She rolled her eyes. “Gen X. You know they need to feel progressive.”

“Girl, I get it. But there is no singular ‘Black florist’ experience. We have varied backgrounds, expertise, influence. And there’s beauty in our diversity. The industry can be racist, of course. Do we get the same funding, gigs, press, or access that white florists do? No, but that’s about white supremacist systems. Blackness itself isn’t limiting; it’s limitless.” And then she added, “For inspo, though, I’d recommendBlack Floraby Teresa Speight to your readers. Great read.”

Ezra, propped up next to her against the headboard, readingFlower Color Guide, a coffee-table book from Ricki’s personal library, couldn’t help but overhear the conversation. He was awestruck. It was all he could do not to hop on the bed and whoop for Ricki. In the past few days, he’d made it through almost all her plant books and binged half ofThe Big Flower Fighton Netflix while Ricki slept.

As he listened, he shimmered with pride. Ricki was able to say all the things he couldn’t to a reporter back in 1928: that Blackness wasn’t a concept, an idea for sale.There is no correlation between our value and white people buying in. Fuck, yes.

Ricki was who he’d always wanted to be.

“Speaking of diverse backgrounds,” the journalist said, “I heard it through the grapevine that you have Mexican ancestry?”

Ricki’s jaw dropped, and Ezra swallowed a guffaw. Her mistaken identity fumble at that networking event was one of his favorite Ricki-isms. It was so endearingly absurd.

As she tried to explain the mix-up, Ezra’s shoulders shook with silent laughter and Ricki struggled mightily to keep a straight face. In that fizzy, light moment, they were finally a regular couple. And they were happy. For that moment, they were happy.

A few hours later, Clementine’s article, “Where the Wilde Things Are,” went live. It quickly hit the top of the “Most Popular” list on The Cut and would eventually be circulated widely by Harlemites, floral designers, FlowerTok, Plantstagram, and a healthy percentage of Georgia State’s 2017 liberal arts graduates.

But that evening, the piece reached one ofNew Yorkmagazine’s most devoted digital followers, Rashida Wilde.

Several states south, she was sitting with her sisters, Regina and Rae, at South City Kitchen in Buckhead, Atlanta. She’d called an emergency dinner to discuss. Their three nearly identical heads were pressed together, peering down at Rashida’s phone, open to “Where the Wilde Things Are,” with intense focus. None of them could believe that their wayward, messy baby sister was experiencing this level of success with her ill-advised, impulsive little flower shop.

“I just don’t understand it, y’all.” Rashida was too shocked to take one more bite of her Local Peach Salad. “How did she pull this off?”

“A goddamned mystery,” breathed Regina.

“Scroll up,” demanded Rae. “See that pic of Ricki with her so-called flower shower? Was that really her idea? She must have a publicist.How can she afford a publicist?”

Stressed, Rashida dropped the phone into her purse. The three women sat back in their seats, silently pushing their food around on their plates. Their bold-shouldered YSL blazers seemed to deflate.

“We need to go up there,” said Regina.

“Tomorrow,” cosigned Rashida and Rae.

Their plane tickets were booked before the check came.

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