CHAPTER 9

THINGS COULD GET DANGEROUS

February 7–14, 2024

Ezra and Ricki agreed to ignore each other. In January, Ricki had had no idea who Ezra was. In February, she saw him everywhere. In fact, she’d run into him daily since their second encounter at the community garden.

Ricki ran into him while perusing the business aisle at Sister’s Uptown Bookstore with Ms. Della. She was in line behind him to pick up red velvet waffles at Chocolat. One morning, she and Tuesday collided with him while en route to get manicures.

Sometimes, Ricki would sense his presence in the vicinity before he noticed she was there. Other times, she’d feel him watching her from a distance, the weight of his gaze warming her skin. Each time, their reaction was always the same: Ricki would gasp in shock, Ezra would flinch with surprise, and then the bumbling awkwardness would set in.

“Oh, uh, s-sorry, you go first. No, I’ll go… Okay, you, bye,” they’d mutter before bolting in opposite directions.

Ricki even tried to think ahead. Instead of going to her usual grocery store, she walked twenty blocks to visit an out-of-the-way organic market. When she reached for the door, she could feel resistance. Someone was pulling on the other side. She yanked, and the other person yanked back. She stopped, her hands on her hips. Of fucking course Ezra Walker bounded through the door with a bag of avocados.

Impossible! But it was intriguing, too. Ricki didn’t want to admit it, but she was becoming addicted to the possibility of running into him. The buzzing anticipation, the frantic surprise. Each time, their meeting felt like a breathless high, and then she fell into a dull low until the next time she saw him. Ricki had no time for this emotional roller coaster. She had to produce wedding florals in basically five minutes.

The day before the wedding, Tuesday and Ms. Della had to drag Ricki from her flower-strewn workstation for brunch at Melba’s Restaurant. Good thing, as Ricki was so swamped, she’d barely eaten in thirty-six hours.

“I need to redo the boutonnieres and the table sprays,” said Ricki. She’d stayed up all night crafting arrangements, and she had the frayed nerves to prove it. “I can’t finish in time!”

“Well, now. Can’t never could,” said Ms. Della, the queen of Southern platitudes. She’d just dyed her teeny-weeny Afro a shocking pink, checking off the first bullet on her bucket list. With her caftans and huge designer glasses, she looked like an edgy art gallerist.

“For my first event, this is big,” said Ricki. “A wedding at Bar Exquise? Everyone will be there.”

Bar Exquise was a swanky two-story restaurant that had opened a few years ago in an underfunded part of town, changing the neighborhood overnight. Steel-and-glass high-rises replaced low-income housing, potholes were filled in, and an explosion of organic baby boutiques opened to serve trust fundies and French-speaking digital nomads.

“Perfect venue for a glamorous, bisexual, bi-generational couple like Daniel and George,” said Tuesday. “Very New Harlem chic.”

“Exactly. I can’t miss a detail.” Ricki was eating a fried drumstick with a fork, as six of her fingers were bandaged due to injuries sustained from thorns and scissors. “I don’t know if I’m ready to pull off an actual society event.”

Ricki knew that she could produce exquisite arrangements. Her confidence in her design skills was unwavering—she’d always had an innate eye for color, texture, and design. She approached her daily personal style as an art project. And whereas sometimes her words failed her, she had always been able to express herself visually.

But it was the scale of the event, the social pulse of it, the flashiness, that made her nervous. As a Wilde, she grew up attending endless balls and galas, and she was used to all eyes being on her. Admiring eyes, enthralled by the business titan and his glamorous family. A veritable parade of first Blacks! First Black valedictorian of Willowbrook Prep. First Black girl crowned Miss Georgia Teen. First Black student body president at Cornell University. First Black chairwoman of the Junior League of Atlanta. First Black treasurer of the American Business Association. And then when those admiring eyes would fall on her, she’d wilt under the weight of the judgment.

There’s the little one—she’s never been a first Black anything. Actually, that’s not true; she was the first Black admitted into the New Hor-eye-zons Summer Camp, that rehab for ritzy teen sluts, where Carole banished her after she got bombed at Rae’s wedding and vomited on Cookie Johnson’s sequined Valentino! Pretty girl. It’s a shame she’s such a handful.

Historically, fancy events were nothing but an opportunity to be reminded of her inadequacies. The pressure to be perfect was stifling her. And it was more than the high standards she placed on herself; this wedding was about moving away from that old version of herself, the way people categorized her in her parents’ fancy social circles. It would be a massive boon for her business. She wanted to be seen as more than the black sheep Wilde, the flighty handful. She wanted to be seen as a fully capable businesswoman.

She wondered if she’d ever move past the need to prove to the world (and herself) that she was good enough.

Stabbing a fork into her drumstick, she sighed, “These nuptials are above my pay grade, y’all. Why’d I say yes?”

“Because you currently have no pay grade,” Tuesday reminded her.

“Oh, that’s right.” Ricki sat back in her chair, her eyes traveling to Ms. Della, who was taking a sip of coffee. Was she imagining things, or was Ms. Della trembling a bit more than usual? As she brought the cup up to her lips, her hand was so unsteady that she had to set it back down on the saucer.

It’s early, thought Ricki. Maybe she hasn’t taken her meds yet. I’ll ask her later.

“I forgot, I brought gifts for you two.” Ricki handed them bundles of artfully wrapped four-by-six-inch note cards, culled from the surplus of plantable seed paper she hadn’t been able to sell at the shop. “Tuesday helped me make it from scratch. You bury it, and wildflowers grow.”

Ms. Della smiled politely, then asked, “Now, why would I want to bury paper?”

Ricki sighed. “This is why my business is failing! I don’t know what my clients want.”

“Let me help you manage your creative expectations,” started Tuesday, her Yankees brim pulled super low, shielding her recognizable face. “Do you identify as a Beyoncé or a Rihanna?”

“Mmm. Controversial question,” Ricki remarked. “In terms of what, exactly?”

“Business personas. Rihanna creates art to please herself. If we hate it, we can fuck off. But Beyoncé cares. Every note, choreo, visuals, it’s designed specifically to blow our minds.”

Ricki thought it over, tucking her coils behind her ears. “I’m definitely a Beyoncé. I want people to love my work. How it’s received matters to me.”

“Which one’s from Texas?” asked Ms. Della, tapping her manicure on her cup. Even if she wasn’t certain who was who, she disliked being excluded from pop culture conversations.

“Beyoncé,” responded Ricki and Tuesday.

“No, no, I like the other one better.”

The next table over, two women wearing identical knotless braids whipped their heads around to glare at Ms. Della. When they saw that she was an elder, they smiled respectfully and returned to their omelets.

Sorry, Ricki mouthed in their direction. The Hive was everywhere.

“Now that girl’s a businesswoman,” continued Ms. Della. “A hardworking young lady who saved waitressing tips to open her own Creole restaurant? A shame she had to kiss a frog to land that handsome Arabian fella, but no one said it’d be easy.”

Ricki glanced at Tuesday, who was pursing her lips to stifle the giggles.

“Ms. Della, that’s not Rihanna, that’s Tiana.”

“Who?”

Ricki raised her voice a bit. “Princess Tiana, ma’am! The Disney heroine?”

“Well, now, who can keep up? Y’all talk so fast.” She waved her hand impatiently.

“Here’s the other thing,” said Ricki, moving on. “It’s embarrassing to admit, but I struggle at big events. I’m not the most graceful socializer.”

“You’re comfy with your customers,” Tuesday pointed out. “Well, the few you’ve had.”

Ms. Della grimaced.

“That’s flower chitchat,” pointed out Ricki. “I could pontificate about plants all day. But small talk? I get nervous and babble about my micro-obsessions. Y’all probably never noticed.”

Tuesday laughed at this, digging into her eggnog waffles. “Never noticed? I witnessed you lecture an Uber driver on the ways inbreeding affected the appearance of European royals.”

“Google ‘Habsburg jaw,’” whispered Ricki. “It’s nuts.”

Ms. Della had heard enough. “Listen to me, young lady. Don’t worry about this wedding, you hear me? You’ll do just fine. No granddaughter of mine is a failure, you hear?”

Ricki sank into the warmth of these words. Elder love, elder approval, it was a new experience for Ricki, and it made her feel boundless. Invincible.

She planned to keep Ms. Della’s voice in her head during the wedding, as a mantra for good luck.

It worked. Not only did she finish all the florals in time, she fucking killed it.

The black-tie wedding ceremony had taken over the top floor of Bar Exquise (the bottom floor, a live performance lounge, was closed for renovation). Ricki had transformed the space into an elegant wintry dreamscape, with arrangements of snowy blossoms, frosted greenery, and ivory candelabras, and centered on every table was a glorious tangle of white orchids and birch branches (onto which she’d hand-painted delicate red hearts as a valentine to each of the guests). And now the sweet ceremony had transitioned to a rowdy, champagne-soaked reception.

It was exactly what she needed to take her mind off Ezra.

Ezra, she thought, fussing with a droopy orchid as guests swilled curated craft cocktails and bopped to dance pop. Mysterious Ezra. Who tries this hard to avoid someone, only to see them all the time?

Ricki didn’t believe in coincidences.

Tuesday, in a strapless gold mermaid gown and crimson lips, came sweeping over to Ricki. “Why so intense? You did it! Aren’t you proud?”

“Extremely,” Ricki said, beaming, as she jolted out of her Ezra daze. This ruminating and fantasizing was becoming almost constant—and a nuisance. She was starting to imagine seeing him in places he clearly wasn’t—a man mirage. When the deejay first walked in, Ricki had actually done a double take, even though he was five inches shorter than Ezra. And Surinamese.

“The flowers are so glam,” raved Tuesday. “And so are you, you saucy bitch.”

Ricki, admittedly, did feel pretty. She’d poured herself into a backless, plunging 1930s gown the color of crushed cranberries, topping it off with berry-stained lips and a hibiscus tucked behind an ear.

“Mysterious femme fatale was the mood board,” purred Ricki, with a slinky pose.

“Femme fatale, yes. But you’re too heart-on-your-sleeve to be mysterious. It’s part of your charm,” said Tuesday, gesturing at a waiter, who appeared with a tray of cocktails.

Ricki took one and then watched her friend grab two.

“I’m not judging,” she whispered, “but I thought you were sober?”

“I’m child star sober,” replied Tuesday, downing one glass. “No heroin.”

“Ah. Noted.”

“Remember when I told you I get horny when I’m tipsy? I have a crush on the best man, and I need him to love me back. But only for the duration of the reception.”

“Why not for longer?”

“No time!” she whisper-screamed. “My plate is full!”

“Tuesday Rowe. Your only plans this week are avoiding writing chapter four, and administering several at-home facial peels.”

“Nurturing my complexion is more rewarding than nurturing a relationship,” she said, downing the other glass. “Oh, look. That’s him.”

Tuesday pointed out a forty-something guy with a dad bod and sparsely attended beard, bobbing his head to the beat. He looked like a rental car agent.

“He’s… cute?” gushed Ricki.

“I like ’em schlubby, baby. Dowdy in the streets, rowdy in the sheets.”

Ricki burst out laughing.

“I’d offer him all my orifices without a shred of dignity. Let’s go entice him.”

She tried to drag Ricki to the dance floor, but she protested, claiming it was an unprofessional look. Truthfully, Ricki hadn’t let herself dance in public since her escapades at Rae’s wedding twelve years ago. In her defense, she’d downed that bottle of Mad Dog only to combat her paralyzing party nerves. It was the most important moment of Rae’s life, and she wanted to be a social success for her! To make her sister proud, for once. But alas, she was only sixteen and not an experienced drinker. She went from “pleasantly tipsy” to “911” within fifteen minutes. She remembered that before blacking out completely, she sloppily twerked on the president of the mid-Atlantic chapter of Jack and Jill, a preppy twelfth grader who was distantly related to both Thurgood Marshall and Al Roker. The damage was done. And no one’s memory was longer than the Black elite’s.

Can’t one thing ever be easy with you? Carole had wailed before dropping Ricki off at rehab for the summer and then convalescing for three weeks at Canyon Ranch spa.

Dance floors were on Ricki’s no-go list.

By the time it got to that late-stage part of a reception when everyone’s self-consciousness had evaporated—heels flung off, hair frizzy, ties loosened—the deejay was playing throwback Britney Jean Spears, and Tuesday was grinding on her crush. Ricki observed them having fun, on the outside of the good time. It was an isolating, melancholy feeling. She wondered what it’d be like to be on the outside of things with someone. A person who understood how it felt to be unable to join in. A guy who was cool with it and willing to stand with her in their own private quiet.

And then, out of nowhere, Ricki heard… something.

It was a faraway tune, softly playing beneath “Toxic.” It was a song she’d heard before but couldn’t quite remember.

She stopped dancing and cocked her head.

She could hear the piano. And the melody was so familiar. Extremely catchy. What…

Ricki’s eyes flew open. “Thank You for Being a Friend.” Coming from where, though?

To her left, she heard a guy yell to his date, “It’s Golden Girls! You hear it, right?”

Across the dance floor, somebody sang along: “And if you threw a party, invited everyone you knew…”

And then the dance floor exploded with drunken delight. The deejay stopped his music, and everyone started warbling off-key to the unseen piano.

Who was playing this banger of a theme song? And why? No one knew! And it didn’t matter. It was unexpected, spontaneous, and silly, all the elements of a good time.

Just as abruptly as the Golden Girls theme started, it changed… to the theme song from The Jeffersons. From there, the piano switched to the Gilligan’s Island theme. And then those of The Flintstones, The Facts of Life, A Different World, and The Sopranos. The crowd roared each time, happily singing off-key.

The piano switched to the Good Times theme. And maybe it was because Ricki was the only sober one in the room, but she just couldn’t get over the collective absurdity of one hundred socialites in black tie scream-singing “Scratchin’ and survivin’ good times!”

Intrigued, she went still and listened, attempting to isolate the piano sounds. They were coming from downstairs. Unable to resist her curiosity, Ricki hiked up her gown and flew out of the exit and down a stairwell to the first floor. The whole place was midconstruction, a mess.

She followed the music to a large raised performance platform by the window. In the center of the platform was a piano. And behind the piano was Ezra Walker, his face euphoric as he banged out an indulgent high-gospel version of the CSI theme, to screams from upstairs.

“IT’S YOU,” exclaimed Ricki, throwing her hands up. “Whyyyy?”

Stunned out of his reverie, Ezra looked up and stopped playing, snatching his hands away like the keys were on fire. Through the vent, they heard the crowd upstairs erupt in boos.

“Nooo.” With a long-suffering groan, Ezra buried his face in his hands. “No. No. No.”

“Why on this godforsaken dying earth are you everywhere?” Ricki demanded. “And why are you playing this unhinged medley from hell?”

“There’s a wedding upstairs?”

“Oh please! Don’t act clueless.”

“I really didn’t know,” he insisted. “One of my favorite BBQ spots used to be over here. I was looking for it, and it’s gone. Replaced by a spot called Hüd Snacks that sells gourmet versions of Funyuns and honey buns at twenty-five dollars a pop.”

“You must be joking. Are the owners…”

“Of course.” Ezra rolled his eyes. “Anyway, the cleaning woman let me in. I was walking back home, and I saw this piano in the window. I can’t walk by a piano without playing it, just to test out the tone, projection, clarity. It’s a fucking compulsion.” He grimaced. “Apologies.”

Confused, Ricki said, “Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t like to curse in front of women,” he said simply.

She drew back a little, surprised. “Why, because we’re delicate creatures? The weaker sex? You have some regressive attitudes about women.”

“What I have,” he said, “is manners. It’s how I was raised.”

She narrowed her eyes a bit. “That’s oddly old school.”

“What kind of men you been around?” He huffed out a quick exhale. “Anyway, the true test of an instrument is if it sounds good when you play a corny song. And I watch a lot of TV,” he said. “I was about to play Moesha next. Wanna hear it?”

She stared at him for a beat, incredulous. He looked at her from head to toe, a quick, furtive glance. He blinked hard, as if Ricki’s mere presence—and her mere presence in that knockout glamazon gown—had scrambled his brain.

“So. We know why I’m here.” He clasped his hands on his lap. “Why are you here?”

“I designed the flowers for the wedding upstairs.” Ricki gathered the skirt of her gown in one hand and stepped up onto the platform. She peered down at him threateningly. “And I know exactly why I’m avoiding you, but I’m still fuzzy on why you’re avoiding me.”

“I told you, I’m a private person with reclusive tendencies.”

“Are you in the CIA?”

“How you figure I’m in the CIA?” asked Ezra, slipping into the country cadence she’d noticed in the garden. “If I were a spy, I couldn’t tell you.”

“Are you married?”

“No sane woman would marry me.”

She sucked her teeth, because they both knew that was ridiculous. His towering frame and intense, blazing eyes could turn the coldest stoic to mush.

Ezra’s physicality was lodged permanently in her brain.

“And why aren’t you marriage material?” she asked, lifting her chin imperiously.

“I’m. Reclusive.” He emphasized each word. “And when I’m not at home, I’m on the road, gigging. Not marketable on the dating apps.”

She let out a frustrated huff. “Look, I’m staying away from you to avoid trouble. But you? You look actually… frightened when you see me. Why is that?”

He chewed the inside of his mouth, looking irresistibly casual in good jeans, Vans, and a wrinkled, high-quality flannel, the kind of shirt you wished a guy would forget in your bedroom. Ricki struggled mightily not to stare, and then she zeroed in on his big, beautiful, long-fingered hands. He clenched his fists over the piano keys, and she tried to ignore the faint outline of muscle under his shirt. Absentmindedly, he began to play a tune. The melody was hauntingly stirring. Ricki wanted to hear more. But as suddenly as he started, he stopped.

“You ever seen a tornado?”

Ricki shook her head. “No, not outside of Twister. Have you?”

“No, but… folks say that if you’re in the presence of a tornado and it looks still, that means it’s heading right towards you.”

“I have no idea what that means.” She paused a bit. “Though the trivia connoisseur in me finds this information compelling.”

“You’re the tornado, ma’am.”

“And you’re speaking in riddles, sir.”

“When I first saw you, everything went still.” He met her gaze. And what she saw in his eyes was pure, raw yearning. It knocked the wind out of her, and it was completely at odds with what he was saying.

“Still and calm,” he continued in his deep, rolling drawl, not breaking eye contact. “Like a tornado, before it completely decimates you.”

Ricki’s mouth dropped open. “But… but I’m not a natural disaster! I’m a poised, respectable woman! I’m from Buckhead, for fuck’s sake!”

The corner of his mouth curled upward. “Mm-hmm. You’re the picture of poise.”

She glowered with frustration.

“I’m not scared of you,” he said. “I’m scared of us.”

Ricki’s confusion was growing by the second. “But there is no us.”

“Right. And let’s keep it that way.”

“More riddles.” Ricki rolled her eyes. “Listen, don’t flatter yourself. What makes you think that I even want there to be an us? Do you really think I find you that irresistible?”

Ezra’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flashed with heat and mischief. Wordlessly, his gaze slowly went from her eyes to her mouth and farther down to the deep plunge of her scandalously clingy crimson gown. Her body, as if absorbing the electric charge of their conversation, was practically draped on the piano, the soft swell of her breasts overflowing, the curve of her hip popped in lusty flirtation. She oozed sex. Blatant, lascivious, fuck-me sex.

“Your thoughts are loud,” he noted wryly.

She felt searing mortification. This is the second time tonight I’ve heard that my emotions are transparent, she thought. Quickly, she stepped back from the piano, smoothing her hair and adjusting her dress. Her cheeks were on fire. She didn’t remember the last time a man had so utterly thrown her off her game. Actually—had a man ever thrown her off her game?

“God,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

Ezra couldn’t have hidden the smirk if he’d tried (and he hadn’t tried). “You a believer?”

“In God?” Disarmed and flustered by the abrupt conversation shift, she said, “Oh. I… I don’t know. I was raised in fire-and-brimstone Catholicism, which doesn’t appeal to me at all. I don’t believe in the traditional, male-ego-centered God. But there’s a force larger than us out there. I don’t know what to call it. It’s just… an Energy. With a capital E.”

“So when extraordinary things happen to you, you don’t thank God, you thank Energy?”

She huffed out a small laugh. Just like in the garden, Ricki noticed that she and Ezra got deep, fast. This was unexplored terrain: sharing philosophical musings with a man.

“When I’m in nature, especially the woods, I feel protected by something ‘other.’ Something old, before humans, before religion. One time, I wandered a bit too deep into the forest behind my parents’ home, and there were no people anywhere. Just trees, flowers, endless sky. It could’ve been that day or a thousand years ago. And I felt a presence so weighty, I panicked. I wanted to run. It’s a natural human response, you know, the panic you feel when you’re alone in overwhelming nature. The word comes from Pan, the Greek god of the wild.”

The Greek god of the wild? she thought. STOP. TALKING.

Meanwhile, Ezra was taking this in, obviously delighted.

“Your brain,” he said, “must be a fascinating place to visit.”

“Actually, it’s a bottomless well of useless trivia.” How was Ezra able to break down her guard so easily? “If you’ve got time, I could expound upon early Black vaudevillians, fictional languages, the Kennedy curse, and Alice Walker and Tracy Chapman’s secret romance.”

A slow burn of a smile brightened Ezra’s face. “Useless trivia? Useless to who? Clearly you just never found the right audience.”

Ricki didn’t know what to say. She felt exposed and silly but also sweetly validated in a way she never had. She busied herself adjusting her cocktail ring.

“The Kennedy curse isn’t an urban legend, by the way. Old man Joe made a deal with the devil,” he said. “And I know a lot about Black vaudevillians. Coupla Ezra Walkers before me were music men, too.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I come from a long line of troubadours. And in terms of fictional languages, I know Klingon and High Valyrian. A little Huttese. Some Elvish.”

“You’re a fantasy bro?” She gasped. “How’d I miss that? I can usually tell by the shoes.”

“But I didn’t know about Alice and Tracy. Feels right, though.” He paused, seeming to wrestle with something internally. Then, almost shyly, he asked, “Would you like to sit down?”

He stood up and pulled out the bench for her, sweeping off the construction debris with his hands. He carefully laid his coat on the bench so she wouldn’t dirty her gown. Ezra brought such a level of care to every word and movement that being in his presence made her feel taken care of, too. Protected. Secure. Which was surprising to Ricki, given the strange nature of their connection. Endeared, she sat down.

They both stared down at their hands, not sure what to do next.

Ezra spoke first. “So, when you got that panicky feeling in the woods, did you run?”

“Hell no, how could I? I was communing with the divine.” She smiled wistfully, remembering. “I guess I’m not frightened by what I don’t understand.”

“I think the divine is everywhere,” said Ezra. “The world’s so much more than what we catch with our five senses. And most people don’t even bother to catch the obvious. The crowd upstairs? They heard music coming from nowhere, but you were the only one to investigate.”

“I’m demonstrably nosy,” she whispered.

“I know,” he whispered back.

“Can I admit something?” she asked. “I’m glad I found you. Parties make me panic.”

“They do?” Ezra looked surprised. “Why?”

“My family’s very social. I grew up going to galas and fancy dinners. I’m terrible at it.”

“That’s hard to imagine.”

“It’s true. I can’t relax, too afraid of people seeing me. Judging me. Deciding that I don’t deserve my family name, the looks, the privilege.” And then she divulged her truest, scariest thought. “I’m afraid that I don’t belong anywhere. Do you ever feel like that?”

She looked at Ezra, her eyes wide with vulnerability.

“Every day,” he admitted. “I look like something I’m not. And I never feel at home.”

Ezra glanced back at her, his expression open. Tender.

They fell into contemplative silence, two unknowable people who understood each other, almost too easily.

“Why do you think we keep running into each other?” asked Ricki. “Is it a leap year thing? Like you said, every fourth February, things get weird.”

“It’s more than that.” Intensity darkened his brow. “Things could get dangerous, Ricki.”

Ezra says my name like he’s said it before, alone, to himself. He says it like he likes the taste of it. Like it’s some forbidden, private pleasure.

Ezra’s gaze on Ricki melted her to liquid. She blinked slowly, meeting his eyes. They drank each other in, indulgently—for how long, Ricki didn’t know. When they were together, time seemed to stretch and bend, like they were lost in their own private world. Here in this dusty, half-constructed space, they were eons away from the noise upstairs.

After a few moments, Ezra lazily began stroking the keys, a smooth, fluid motion. It was a snippet of whatever he’d started playing before. The notes settled over Ricki’s skin like satin, raising goose bumps and quickening her heartbeat. It sounded familiar, like she already knew it in her bones, while it also felt otherworldly.

“What… what are you playing? It’s beautiful.”

Before Ezra could answer, the back door opened and shut with a loud BAM. Heels were clicking across the floor, followed by someone else shuffling behind.

“FUCK ME, NOT YOU AGAIN!” Tuesday hollered at Ezra, streaming toward the piano in a furious blur of gold lamé, her new crush trailing behind her. Ezra and Ricki bolted off the bench. Tuesday stopped at the platform, chest heaving. Her guy held her steady by the shoulders. “Why are you stalking Ricki? Leave her alone!”

Ricki rushed to Tuesday’s side. “Calm down! I’m fine, I promise!”

Tuesday pointed an acrylic nail at Ezra. “My girl doesn’t realize you’re a creep, ’cause she’s a sheltered suburban girl. I’m not, though. I will fight a nigga.”

“You will?” asked her new guy nervously.

Ezra glanced in his direction. “Rethinking the past half hour, huh?”

Incensed, Tuesday made a move to lunge toward him, but Ricki held her back.

“Tuesday, stop. Don’t do this, not during Black History Month. We’ll talk later, okay?”

“Anything you need to say, you can say it in front of Bruce,” announced Tuesday.

“Pleasure’s mine, Bruce.” Ezra offered his hand, and Bruce shook it with gusto.

“I apologize on behalf of my lady,” Bruce responded sheepishly.

“Nah, you good, fella,” he said amiably. “Well, I best skedaddle. Y’all have a good night, now.”

Ezra glanced once in Ricki’s direction. Something torrid flashed in his eyes, and then he headed for the door. She watched him through the window, unable to resist, as this enigma disappeared around the corner to God knew where. For someone who wasn’t scared of the things she didn’t understand, Ricki was shaken.

Bruce was also watching Ezra, brow furrowed. “Did he just say ‘skedaddle’?”

“There’s something off about that kid,” said Tuesday. “He looks retro. He has the face of a person who’s never ordered Door-Dash or been on Microsoft Teams.”

“Have you ever been on Microsoft Teams?” asked Ricki. Heart pounding, she was barely following what Tuesday was saying. She was still reeling from the way Ezra seemed to understand the parts of her she was used to hiding. She’d never found that in a man, and she’d never expected to.

“WAIT,” continued Tuesday, swaying a bit. Bruce steadied her elbow. “You told me that Ezra claims he bought the painting because he likes to support young artists. But does he even know who painted the portrait? Has he ever mentioned Ali’s name? Even once?”

No, he hadn’t. Ricki tried to remember who had paid her for the portrait. Someone had given her the cash and Ezra’s phone number… Who was it? She sort of remembered a person entering Sweet Colette at the end of the party, but it was blurry, like an image reposted over and over, progressively losing clarity over time.

Ricki couldn’t hold on to the thought.

And days later, she’d forgotten that she’d forgotten there’d ever been a person at all.