Chapter 3
BIX
The Champagne bubbles tickle my nose as Zaza tops off my glass for the second time.
Our table in the exclusive VIP section feels surreal. With its bordello-red accents and glowing candlelight, it’s like we’ve stepped into another world entirely.
“You’re having a nice birthday?” Zaza’s already two glasses ahead of me. Her smile’s a little too radiant. Though she’s not completely over the top. Yet.
“Absolutely the best,” I assure her. And I mean it. The words catch in my throat as warmth spreads through my chest.
Not from the Champagne, but from looking at the faces of my friends and realizing how much they’ve come to mean to me in the short time we’ve known one another.
“It’s been hard since Hilary passed,” I say slowly, tracing the rim of my glass, not daring to raise my eyes.
“Being identical twins, we never really felt the need to hang out with others.”
I glance up to see the expressions on their faces. “I know that must sound weird to you, but you guys are my first friends.”
Before the moment can get too heavy, the handsome ma?tre d’ appears at our table. He bends to whisper something in Zaza’s ear before disappearing.
Her red glossy lips spread into a smile. “Today's your lucky day. Whatever birthday wish you made earlier could be coming true.”
The Champagne nearly sloshes out of my glass. “What do you mean?”
“I told the ma?tre d’ about your amazing voice. I asked if you could sing on the stage.”
“You know I haven’t sung in public since Hilary...” I can’t finish the sentence.
“Sure you have! You sing in Central Park every week, don’t you?”
“That’s different,” I say. “Low pressure. No judgment. Easy cash.”
She shakes her head. “Stop bullshitting yourself. Singing is singing, regardless of the venue.”
I look at the small stage in front of me. It’s not like I’ll be singing at the Grammy’s. And everyone around me is half-drunk anyway.
“Snap to it,” Zaza says. “It’s been a year. And you know what they say about getting back on the horse.”
I nod, resigned. Zaza’s right.
Back in San Diego, Hilary and I had a regular twins’ act. We booked ourselves everywhere from weddings to holiday parties.
Nightclubs too, though those gigs were harder to get since at that point we were underage.
My heart pounds, but I force myself out of my chair and towards the stage. As I do, I feel everyone watching me. Judging me.
If Hilary was here, she'd just grin and pull me up onstage with her. I try to imagine her extending her hand to me as I walk up to stand in front of the microphone.
I smooth my white dress, feeling my long strands of pearls. “Do you know ‘The Man I Love’?” I ask the bandleader.
“Sure do,” he says.
I nod, even though without my twin, my other half, I feel like I’ll be performing half a show. Hilary was the one with the pizazz. The showmanship. The sparkle.
But she’s gone now. And so is our grandmother, Lola. That leaves only me to carry on the dream.
As intimidating as this crowd is, I can't let the dream die. Zaza's right. My birthday wish is already in the process of coming true. I just need the courage to take it all the way to the finish line.
The A-list crowd lowers their voices as I take the mic in hand, but they don’t entirely stop their conversations. The stage lights come up, blinding me.
Then something draws my gaze up to the VIP skybox. A shadow moves behind its darkened glass. Is someone up there, watching me?
Could it be Slayer? The thought of him hearing me sing makes everything tingle. And it makes me want to be great.
The piano opens with a gentle cascade of notes, and I close my eyes.
This isn’t about impressing anyone. This is about the music. About connection. About love.
My voice starts softly, almost hesitant—the way Grandma Lola taught me to draw listeners in when I was a small child.
The Champagne has left a pleasant warmth in my blood. I let that feeling carry the notes.
Most people are still chatting discreetly, crystal glasses clinking. From the corner, a man’s bourbon-rough voice carries slightly over the music, something about hedge funds and market predictions.
But I refuse to let any of this shake my concentration.
The band follows me perfectly, instinctively matching my pace. By the second verse, the conversations have faded.
Heads turn. The Gershwin melody wraps around the room like silk, and I feel myself sinking deeper into the song’s emotions.
“The man I love…” I sing, feeling the raw power of the song’s plaintive words.
I’ve never been in love. Never had the time or opportunity. But I understand longing. The way it lives in your bones.
As I move into the refrain, I think of Slayer on this stage, and maybe watching me from the skybox above—not the tabloid version, or his Dark Prince persona, but the man I sense must be present beneath all that.
I felt something when I heard him sing tonight, a truth in his voice that echoed the poetry of his early songs. It makes me all the more eager for his new album.
The band picks up on my building intensity. The pianist adds subtle jazz flourishes; the bass deepens.
Suddenly, I’m not performing anymore. I’m telling a story. A story about a woman pining for a man. But also, one that suggests that dreams really can come true.
And when I get to that part of the lyrics, I think about the birthday wish I wrote in my notebook. Now it's my responsibility to make it come true for all of us.
By the time my voice soars into the bridge, even the loud businessman has fallen quiet, his drink forgotten midway to his lips.
I hit the final notes with everything I have, letting my soprano fill every corner of the space.
That’s when I see her.
Hilary materializes before me, luminous in a dress identical to mine. Her smile is radiant, encouraging—the same look she gave me before every performance we ever shared.
When the last note fades, there’s a moment of quiet. Then the applause starts. Genuine and warm. The businessman in the corner joins in, looking slightly abashed, like someone caught talking during prayer.
Zaza and Keesha jump to their feet, cheering.
But I’m still looking at the empty space where Hilary’s spirit stood. My heart feels so full it hurts.