Chapter 4
BIX
“That was some night,” Zaza says a little while later, reaching for the Champagne bottle. “Damn! Empty.”
She’s sprawled across the booth like a Renaissance painting, all curves and satisfaction. The birthday cake sits decimated, sparklers long since burned out.
“It’s nearly two,” I say, watching the staff start their end-of-night rituals. “I’ve got an early start with the dogs tomorrow anyway.”
The reality of my dog-walking duties seems surreal after tonight—after hearing Slayer perform live, after feeling that electric moment when his eyes met mine, after feeling Hilary’s presence so strongly at this celebration she should have shared.
Yet morning will come whether I’m ready or not, and somewhere on Central Park West, a golden retriever named Winston will need his daily constitutional.
Keesha and I help Zaza to her feet—she’s wobbly in those sky-high heels—and make our way to the club’s exit.
The night air hits like a blessing after hours of recycled club atmosphere, though the cigarette smoke from lingering patrons ruins the effect.
“You girls go ahead,” I tell them. “My cousin Glenda’s meeting me here.”
Zaza and Keesha exchange looks that say they’re not buying it. Even tipsy, Zaza’s built-in BS detector is legendary.
“What cousin?” she demands. “And who meets family at two AM?”
“I wanted tonight to be just us,” I say. “And then some alone time with her.”
“Right.” Zaza’s grin turns wicked. “You got yourself a birthday man, don’t you?”
“A what?”
“Birthday man! The kind you unwrap later.”
She cackles like a demented witch, and to my shock, even ultra-proper Keesha cracks a smile.
“Whatever Bix does is her own business,” Keesha says, but her eyes sparkle with curiosity. She loops her arm through Zaza’s. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
I hug them both goodbye.
For a moment, I almost tell them the truth—that I’m heading to a shabby noodle shop to share a meal with my dead sister’s memory. But some rituals are meant to be private.
I watch until they disappear down the subway stairs, their laughter echoing off the tiles. Then I turn toward Tenth Avenue.
The streets are quieter here, away from the club district. Late-night delivery trucks lumber past, and the occasional cab driver slows hopefully before realizing I’m not flagging them down.
The noodle shop’s facade appears exactly as it did a year ago. The same slightly crooked sign, the same steamy windows, the same rich aroma of garlic and ginger seeping through the cracks.
Hilary found it in some underground guide to New York’s secret spots. “All the fancy chefs and musicians come here after hours,” she’d said, her eyes bright with excitement. “It’ll be so fun!”
I pause outside, remembering how we’d giggled at the name Biang Biang noodles. It somehow became Bang Bang on the English menu, meant to mimic the sound of dough being slapped against the counter.
Through the window, I can see the place is still busy.
There are no servers, just a counter where you order and a self-serve station loaded with garnishes: chopped peanuts, fresh cilantro, dried coconut shreds.
My mouth waters at the memory of that sauce, spicy and complex. After all the Champagne, a bowl of hot noodles is exactly what I need.
I push open the door, and a wave of fragrant steam hits my face, promising to turn my carefully styled curls into a wild mess.
The spices will probably have the dogs going crazy tomorrow, sniffing my hair like it’s a feast.
Two men stand at the counter ahead of me. The first looks like he walked off a punk rock stage, all torn denim and attitude.
But it’s the second man who makes my pulse skip—tall, with shoulders that fill out his gray cashmere jacket like it was tailored just for him.
When he shifts his weight, designer jeans showcase a body that clearly knows its way around a gym.
The stranger seems older than me. Way older. Yet there’s something magnetic about him, a quiet intensity in the way he stands.
He carries himself with the kind of confidence I’ve only seen in performers, in people who own their space on stage.
I wonder if he was at the club earlier—one of the sleekly dressed, rich-guy types that predominated.
The lighting is dim enough that I can only see his profile—strong jaw, hair tied up in a man bun.
The punk rocker takes his order and leaves. The tall stranger steps up next, and his voice matches his appearance.
It’s deep, smooth, with an edge of authority that makes the back of my neck tingle.
When it’s finally my turn, I step forward. “I’d like a bowl of Bang Bang noodles, please.” I place my five-dollar bill on the counter. This place is cash only.
The counter guy says something I don’t quite catch.
“I said, I want a bowl of Bang Bang noodles, please.” I point at my money, but he just shakes his head and speaks again in rapid Mandarin.
“He’s saying they’re out of that type.” The tall stranger’s voice comes from beside me, and suddenly he’s close enough that I catch his scent.
Something expensive and subtle that makes me want to lean closer.
I turn to face him, and my breath catches. His eyes are warm, brown, intelligent, watching me with an intensity that heats my skin.
Up close, there’s something eerily familiar about him, though I can’t quite place it.
Now that I’m closer, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes suggest he’s in at least his mid to late thirties, but the lines oddly add to his appeal.
“Out?” I say to the counter guy, trying to focus. “But I need these noodles.” I blush immediately, hearing how ridiculous that sounds.
“Why do you need them?” the stranger asks, his voice gentle.
When I don’t answer, he turns to the counter and asks for a menu, his shoulder brushing mine as he leans in to point out alternatives. “Maybe we could find you something else?”
“No,” I say. “No, it has to be Bang Bang noodles.”
He studies me for a moment, and something shifts in his expression—maybe recognition of a deeper need than hunger. “Take mine. I just ordered the last bowl.”
“I couldn’t—”
“Then please share them with me.” It’s not quite a question, not quite a command. His lips curve into a smile that probably gets him anything he wants.
“My table’s in the corner. Unless you’re afraid of eating with strangers?”
I bite my lip, considering. I planned this evening so carefully—just me and Hilary’s memory, toasting with the mini Champagne bottle hidden in my purse.
Yet there’s something about him that makes me want to break my own rules.
“Sharing noodles with a stranger?” I manage a teasing smile. “That’s pretty intimate for New York City.”
His laugh is unexpected and genuine—a rich, low sound that seems to vibrate in the air between us. “I’ve been told I have excellent chopstick etiquette.”
His noodles appear, and at the garnish station, he moves with casual grace, adding cilantro, chopped egg, and chilies to separate compartments like he’s done this a thousand times before.
His fingers are long and elegant, with calluses I notice when our hands briefly touch as we reach for the same ladle.
When he slides into the booth across from me, his presence fills the space. Not intimidating, just...intense.
The pendant lights hanging above cast shadows that accentuate the hollows of his cheekbones, and for a fleeting moment, I get another flash of familiarity.
“So,” he says, expertly dividing the noodles between our bowls, “what makes these particular noodles so important tonight?”
I watch steam rise between us, debating how much to share. Something about him—the way he waits patiently, the lack of pressure in his gaze—makes me want to tell him the truth.
“My twin sister found this place in some underground guide to secret New York spots. She loved discovering hidden gems where chefs and musicians hang out after hours. We visited last summer. It was our last weekend together.”
I pause, the words catching. “Tonight’s our birthday. Was. Is. Grammar gets confusing when only one of you is still celebrating.”
“Your twin,” he says, the words careful, measured. His eyes stay steady on mine, and I notice flecks of gold in the brown. “You lost her.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “She was always the impulsive one—wouldn’t wait for lights to change, lived like every moment was her last.”
I twirl a noodle around my chopsticks. “Until one moment really was her last.”
He doesn’t offer empty sympathy, just lets the silence hold my words. I appreciate that. The torrent of I’m-so-sorry and she’s-in-a-better-place platitudes that followed Hilary’s death nearly drowned me.
We sit suspended in that moment, not speaking, but something passes between us. A current of understanding that needs no language.
His eyes hold mine, and in those few seconds, it feels like we’ve known each other forever, yet just met at the same time.
“I’m Sam,” he says.
“Beatrix,” I reply, grateful for the shift. “Though according to my sister, that name never suited me.”
“She was right.” He studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly. “You’re more of a Bix.”
The way he says it—Bix—sends my blood pulsing.
It’s like he’s naming something true about me, something I didn’t know was there. No one has ever given me a nickname that actually felt right.
“Bix,” I repeat, testing it out. “I like that.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment. He handles chopsticks with the precision of someone who’s traveled extensively, not the awkward fumbling of a tourist trying to look worldly.
“So, Bix,” he says, “what does a woman who celebrates her birthday in a noodle shop do with the rest of her time?”
“Study. Walk dogs for extra cash. Listen to music.”
His interest seems to sharpen at that last part. “What kind of music?”
I notice his interest and pivot. “All kinds.” I change course, not ready to dive into music with a stranger, no matter how compelling.
“What about you? You don’t exactly look like the typical late-night noodle-shop regular.”
He smiles, something enigmatic in his eyes. “Maybe I’m not what I look like.”
“Fair enough.” I take another bite, savoring the rich broth. “So what brings you here tonight? Besides excellent noodles.”
“Escaping,” he says. “Sometimes you need to step away from...expectations.”
I watch him roll tension from his shoulders, a gesture that speaks volumes. Whatever he’s escaping must weigh heavily.
“I get that,” I say softly. “Hilary and I used to escape to places like this. Spots where nobody knows you, nobody wants anything from you.”
He nods. “Exactly.”
We finish our noodles in mostly silence punctuated by small talk. We stay in neutral territory that avoids anything too personal.
I find myself watching his hands, the thoughtful way he listens, the rare but transformative smile that completely changes his face.
“The Mandarin Oriental has an amazing bar,” he says, gathering our empty bowls. “Nightcap?”
I hesitate. “This late?”
“New York’s always open.” He shrugs, casual and confident. “They know me there.”
Something about the way he says it. Not bragging, just stating a fact, makes me curious. And it’s not like the Mandarin Oriental is some sketchy dive bar.
Still, I’m not usually this impulsive. That was Hilary’s department.
But maybe tonight, just tonight, I can be the one who takes chances.
“Okay. One drink,” I say, and his smile makes my heart skip.