Chapter 11
The Note and the Noodles
The ink on the page was wet, a glistening black loop of cursive that Emi had stared at for twenty minutes.
She sat at her small kitchen table in Brooklyn, the remnants of a glass of wine beside her, her hand hovering over the company letterhead.
Tracey’s voice was still ringing in her ears: Recalculate. Fix it.
Emi wasn't a poet. She wasn't a writer of grand romances. She was a finance manager. She dealt in hard numbers and clear projections. But tonight, the variable was her own fear, and she had to factor it out of the equation.
She looked at what she had written. It wasn't a long confession. It didn't spill the tragic history of Pietermaritzburg or the ghost of the boy who left her. It was simple. It was an amendment to the record.
Liam,
I lied.
There is no boyfriend. There was just fear.
I’m sorry I closed the door.
If the offer for the bistro still stands, I’m free next week.
If not, I understand.
Emi
She folded the paper once, twice, making sharp, precise creases. She knew his routine. Everyone in the office knew Liam’s routine because it was as structured as the buildings he designed. He ran on Saturday mornings.
He ran from the Upper East Side down to Midtown and back. He took the same route along the river.
She had a plan. She wouldn't ambush him—that felt desperate. But she knew where he parked his Ford Expedition on the weekends.
She would wake up early, take the train into the city, and slip the note under his wiper blade before he got back from his run. It was a coward’s delivery, perhaps, but it was the bravest thing she had done in five years.
She placed the folded note next to her keys. Her heart gave a nervous flutter, a mix of terror and hope. Tomorrow, she will roll the dice.
The atmosphere at The Draftsman was louder than usual for a Friday night. The air was thick with the smell of hops and fried calamari, and the noise level was hovering somewhere between "roar" and "deafening."
Liam sat on his usual stool, nursing a ginger ale. Usually, he was the calm center of the storm, the amused observer of his friends' chaos. But tonight, he felt like a crack in the windowpane—fragile and barely holding together.
"So," James shouted over the music, leaning in with a predatory grin. "The Finance Manager. Emi. Give us the update. Did you sweep her off her feet? Are we planning the wedding?"
Liam took a long sip of his soda, buying time.
The rejection in the stairwell still stung like a fresh burn. I have a boyfriend. The words had replayed in his head all week, a loop of humiliation.
He couldn't tell James. James would be outraged on his behalf. James would want to find out who the boyfriend was. It would become a project, and Liam just wanted it to be a memory.
"She’s... busy," Liam lied smoothly, keeping his face impassive. "We talked. She’s focused on her career right now. I decided not to push it." James looked disappointed. "Boring. I wanted drama. I wanted passion."
"You want drama?" Henry chimed in, draping an arm around the woman sitting next to him. "Try dating a sculptor."
Henry had brought Zuri tonight. She was stunning—a tall, elegant woman with braids and a smile that lit up the dim corner of the bar.
She was an artist Henry had met at a gallery opening, and they were currently in that sickeningly sweet phase of a new relationship where they existed in a bubble of two.
Zuri laughed, leaning into Henry. "I told you, the clay dust gets everywhere. It’s part of the charm."
"It’s in my eyebrows, Zuri," Henry teased, kissing her temple.
Liam watched them. He saw the easy intimacy, the way Henry’s hand rested on her waist, the way Zuri looked at him like he was the only person in the room. It was beautiful. And it hurts. It was exactly what he had wanted to find in the stairwell, and exactly what he had been denied.
He checked his watch. 9:30 PM.
"I’m going to head out," Liam announced, standing up.
"Already?" James protested. " The night is young! The ginger ale is flowing!"
"I have a morning session," Liam said, grabbing his jacket. "And Henry and Zuri clearly need some alone time to discuss clay dust strategies."
Henry grinned, not even pretending to argue. "See you, Liam. Thanks for being the wingman who leaves early."
"Always," Liam smiled. He nodded to Zuri. "Nice meeting you."
He walked out into the cool night air of Tribeca, the relief washing over him. He wasn't anti-social, but tonight, witnessing love up close felt like staring into the sun with no sunglasses.
He drove the Ford Expedition to Koreatown, the heavy SUV cutting through the traffic with authority. He needed to sweat. He needed to hit something.
The dojang was quieter on a Friday night, but the smell of effort was the same. Liam changed into his dobok, tied his black belt tight, and spent an hour punishing the heavy bag. He threw roundhouse kicks until his shins throbbed. He threw punches until his knuckles were raw inside the gloves.
I have a boyfriend. Thwack.
She lied? No, she didn't. Thwack.
She just didn't want you. Thwack.
By the time he showered and changed back into his street clothes—jeans and a black t-shirt—his mind was finally quiet. The endorphins had done their job.
He walked downstairs, exiting the dojang and entering the garage on the ground floor. This was Mr. Kim’s other business: *Kim’s Auto Repair.* It was a cavernous space smelling of oil, rubber, and cold metal.
A single light was on in the back corner, illuminating a lift where a sedan was hoisted up. Underneath it, sitting on a toolbox and slurping noodles from a styrofoam cup, was Michael.
Michael was a guy Liam liked immediately. He was rough around the edges, covered in tattoos, and knew more about engines than anyone Liam had ever met. He was the kind of guy who didn't care about Liam’s suits or his bank account; he only cared about the machine.
"Hey, Hollywood," Michael called out, seeing Liam approach. He gestured with his plastic fork. "You done beating up the air upstairs?"
"Something like that," Liam grinned, leaning against a workbench. "Smells good. Spicy seafood?"
"Only the best instant trash money can buy," Michael laughed.
He slurped a noodle noisily. "So, what brings the architect to the grease pit? You checking on the fleet?"
"Actually," Liam said, crossing his arms. "I need to bring the Sportster in. I want to do the upgrade we talked about."
Michael’s eyes lit up. He set the noodles down. "The Big Bore kit? You finally ready to stop riding a lawnmower and get some real power?"
"It's an 883, Michael, not a lawnmower," Liam defended, though he was smiling. "But yeah. I want the 1200 conversion. High compression pistons. Maybe swap the cams too."
"Now you're talking my language," Michael wiped his hands on a rag. "That bike is gonna fly, man. You gonna kill yourself on it, but you'll look good doing it."
"Can I drop it off Sunday?" Liam asked. "I know you're closed, but I have a spare key."
"Sunday works," Michael nodded. "I'm off, but I'll be around. I got a buddy coming in from the airport late Sunday or early Monday.
Old friend from back home. He’s gonna be staying in the back room, helping me out."
"New mechanic?"
"The best," Michael said, a note of pride in his voice. "Guy can fix anything. He’s had a rough run, though. Life kicked his teeth in a bit. So be nice to him if you see him."
"I'm always nice," Liam said. "I'll drop the bike Sunday evening. You have time Monday to start?"
"Monday is perfect," Michael said. "I got nothing on the books but a radiator flush. I'll strip your engine down first thing."
"Perfect," Liam pushed off the bench. "Thanks, Mike. Enjoy the noodles."
"Drive safe, Mr. Fancy Pants," Michael called after him.
Liam walked to his car, shaking his head. He didn't know who this "buddy" was, and he didn't really care. He just liked the idea of his bike having more power. If he couldn't control his love life, he could at least control his horsepower.
The condo was silent when he got home, but it was a welcome silence. The workout had burned off the frustration, leaving a dull ache in his muscles that felt earned.
Liam stripped off his boots and padded into the kitchen. He wasn't hungry for a meal, but he needed comfort. He opened the pantry and pulled out a bag of kernels, cheese and a jar of caramel glaze.
He popped the corn on the stove, listening to the frantic pop-pop-pop against the metal lid. It was a cheerful sound. He tossed the hot popcorn in the caramel & melted cheese, the sweet, burnt-sugar and cheese scent filling the sleek, modern kitchen.
He carried the bowl to the living room and flopped onto the massive grey sectional sofa. He grabbed the remote and scrolled through Netflix.
He didn't want to go deep. He didn't want romance. He certainly didn't want Ruthless People.
He clicked on John Wick. Simple. Direct. A man, a dog, and a lot of focus.
He ate the popcorn, the sticky sweetness coating his fingers, watching Keanu Reeves dismantle a Russian syndicate. It was mindless escapism.
For two hours, he didn't think about Emi. He didn't think about the stairwell. He didn't think about the lie.
When the credits rolled, he felt heavy.
He turned off the TV and walked to the bathroom. He turned the shower on, letting the water run until it was steaming.
He stood under the spray for a long time, letting the hot water loosen the tightness in his shoulders from the punching bag. He washed his hair, the scent of his expensive shampoo mixing with the steam.
He towelled off and pulled on his pajama pants. He climbed into bed, the same routine as always, but tonight, there was a glimmer of peace. He had survived the week. He had kept his dignity. He had a plan for his bike.
As he closed his eyes, drifting toward sleep, he thought about his run tomorrow. Six miles. Just him and the pavement. No complications.
He didn't know that a piece of paper was sitting on a table in Brooklyn, waiting to change his route. He didn't know that Monday would bring not just a mechanic, but a ghost from a story he didn't even know he was part of.
He just slept, the Lion resting in his den, unaware that the jungle was about to get very crowded.