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.
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.
