“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 façade 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.
