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.
