Chapter 2

JACK

For a print shop with a name like Sprinters NYC, they’re not nearly as fast as I would’ve thought.

Fifteen minutes have passed since I dropped off my order for more pamphlets. Usually, an unexpected increase in crowd size is a good thing. But of course, today of all days, I only have a dozen pamphlets printed for my presentation this afternoon.

I’m sitting in the corner checking my email when congratulatory messages about the senior engineer role I had applied for multiply in my in-box. But the kind emails aren’t for me. They’re for a man named Marvin coming over from the Moon Mission.

A new message from my boss, Annika, appears.

Hi Jackson,

Sorry I missed you before the announcement went out about the Senior Engineer position. The decision committee typically likes to see participation in projects outside of your day-to-day work. I’d like to see you teach others about the mission and what we do and share your knowledge in a more inspiring way. Maybe letting people get to know you on a personal level might help, too. Let’s keep an eye out for more opportunities for you. Maybe volunteering to serve on special committees in the company? Your presentation at the conference today will be a great starting point. Let’s talk more when you’re back.

Three times. That’s three times now that I’ve been passed over for a promotion. I was sure this time would be my chance. It wasn’t the title I coveted, though I can’t say I hate the way Jackson Liu, senior engineer at NASA, sounds.

But more than a title, more than a raise, promotions are validating. A reassurance that you’re adding value. That you’re worth keeping around. Maybe my parents would notice a new title. I’m good at what I do. Why can’t that be enough? Why do I have to tell people what I’m doing on the weekends or spend work time volunteering? And on special committees? What does that even mean?

The young man with curly auburn hair who helped me earlier comes up from behind the counter with an apologetic look on his face. “It’s almost done. Sorry, man. You’ll be out of here in no time,” he says.

I look at the time on my watch. “How long do you think?”

“Another twenty minutes or so? The printer’s jammed. I got this one out at least,” the print shop employee says, waving my pamphlet in the air. “This is sweet. You giving a talk about Mars or something?”

“I am,” I say, offering only this much information.

“Are you an astronaut?” he asks.

“I’m not.”

“Oh, I know! You must be, like, Elon Musk’s right-hand man. You look smart. Am I warm?”

I run my hand down my face. “Not even close,” I groan, looking at his name tag for an identifier of some sort, “Dave.”

Dave scratches his chin. “Jeffrey Bezos’s right-hand man? Or Richard Bran—”

“I’m a systems engineer at NASA,” I finally say to put an end to the twenty questions. Which is all I’ll ever be unless I join a special committee or rub with the right elbows. What’s so special about doing free work?

“Right on!” he says.

“These pamphlets are important,” I mumble as he’s still reading through one. I don’t add that these pamphlets are for one of the most important missions I’ve ever been a part of. With the most responsibility I’ve ever had, with or without the promotion. If I do well at this conference, the decision committee might actually start to take notice. “Are you supposed to be reading what your customers print?”

He tilts his head. “I couldn’t help but notice this sick image of the Red Planet. We’re going to be vacationing there one day, you know. It says here there’s ice. When this melts, we can surf those melted waves all day long,” Dave states, nodding vigorously. “Oh, hey, I can give you a discount code for next time for your troubles!”

I awkwardly return his nod. “Thanks. But I’m only in town for a conference. I’ll do a lap around the block until the pamphlets are done.”

Dave gives me two thumbs-up. “Whatever you want. Feel free to hang out here. Looks like it started snowing.”

“I don’t get snow where I’m from. I’ll enjoy it while I can,” I say, watching through the window as small flakes plummet to earth.

“Oh, yeah? Where are you from?” Dave asks, preventing me from leaving.

“California,” I say.

“No way. I’ve been eyeing up Malibu. Those waves are rock solid,” he says enviously. “As soon as I can, I’m outta here. Just me, my board, and the swell.” Dave points behind him, where there’s an eight-foot neon green surfboard leaning against the wall. “I like to keep it with me so I can do my visualization exercises.”

I’m getting antsy. “Sounds swell. Dave. The pamphlets?”

“Right! I’ll put a rush on your travel guides as soon as the printer’s unblocked,” Dave promises. “Oh wait, here’s the sample.”

Dave slides the pamphlet across the counter to me. He cringes at his poor aim as it shoots off the end of the counter. I kneel to pick it up from the floor.

“I do hereby knight thee,” a woman’s voice says above me. She hoists her box up on her hip and extends a hand in an offer to help me up. She looks to be about my age, slightly younger maybe.

“Thanks, I’m good,” I say, pushing off my knee to stand. With her box precariously balanced, I might pull her down with me if I accepted her hand. I slide the pamphlet into my back pocket.

I catch a glimpse of the woman’s sparkling light brown eyes under her thick bangs.

“Hey, Rooney,” Dave says, grabbing the box from the woman, “this guy has never seen snow before. He’s from California.”

“Oh yeah? What about sleet?” the woman apparently named Rooney asks, propping her elbow up on the counter. “Have you ever seen that?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, nodding.

“Fine. But have you ever seen a moonbow?” she asks like there’s no way I have. I mean, I haven’t. They’re incredibly rare.

I shrug. “You got me there.”

“Hold up,” Dave says, leaning against the counter like we’re all sitting down for tea and a chat. “Is that some kind of, like, rainbow at night?”

Rooney nods excitedly. “I saw my first moonbow in Iceland with my mom. It had been a long day of hot springs and more mannequins and rubber ducks than one should ever have to interact with in a lifetime.” She glances up at me. “Don’t ask.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“All of the ingredients were there. Full moon. No clouds. Dark sky. Light rain.” She literally counts this out on her fingers before sighing. “Anyway. These were messed up,” she says to Dave while she pats the top of the box. “I need replacements now.”

“Like now now?” Dave asks, looking nervous.

“As now as now can be,” Rooney says sweetly.

Dave looks at the clock hanging on the wall. “I’ve got his job finishing up at the moment, and then yours is next.”

“Okay. Fine. I’ll be here.” Rooney exhales upward, her bangs flying up over her face.

“You doing your lap?” Dave asks me as he types something.

“Oh. It’s a little too cold for me,” I reply as I flip through office supplies on the nearby rack. I study the curves of Rooney’s face in the fluorescent lighting before she turns back to me.

“Are you hanging around for the playlist?” she asks. Overhead, “Since U Been Gone” crackles from the speakers.

Her comment catches me off guard. “I actually chose this print shop exclusively based on the music,” I improvise. Somehow, my anxiety over my upcoming presentation eases a bit as I talk to her. “It was between here and the one on Fourteenth Street. But they mostly play nineties rock. I’m more of an early two thousands pop music type of guy.”

My comment draws a laugh out of her. “I knew you looked like a Kelly Clarkson fan. What’s your name?” she asks, surveying me as though I could be a threat.

I don’t answer right away. “Uh.”

“I’m not asking for your social security number, just your name,” she says with another laugh, her comfortable demeanor disarming me. “But I do need your date of birth and passport number.”

I feel a smile form across my face.

“I’m Jack,” I say a beat later. A new customer pushes open the door, blowing fresh cold air into the space. I zip my coat up higher. “Good playlists, poor heating. Noted for next time.”

“I’m Rooney,” she says as she moves a misplaced roll of tape back to the right hook. “You seem more like a tie guy, but that’s not going to help you here.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a bundle of knitted yarn. “Take this scarf that I made.”

“I can’t take that from you,” I say, backing up a step. “I don’t even know you.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You don’t trust me?”

I furrow my eyebrows. “No.”

“Right answer,” she says. “You’re going to think this is weird, but here. Seriously. It’s supposed to get even colder today.” She holds up what has to be the world’s longest scarf.

“Why is it so long?”

Rooney looks down at the possibly ten-foot scarf curled up in her hands and laughs. “It’s my Red Thread of Fate scarf!”

I shake my head.

“It’s a Chinese legend where Yuè Lǎo, the god of love and marriage, connects two people by the ankles with a red thread. Those two people are then destined lovers, regardless of place, time, or circumstances. The magical string may stretch or tangle, but never break. Romantic, right?”

I take a moment to see if any of those words spark a memory. I don’t think my parents ever taught me this myth growing up. A fuzzy memory of Gōng Gong talking about string begins to take shape but doesn’t grow.

I nod toward her. “And the scarf is supposed to be the… long, unbreakable red thread?”

“It’s called symbolism,” she says playfully. “Just let me cast off.”

She does something with the last row of stitches and then approaches me again slowly. As though I’m a wild animal on the verge of fleeing. I stand very still as she wraps the scarf over my shoulders. Up close, the aroma of citrus and vanilla wafts up. It’s both intoxicating and intriguing.

Rooney fluffs the seven or eight loops of knitted yarn around my neck. She takes a step back to consider her handiwork. The scarf smells like her.

“Red looks good on you,” she says with a smile.

I tug one end of the scarf and consider the feel of it. “Tell me honestly. Do I look ridiculous?”

Rooney gently takes the end of the scarf from me and pulls it down farther. Her hand slides against my puffer jacket with enough pressure for me to feel it. I’m hyperaware of how close she’s standing.

“I guess that was a little long. Looks like it was meant for you, though. There,” she says, patting the end of the scarf once more.

“I’m not quite sure what to say here. You really want to give me this?”

Rooney smiles. “I really do. It would make me happy to know it’s going to a fellow Kelly Clarkson fan.”

“Okay, well, thanks,” I say.

Dave lugs a box from the back and deposits it on the counter. Nodding to me, he says, “Good news! Your prints are ready.”

Already? “That was fast.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he asks, looking between me and Rooney.

I notice five small light brown moles on Rooney’s left cheek. I draw an imaginary line through them, their position creating a minimal version of the Big Dipper. It draws me in.

Dave clears his throat, the noise breaking my focus.

“No. Yeah. This is great. Thanks,” I say. A part of me wishes the printer would’ve gotten jammed again. Nerves for my presentation come flooding back, along with the surprising disappointment at having to already say good-bye to Rooney.

“Everything’s breaking today,” Dave says, wearing an apologetic look. “Our credit card machine doesn’t want to connect with the Wi-Fi. Afraid it’s going to have to be cash.”

Sliding a few twenties out of my wallet, I hand them to Dave and ask for a receipt so I can be reimbursed from work.

I cradle the box in my arms and face Rooney, who’s fiddling with a pack of highlighters. “Well, bye.”

“May our paths cross again,” she says with a smile.

I bow with a slight bend in my knee, the box bumping against my stomach. The whole thing turns out looking more like a curtsy.

Rooney laughs.

Seriously, Jack? What was that? Go. Leave. Now.

Outside, the snow has gained in size but slowed in speed. Unlike my heart. Puffy flakes float down through the air. What an odd and interesting woman. Hugging my neck, Rooney’s scarf protects me against the cold.

A man stuffs a flyer into my available hand for Gray’s Papaya all the way uptown and for an electronics store too far downtown. I crumple the papers into my coat pocket and turn the corner toward a park. An arch I recognize from the movie The Astronaut’s Wife looms over a crowd of people distracted by what looks like an outdoor exhibit.

It’s a peculiar sight. All this in the middle of winter. Bright red tangles of thin rope are strung across the park, like organized chaos. Up close, the string is slightly glossy. Wax coating for protection against the elements.

I slide the box of pamphlets into my other arm and check my watch. I can’t linger but I can cross through the park.

The sound of ripping startles me. An older woman in a paint-splattered jacket tears paper out of a small sketchbook and hands it to a child.

“My last one. You’re lucky, kid. Write something on it, slip it between the strings,” she tells him. “Fate will do the rest.”

I unintentionally let out a cough at this. The woman saunters over to me.

“Something funny?” she asks, examining me. “Where did you get that scarf?”

I look down at the yarn mass wrapped around my neck and think of Rooney. I’ve never met anyone who smiled so much in such a short period of time.

“A helpful civilian,” I say.

“Right,” the woman says, eyeing me suspiciously.

I nod toward the installation. “Are you the artist?”

“I’m just a helpful civilian. The artist is RSG and she works anonymously.”

Exactly what someone who wants to remain anonymous would say.

“All I can tell you is that this,” she says, waving her hand toward the rest of the park, “is called Entangled.”

“As in quantum entanglement?” I ask, now slightly intrigued. I scan the rest of the installation with this new piece of information in mind. In various sections are slips of white sketchbook paper tucked into the cord. “I can see that… RST?”

“RSG,” the woman repeats, elongating the “G.” “‘G’ as in gallbladder. Red String Girl.”

“Right. Well, I can see that RSG was trying to imply that the pieces of paper, or particles, maintain separation yet still remain connected across the various parts of the string. They’re influencing and being influenced by another when someone grabs one of the papers,” I reason. “But when one paper is grabbed, it doesn’t have a twin that’s immediately affected. There’s the flaw.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s where fate comes in.”

“And that’s where you lose me,” I tell her. “What does the red have to do with quantum entanglement, or as you say, fate?”

Her expression is unchanged. “This must be your first RSG installation. Congrats. Your bubble’s been officially popped. More specifically, it’s about the Red Thread of Fate.”

“Are you serious?” I ask. Rooney must’ve just come from here and learned about this, too.

She looks me up and down. “You suit types never fail to amuse.”

“Okay then,” I whisper under my breath, checking the time on my watch.

“Are you too busy for me? Before you go, do something spontaneous and try it out. Write something down. Slip it in. You’ll never forget your first time.”

“Excuse me?” It’s as though I’ve entered an alternate reality made of red webs. Are all people in New York this bossy? First Rooney. Now this person.

“Participate. It’ll be good for you,” she says. “I don’t have any more slips, but I’m sure you have a legal notepad on you or something. You suit types always do.”

“Uh.” I pat around my chest and stomach, reangling the box. It’s a B-minus effort to satisfy this person. I feel the flyers from my coat pocket. “I think I have something?”

“Are you asking me or telling me? Do what you gotta do,” the woman says, tucking her empty sketchbook under her arm and turning to go. She proceeds to tell more people about the installation. If she’s not the artist, then why does she know so much about it? She thinks she’s so clever, believing she’s fooling everyone. She and her work leave an impression, I’ll give her that much.

I reach under the scarf to unclip my pen from my sweater’s neckline. I stare at the back of the yellow Gray’s Papaya flyer featuring their hot dog specials. The squiggle of mustard pops against the mysterious red meat mixture.

I settle on “Fate is the hot dog of the universe.” Maybe there’s a quantum entanglement special committee I can join. Something that aligns more with my interests.

I gently pull one of the red strings back and tuck my flyer in. The yellow flyer stands out against the red.

With a shrug, I reach for the nearest piece of paper without thinking too much about it. I untuck the slip from the string. The handwritten words are loopy and red, as though it was written in a hurry. The word “lophole” is printed at the top. I slip the paper into my wallet.

Now it’s really time to get to the conference. I’ll show the higher-ups who really should’ve gotten that promotion.