Chapter 4

ROONEY

The Lantern Festival party is already in full swing by the time I arrive. I text Talia in the elevator to let her know I’m on my way up. She rushes to greet me at the door with a glass of Cabernet. “I’m glad you were still able to make it.”

I put on a happy face. “Of course I made it. It’s the Lantern Festival. It hasn’t been the best start to the Lunar New Year, but we’re two weeks in. There’s still a lot of year left.”

The host’s gently restored Upper West Side apartment is two times the size of Mom’s. No wonder their parties have such a good reputation. The beautifully designed space is filled to the corners with guests, everyone chatting like they know each other even though, by the sound of it, we’re all friends of friends of coworkers.

The apartment glows with sparkling string lights draped from the ceilings, red paper globe lights, and gold party streamers. In the living room, people sip wine, mingle in front of built-in bookshelves, and switch out records on the turntable. I stay close to the peacock blue walls, analyzing the host’s choice of art.

I admire an enameled pear-shaped vase with a pine tree and colorful clouds painted around it. “That one’s from the Yongzheng period in the 1700s,” Talia says, checking out the piece. “It’s probably worth six figures.”

My eyes pop at the number. “It’s beautiful. Amazing what art stands the test of time.” I frown. “What does it mean if this delicate vase survived a few hundred years, and my installation couldn’t even last a week?”

Talia takes a sip of her own wine before wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “This damn city.”

I lean into her shoulder, feeling utterly defeated.

“Your pet portraits are still selling,” Talia says with a small smile. “I can move some artists around and make space for whatever you want to do next.”

I shrug hopelessly. “Today Entangled became Untangled. I don’t have a clue what’s next.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Talia says like the best friend that she is.

I slouch, hugging my arms against my body. “You have to say that.”

“I really don’t. Come on, let’s go make a wish on a lantern,” Talia says, guiding me through the living room as other guests head toward the front door, pulling their hats and scarves off the coatrack on the way out. It feels like everyone’s looking at me, judging me. Then I remember they don’t know who I am or what I do. I might as well be invisible.

I sigh. “It’s the perfect night for a wish. I’m not going to think about today, not going to talk about it,” I say with a terrible attempt at an upbeat tone. I twirl a short piece of red string around my finger, looping and unlooping it around and around.

The rooftop wasn’t an afterthought. Globes of all sizes emanate soft white light around the deck while tealight candles flicker on metal bar tables. Large red- and cream-colored paper lanterns are gathered in rows on long benches as party guests cluster around them, pulling their coats closer around their bodies. It looks like there are double the number of people up here than there were in the apartment.

Lunar New Year was two weeks ago, and tonight marks the final day of celebrations. Against the starless sky and between a break in the clouds, I locate the full moon, significant for the Lantern Festival. The moon is light against the gray-violet sky, quickly growing in brightness as the night ticks on.

“We don’t have enough lanterns for each person, and these are cumbersome enough to require two people minimum, so we’re going to pair up,” someone who I assume might be the host announces. “Preferably with someone you don’t know. Make new connections!”

Guests naturally divide into couples or with friends they came with while one guy takes it upon himself to group random people together. Having invited several people, Talia spots one of her clients and leaves me for two minutes to say hello.

“Ah, you!” the self-appointed organizer calls out to a tall man coming through the entrance to the rooftop. “You’re just in time. You two are paired together.” He’s referring to me, and before we can object, this man and I are handed a lantern.

When the man steps closer and into the light of a globe, I first notice his lip scar. I trace his lips up to his nose and then to his brown eyes, a sort of weird déjà vu overcoming me.

The word “Jack” tumbles out of my mouth. This guy has my Red Thread of Fate scarf wrapped around his neck. He’s definitely the man from the print shop. And he looks equally surprised to see me.

“Rooney.” He searches my face in recognition. Two times in one day in New York City, where there’s nearly eight and a half million people.

“What are you doing here? Who’s suing me? Am I about to be served?” I ask the series of questions dramatically, but I really do want answers. Who is this guy and why is he here?

Jack lets out a short grunt that could easily be mistaken for a chuckle. “Actually, no. I’m a debt collector. You’re behind on your payments.”

I hope that’s supposed to be a joke. I smile, feeling some of the burden of the day melt away.

I look his face up and down, surprisingly comforted to be seeing him again. “You do have a very debt collector-y face.”

“What does that look like?” he asks.

“You look at everyone like they’re a liability,” I say, deciphering his features. There’s no doubt that Jack is handsome. His brown hair falls perfectly into place and frames his oval-shaped face.

“Wait, so why are you here again?” I ask, cutting my admiration short.

He drags his hand over his face. “I shouldn’t be. My colleague said I could come by. Apparently, his wife has a friend whose cousin’s partner works with the host’s stylist. He has my notebook that I accidentally left behind at a work event.”

I nod in understanding. “I’m here for a similar reason. My friend’s friend’s husband’s coworker’s cat has playdates with the host’s cat. Or something. I only know one person here. Well, now two.”

“That makes two of us,” Jack says. For a split second, his eyes crinkle in what could definitely qualify as an eye smile. I’ll take it. But then something even better happens. He smiles for real. It’s brief, his jaw quickly settling back into its neutral position. His smile feels hard-earned, so I imprint the moment in my memory and safekeep it as a win.

I tilt the lantern on its side and reach into my bag, feeling around the bottom until I find my pen. “Should we write down our wishes? I’ll write mine. Then you do yours.”

Jack angles his body toward me. “Oh, that’s okay,” he says, looking around. His hair sticks up from the wind, giving him a younger appearance even though he must be in his early thirties. “I don’t plan on staying.”

“It’s the Lantern Festival. I’m not letting you walk out of here without participating,” I say, writing gently against the paper lantern, careful not to poke a hole through it.

He hesitates. “Okay. But then I have to get going. I’ve had a long day.”

“You and me both,” I mumble. I lift the pen mid-sentence, nodding toward the scarf I made that he’s still wearing. “I hope it kept you warm.”

“No pneumonia today,” he says, twiddling his fingers through the yarn. “Did you want it back? I won’t need this in Los Angeles. It would go better with your red coat anyway.”

I hold my hands up to stop him from unwrapping the scarf. “Please, keep it. It was meant to be passed on.”

“Well, thanks again. Are you a teacher or an editor?” Jack asks, nodding toward the pen. “No one I know writes in red ink.”

“I probably shouldn’t be,” I say guiltily. “In Chinese culture, it’s bad luck to write people’s names in red ink. It’s like writing them a death sentence. Which is why I only write names with this pen. Got anyone in mind?” A certain Bill comes to mind.

Jack’s eyes widen.

“I’m kidding,” I say, exhaling. It really has been a day. “My Pó Po was a teacher. She would mark students’ papers in red ink to make sure they knew when they had made a mistake.”

“Brutal,” he grunts.

“Right?” I hold the red pen up horizontally, my eyes moving from the cap to the base. “This was one of her Discipline Pens. That’s what I called it as a kid. Sometimes she’d grade my finger paintings with her comments, always in red. So now I use the pen to counteract all the Fs she would dole out like candy.”

“She graded your finger paintings?” Jack asks with an undertone of surprise.

“I like to think she wanted me to be the best I could be.” This sentiment makes me think of Mom and how hard she worked. I’m sure she felt the weight of Pó Po’s criticism, too.

I breathe out, a cloud forming in front of me. “I’m changing the meaning of it and using it for good.”

Jack looks impressed. “You seem like the kind of person who can take something bad and make it good.”

His words are a sweet addition to this bitter day.

Jack glances around us. “Unusual that our paths crossed again.”

“Maybe it’s good you left something behind at your event,” I reason.

“I never do that,” he says.

I bounce the end of the pen against my hand. “Forget things or go to events?”

He grins. “Both. Now I’m notebookless, and you know what, I don’t really want to talk about it,” he says as he looks at his watch. “I should go.”

I hand Jack my pen. “Not until you write your wish.”

Jack pats his jacket, feeling around for something. “I always have a pen on me. I must have left that behind, too,” he says with a sigh.

“Write anything but my name,” I instruct.

“Well, there goes my wish,” he mumbles, glancing up at me.

His words throw me off. Even though I think he’s kidding, heat rises in my chest. I stay silent as he scribbles down on the side of the lantern, Anything but my name.

I cross my arms. “You give up on wishes that easily, huh?”

“I’m all wished out for the day,” he says, the corner of his lips slightly tugging upward.

“Let’s release this, then. You grab that side.”

“We’re not actually releasing this,” Jack says flatly.

“What else would we do with it? It’s tradition.” Above us, glowing lanterns float into the night, paper stars rising above the New York City skyline. Tonight, New Yorkers will witness temporary constellations.

Jack shifts his footing. “Is this legal? We’re going to be arrested. Don’t we need launch permission?”

“Launch permission?” I repeat with a laugh. “That’s not how this works. But if our lantern lands on the steps of a police station, then we’re definitely screwed. Our fingerprints are all over this thing. They might even bring in a forensics team to identify our handwriting. And if it’s me they find first, I’m giving up your name in exchange for immunity. Of course, this is if the lantern doesn’t catch on fire first.”

“I didn’t just hear the word ‘fire’ come out of your mouth,” Jack says as I wriggle the fuel cell into place under the center of the lantern. “This has to be banned. Has anyone checked?”

“Fudge this city. I hope we burn it all down,” I mumble.

“Fudge this what?” Jack asks, slightly horrified.

I lift my eyebrows. “Nothing. It’s been a long day.”

We’re huddled in our corner of the rooftop, the wind blowing my hair around. I fluff my bangs back down over my forehead.

“We have to be careful that the flame doesn’t touch the paper when we’re lighting it.” I strike a match against the little boxes provided on each outdoor table.

“I notice you said we. I can’t be part of this. Or even witness to it.” Jack turns his head and shields his eyes as I light the fuel cell.

“Why? Are you a firefighter?” I ask.

“I’m not.” He says this directed away from me, his hands still covering his eyes.

“Ex-arsonist out on parole?” I add dramatically. I’m having too much fun watching Jack squirm. It’s the most animated I’ve seen him.

Jack finally turns back to me and looks me straight in the eyes. There’s a hint of playfulness behind them, even though his lips are firm. “No.”

“I hear your concerns,” I say reassuringly. “Rumor has it that the host of the party worked with a local artist to make these. They may even be biodegradable and fire resistant. Once the fuel runs out, the lantern will drift back to earth safely.”

Jack frowns. “Have those claims been tested? What’s the plan? Do we go collect them around the city afterwards?”

“We’re about to test them right now.” I set the used match on the table. “The plan is this: I just lit the fuel cell, and now I’ll lift this up by myself, which is, of course, even more dangerous to do alone.” I peek over at Jack out of the corner of my eye.

He doesn’t move.

“Your wish is definitely not coming true now,” I continue, maneuvering my way under the lantern. “Only people who help get wishes.”

Jack watches on stubbornly as I try to balance the lantern in my arms. I gasp at a light dent I’ve made in the lantern, trying to be dramatic enough so he’ll help. Jack finally gives in, grasping for the lantern as it wobbles against me.

“You’re a bad influence,” he says.

“Am I really so bad?”

I carefully move my hands under the lantern. Jack overcompensates and extends his long arms under the entire rim to the point where we’re practically holding hands. We push the lantern down low enough so we can see each other over the top of it. In the yellow glow, I see pink blossom across his cheeks. I feel my face warm in the same way, and I know it’s not because of the heat from the flame below us.

“If we do this, we have to do it the right way,” Jack says. “I can do some quick math. Figure out the coordinates and proper angle to release this. Preferably away from the police station. Do you know where that is?” He looks at me expectantly.

I wave one of my arms toward downtown, and the lantern is thrown off balance. “Somewhere over there.”

Jack steadies the lantern and looks up at an angle. “The wind is blowing west. That’s good. Let’s use that to our benefit. Lift it higher. Come slightly more toward me.” I shuffle three baby steps in his direction. “We can aim it toward the river and away from all the buildings and people.”

Jack looks up toward his forehead doing what I assume is mental math. It’s endearing watching him become this involved.

“What else are we not considering?” he asks, looking over at the other couples releasing their lanterns. “Okay, there. See? They’re releasing the lantern straight over their heads. But it needs to stay low enough and at an angle. Theirs will hardly make it a mile.”

“Lantern Wars. Nice. What do we win? Free lanterns for life?” I joke.

Jack shakes his head, but it’s not directed toward me. “Now just look at those people,” he says under his breath, leaning in closer to me. I catch a faint scent of clove on him, chased by an earthy hint of oak. Or is it cedar? Something woodsy. His scent alone warms me up.

“They’ve pushed the lantern out too forcefully over the edge of the building,” he continues. “All that swaying is going to throw it off its trajectory.”

“There’s no need to overanalyze the magic of releasing lanterns. Once it’s out of our hands, we can’t control it anymore.”

Jack furrows his brows. “We’re not leaving our paper lantern fueled by fire up to… fate. Or destiny. Or whatever it is that you’re referring to that is out of our control.”

“Our lantern will end up where it’s supposed to. Don’t worry,” I reassure him.

“Okay, I won’t worry about fate,” Jack says with an undercurrent of sarcasm. It’s subtle, but I notice it. A snag in his typically calm reserve. “How about instead, I’ll just worry about getting caught and spending the night in jail.”

“If you have that experience, maybe you won’t fear it as much.”

He adjusts his footing. “That’s a lesson I’ll happily skip.”

Within minutes, the lantern takes on a life of its own, the heat inside letting us know it no longer wants to be earthside. Our lantern floats even higher, guiding our hands up with it.

With our arms above our heads, Jack and I lock eyes under the glow of the flame. Through his dark lashes, I can see that eye-smile again.

He shrugs. “Might as well let go on three. One, two—”

At the same time, we both whisper “three” and release the lantern up toward the indigo sky. As we watch it follow its freewheeling path, we bump into each other, momentarily unaware of any unspoken boundaries.

I’m breathless and, so it seems, is Jack.

“That was thrilling,” he says with a slightly confused look on his face.

“You look positively radiant,” I say, mimicking his serious look.

Laughter pours out of him, unrestrained. It’s the first time I’ve heard it from him. There’s an unexpected warmth in it, such childlike joy beneath his stony exterior.

Outside, it’s a low thirty degrees, and I can hardly feel my face, but hearing Jack’s laugh under the brightest full moon I’ve ever seen thaws out all parts of me. As the moon beams like a spotlight over the Hudson River, a tingling sensation unravels in my chest. Could he be…

“Rooney, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Talia calls out to me.

I’m torn out of my red thread thoughts as Talia waves her arms across the rooftop to get my attention. I consider stalling, but she’s too enthusiastic to ignore.

“Be right back,” I tell Jack. “See you in a minute?”

“Sure,” he says with a hesitant nod.

I’m introduced to Talia’s frequent gallery visitors as her gallery’s assistant, a cover-up we formed years ago to keep my secret artist identity intact. We make small talk about what’s happening in today’s art scene and how much colder this winter has been. When there’s a lull in the conversation, I excuse myself and search for Jack on the rooftop and in the host’s apartment. He’s nowhere to be found. Gone in the wind like our lantern.

I look out the living room windows, searching the streets as if I’d be able to pinpoint exactly where Jack is. He’s out there somewhere in the city.

Maybe this was meant to be our final interaction. Such is life. It’s a sign as clear as the moon in the sky. I should let it go, let the thought of him go.

Just like the lantern.