Chapter 6

ROONEY

The lantern floats faster than expected. Jack and I are speed-walking down the sidewalk toward downtown, carefully dodging icy patches and people. We move as quickly as our frozen joints will allow. I keep one eye on our Paper Star guiding us where we’re meant to be and one eye on Jack, who’s doing a decent job at keeping up.

When the lantern disappears behind a building, I immediately turn left at the crosswalk, pulling Jack with me by his arm. It’s the fourth time we’ve touched tonight. There are layers upon layers of fabric to prevent our skin from actually touching, but there’s still something about the making contact part.

Fifteen minutes in, we’ve lost track of our lantern, and our fast-paced walking has made me sweaty. As soon as we stop moving, the cold sets in.

“Let’s stop there,” I say, pointing to a hotel.

“Yes, great,” Jack huffs. “I didn’t realize I signed up for a marathon.”

“This is what you do in the city. You walk. This is our first hotspot of the night.” We tuck under a covered hotel entrance canopy where heat lamps are mounted into the underbelly of the awning. It’s like stepping under an electric fire, a heat bubble protecting us from the cold. I exhale in satisfaction. I pull up directions on my phone to pose as lost tourists instead of freezing strangers stealing free heat. It seems to work. The doorman nods to us as we linger before refocusing on the hotel guests waiting for taxis and taking the warmth for granted.

“This is strangely satisfying,” Jack says, lifting his face up toward the heat lamps. “You call this a hotspot?”

I nod. “They’re the spots around the city that keep you warm. I found them as a kid. I know all of the different types. When you’re outside a lot, you find ways to stay warm.”

“Life in Los Angeles was very different,” Jack says. “My Gōng Gong took me to the beach often. We’d eat ice cream and snorkel.”

“Did you wait thirty minutes in between?”

“Never. There may have been times I ate ice cream while snorkeling,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching into an almost-smile. “Have you ever snorkeled?”

“Once. In Hawaii. I traveled a lot with my mom. She took the afternoon off so we could try it,” I recall.

Jack loosens the scarf as heat radiates down on us. “My parents traveled a lot, too. But I didn’t go with them.”

“What do you think we would think about each other if we met as kids?” I ask.

Jack tilts his head in thought. “Honestly? I likely would’ve been so focused on my studies that I may not have noticed you. But if I did, I probably would’ve thought you were cute.” He immediately clears his throat after that last word. “Why? What would you think?”

I smile, still lingering on the idea of him thinking that I was cute. “I probably would’ve asked to wear your snorkel gear. Then I would’ve gone to an art museum to see what the paintings looked like through the goggles.”

“They do give us the ability to see other worlds,” he says, nodding.

I peer into the sky, on the lookout for our lantern. What I think might be our lantern appears overhead. I stretch my hands out in front of me. “Can you feel your fingers yet?” I ask Jack.

He holds out his gloved hands. “Barely.”

“I see movement. You’re good. Come on!” I say, pulling Jack by the forearm. He stays close as we navigate the streets.

Another twenty or so minutes later, we’re in Hell’s Kitchen, having sprinted down Ninth Avenue in pursuit of our lantern. Another building obstructs our view. Just when I think all hope is lost, Jack spots the lantern hovering above an intersection. We found it!

We follow its light, stopping abruptly in place when the lantern goes dark. All that’s left is a shadow, the dark lantern now succumbing to wherever the wind will take it. Then, in an instant, the lantern combusts into a ball of fire, shooting through the air. It plummets to earth, leaving a streak of light in its wake. Finally it lands in a pile of slush, extinguishing on impact.

“No! Now we’ll never know if it was ours!” I scream at the pile of ash.

Jack frowns at the slushy mound and then points to his heart. “We know… in here.”

I raise my eyebrows. “But what does it mean that it ended like that? That can’t be good.”

“That was the closest meteor I’ve ever seen,” he says. “Just a little too close for comfort.”

“Yeah, it did look like a meteor, right?” I say.

Jack shakes his head. “No. Not a meteorite. It’s just a meteor.”

“What?”

“It’s just a meteor when a meteoroid enters Earth’s atmosphere and burns up, like our lantern. It becomes a meteorite when a meteoroid survives its journey through the atmosphere and hits Earth.”

I stare at him for a few seconds. “You just had to explain that, didn’t you?”

“I needed to make sure you understood.”

“Were you popular as a kid, Jack?”

He tilts his head down. “Not even a little. Not even now.”

I nod. “Just had to make sure.”

He smirks. “I guess that’s the end of the rainbow, then?”

I follow the invisible path from where the lantern went dark up to the building in front of it. On the street level are stairs leading to a bar below ground.

“Maybe that was supposed to happen, after all. This is where it took us,” I say, grinning. “Shall we?”

Jack must be curious, because he follows me. We descend the steps to the entrance of Mangetsu Jazz, where there’s an old wooden door with muffled music behind it.

“It’s like a speakeasy,” I whisper quietly to Jack. “How are we supposed to get in?”

Jack reaches over my shoulder and presses the button on the call box. It rings twice before a woman answers with, “Passcode, please?”

Jack and I lock eyes, as if the answer will be there.

“Full moon?” Jack says tentatively.

Two seconds later, there’s a buzzing noise, and then the door clicks. Success.

My jaw goes slack. “What… how? Are you serious? We’re in!”

“Mangetsu means ‘full moon’ in Japanese. It was a lucky guess.”

“You speak Japanese?” I ask.

Jack holds the door open to let me pass through first. “My dad is Japanese and Chinese American. He tried to teach me and my mom Japanese. My mom speaks some Chinese because of my Gōng Gong, but my grandma, who was White, only spoke English. All I remember from both languages are basic greetings, numbers, and random words like ‘swimsuit’ and, apparently, ‘full moon.’”

“Clearly words that come in handy during crucial moments,” I say. “My mom and I are trying to learn Chinese. It’s tough.”

I squeeze past him into the intimate, dimly lit room. Even at first glance, I can tell this place is magical. Immediately, we’re met with aromas of smoked wood and whiskey. The space is a saving grace for its warmth. Candles flicker in votives on small round tables covered in checkered cloth. The mirrored bar is fully stacked with Japanese whiskeys and sake. Table lamps are the main source of light, creating a relaxed ambiance for settling into the evening.

The bar is packed for a Tuesday night, but there’s one last table for two. We shake off the cold and slide into chairs across from each other, amused by our good luck. I soak in the atmosphere. Squeezed into the far corner is a two-person band—one pianist and one bassist—pouring their souls into the music. It’s a lively sound.

“Yummmm,” I groan, flipping the paper menu over in my hands. The menu is full of small plates like Japanese-style fried chicken, curry and rice, seaweed salad, and a couple of dessert options. “If I had to eat one thing for the rest of my life, it would probably be rice.”

Jack looks surprised. “That’s probably the least practical food choice for a lifetime of eating,” he says before pausing. “But I love rice, too.”

Our first similarity. I store that piece of information in my mind, collecting details about him like rare treasures.

The waitress swings by to take our orders, depositing a metal cone filled with breadsticks on the table.

“These are sprinkled with seaweed!” I have never before been this excited over a breadstick. I twist one between my fingers and admire it, the nori as small as confetti and dotting the dough like terrazzo.

We each order onigiri with different fillings—salmon for me, chicken for Jack—yuzu and ginger mocktails, and red bean ice cream for dessert.

Having mostly thawed, I unbutton my coat and drape it across the back of the chair. Jack does the same. Without the scarf and his puffy coat, I can see more of him for the first time. He’s wearing a thick sweater over a blue button-down. From what I know about Jack so far, this outfit doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. He seems like a rule-following professional through and through. He stretches up straighter in the seat. Jack still towers over me sitting down, so I’d peg him somewhere around six feet. He’s long-limbed, his shoulders broad but not bulky. When he leans forward to place his forearms against the table, I notice the sweater tugging against his waistline. From his shoulders to his waist looks like an upside-down triangle.

Across the room, the pianist stands while playing and turns around to the guests, a big smile on his face. The band plays a slow song and then picks it back up with a couple of fast ones. The vibe in here is contagious. Even for Jack, it seems. This is the longest smile I’ve seen on Jack’s face. At this point, his cheeks must be exhausted.

I sneak in another few seconds of looking at him, memorizing his features. From the print shop’s fluorescent lights to moonlight to this bar’s warm table lamp glow, the angles of his face change in different settings. What remains the same, though, despite where we are, are his gentle brown eyes.

I tear my gaze away from him right as the waitress is back with our orders, sliding our small plates in front of us along with the fruity mocktails housed in martini glasses.

“To our lantern.” I lift my glass, careful not to lose any liquid.

“We can’t be sure it was ours. To a lantern,” Jack corrects me with a charming smile, “that we assigned meaning to and followed relentlessly.”

“To fate, for leading us here,” I say, quickly tapping his glass with mine before he can add anything more and take a sip. It’s a sweet, fizzy blend of citrus and ginger.

Jack leans back against his seat, a skeptical expression hanging on his face. “To fate, huh?”

“Why do you look doubtful?” I ask, bending forward.

“Just the whole fate thing. I feel like I’ve heard that word too many times today. You believe things in life are predetermined?”

“I believe that there are circumstances and situations that are beyond our control. That certain things in life are already decided for us,” I explain. “Like who we’re meant to be with.”

Jack reaches back to lift one end of the scarf. “Right. The Red Thread of Fate.”

I take another sip of my beverage. “We don’t know what or who, exactly, until it happens.”

“And how can you confirm that certain events are fate’s doing?” he asks.

“There are signs.”

“Signs,” he says as he rubs his jaw in thought. “As in?”

As in us meeting on the night of a full moon. As in us being paired together for our lantern release. As in us seeing each other again shortly after losing each other at the party. Like we’re following the same path.

But I don’t say any of that, of course. It would be too much too soon. To confirm that he’s the man on the other end of my red string, I need more signs.

After my stretch of silence, he asks another question. “How do you quantify fate?”

A laugh spills out of me, and I split my disposable wooden chopsticks apart with more force than I intended. “You can’t quantify fate, Jack. It can’t be measured.”

“Sure you can,” he says, like it’s completely obvious. “Otherwise how do you know it’s actually fate at work?”

“Fine. I’ll play along. Let’s take the lantern that we spotted, as an example,” I say, sticking to safer territory other than love. “If we hadn’t gone outside, we wouldn’t have seen the lantern. The lantern could’ve blown anywhere, yet it brought us here.”

“It could’ve brought us to a different restaurant,” Jack says, waving his hand around. “Who’s to say this is the quote-unquote fated place to be?”

“Did you just say quote-unquote?” I ask, amused. “Typically you use your fingers to convey that.”

“Mine are still thawing,” he says with a glimmer in his eyes.

I poke at my onigiri with an uneven chopstick. “Look at this place. You had to guess a code—correctly, might I add—to even get inside. You think that just happens?”

Jack crosses his arms against his chest, relaxing into himself. The musicians are still playing upbeat music, energizing the entire place. “We chose to go outside. We chose to follow that lantern. We chose to try this bar out. There was nothing forcing us in. I felt no tug or pull or sudden epiphany or moment of clarity.”

“It’s the timing of life, Jack. If you had left that print shop even three seconds earlier, we wouldn’t have met.” I hadn’t even considered this morning until just now. More signs? “If you hadn’t been late to the party and come solo, we wouldn’t have been paired together. Should I keep going?”

Jack smiles like he’s figured something out. “Okay. There. See. Timing is everything.”

Under the small table, I can feel his knee bouncing up and down against my leg. The connection point sends a shiver down my spine. When he doesn’t elaborate, I give in. “You clearly want to say something about it.” I sigh dramatically for effect. “Tell me. Hypothetically speaking, how would you do it? How would you measure fate?”

Jack grins. “It’s less about a mathematical equation type of measurement and more about operationalizing. In my world, we have tests. If I were testing fate, I’d say you could assess it by showing up too early or too late to a place you’re supposed to be. You do that. You see what happens.”

“But when you decide to show up early or late, you’re making a choice. Your logic makes no sense.” I take a bite of my onigiri.

“Doesn’t the act of putting yourself in a situation, whether you’re early or late, still have fate at play? You don’t know what’s going to happen when you get there.” Jack lifts his onigiri with his chopsticks. Before he takes a bite, he has more to say. “Take the example you yourself gave. I showed up late to the party. You were early. We were paired together.”

Satisfied with himself, he finally takes his first bite. “Wow. That’s delicious,” he mumbles.

I tap my chopsticks together. “If I chose to show up late after you had arrived, we wouldn’t have been paired.”

“You don’t know that.”

When I’m silent a beat too long trying to figure out his reasoning, Jack tilts his head toward me. “I hope I haven’t offended you. I just think we determine the outcome of our lives. Every day, we make decisions. Every day, these decisions yield results. You call it fate. I call it choice.”

“It takes a lot more than expressing your opinion to offend me, Jack. Take that last breadstick and you’ll offend me, though,” I say with a grin before enjoying my last bite. “But you’re not changing my mind.”

“I can respect that,” he says.

The music increases in speed, the pianist and bassist really putting their skills on full display. It’s easy being around Jack. Some could call us strangers. Technically, we are, having known each other for just a few hours. And yet there’s something familiar about Jack that gives me the sense I’ve known him for longer, as though meeting him was like stumbling upon a new piece of art that feels like I’ve seen it a thousand times before.

Savory gives way to sweet when our red bean ice cream comes. I take a bite, letting the ice cream melt slowly on my tongue.

“This ice cream is thick. Very creamy. No weird aftertaste or coating on my tongue. That tastes like fresh whole milk,” Jack evaluates.

I point my spoon at him. “You’re like an ice cream sommelier.”

He takes another bite for a second round of assessment. “It’s something I like to do.”

“Eat ice cream? Same,” I say.

“Well, yes. Eating. But also making.”

“Do you have your own shop? Is that what you do? Is that why you’re here? You’re scouting locations for a new ice cream place!” This excites me a lot. “You said you have tests in your world. Like ice cream taste tests?”

“Nope. Nothing like that,” he says with a laugh. “I do like experimenting with making different ice cream flavors, though. Different measurements. See what results.”

“Like an ice cream scientist.”

He drags his spoon along the bottom of the bowl. “Let’s go with that. Here’s some ice cream science for you: when ice cream melts, it tastes sweeter than when it’s frozen. Frozen ice cream numbs the tongue. Melted ice cream doesn’t, so you taste more of the sugar when the ice cream is melted.”

I stare at my ice cream in disbelief. “Now that I know that, it sounds so obvious. My mind is also kind of blown,” I say, taking another bite to test out this fact.

“That’s not throwaway science, Rooney! That fact is relatable to your life,” Jack says, tapping his fingers against the spoon in his bowl.

I laugh while watching his fingers move to the rhythm. “Are you playing the imaginary guitar?”

He hides his hands in his lap. “Imaginary double bass.”

“Don’t stop! Keep going. It was beautiful.”

The music stops as the band takes a break. The temporary soundtrack to our conversation becomes the sound of glassware and ice clinking against tumblers.

He raises his eyebrows. “Show’s over.”

I wait for his fingers to reappear. “Are you in a band?”

“Definitely not. I play on my own for fun,” he says.

“So you play that,” I ask, nodding toward the large wooden bass. “Or electric?”

“Yeah. Like that one,” he says, slightly wavering.

“Show me.”

“It’s not like I can whip out a bass and play,” he says with a grunt.

An idea forms. “Be right back.”

When I leave the table, I watch Jack study the drink menu. With his back turned, I introduce myself to the bass player and explain my situation. She agrees to my plan, and I float back to the table to let Jack know the good news.

“Get ready to play,” I say casually.

Jack looks up at me, his face unchanged. “Play what?”

“That.” I gesture widely toward the band corner, where the upright bass awaits.

A mix of terror and excitement moves across Jack’s face. “They wouldn’t allow that. You’re testing me.”

I give him my best smile. “That seems to be the theme of the night. I talked to the band. The bassist agreed to let you use her bass. Just don’t pop a string.”

Jack wiggles his fingers in anticipation. “I didn’t plan for this.” He looks from the bass to the diners, his face flushed.

He’ll never do it. Unless my read on him is completely wrong? Does this serious, by-the-book man actually have it in him to go up in front of strangers and play an instrument? I really hope so.

“If it makes you uncomfortable, of course I’m not going to pressure you,” I tell him.

“Would going up there to play make you happy?” he asks.

“More than you’ll ever know.”

Jack gets up from his seat and walks over to the corner, whispering to the pianist. He positions himself behind the double bass, taking a second to admire the instrument. He avoids making eye contact with anyone as he begins to pluck.

And now the joke’s on me. He commands the bass effortlessly.

Jack knows the chords by heart, his fingers moving fast and smooth across the strings. They’re playing Billie Holiday’s “What a Little Moonlight Can Do,” and it’s perfectly upbeat. Despite the catchy tune and his graceful playing, Jack still looks nervous. All eyes are on him, and it doesn’t seem like this is something he’s used to.

Everyone continues eating their meals while some occasionally clap and shout, “Yes!” I snap my fingers, moving my shoulders up and down to the music. His mouth forms a firm, focused line, and he keeps his attention trained on the floor in front of him.

He looks up at me for the briefest moment, and our eyes connect. Suddenly, we’re smiling at each other, and I swear time slows down. The music becomes drowned out, like a passing siren moving farther and farther away.

Then, all at once, out of nowhere, like drifting into sleep or love, Jack is transformed. He and the band effortlessly transition into their second song together. The stiffness of his posture melts into a slight hunch over the instrument. He closes his eyes, and his face relaxes, the hard angles of his nose and jaw softening.

The music around me comes back in full force, as loud as ever.

Jack’s not an amateur. He’s good.

Within seconds, he’s breathed new life into the rhythm of the bar. My heart picks up a beat watching Jack lose himself in the music. Now they’re playing a double-time version of “It’s Only a Paper Moon,” the notes filling the air. I find myself singing along to the music with a few other people at nearby tables.

When Jack opens his eyes, he looks directly at me again. I’m still singing along to the music, knowing most of the lyrics. Jack shoots me another smile that practically screams, How absolutely wild is this?

And it is. Everything about this night is absolutely wild.

The man up there is not the Jack I met at the print shop or on the rooftop. This one’s more alive, less reserved.

I get out of my seat to dance with an older gentleman who’s swaying to the beat and clapping along. He takes my hand in his and gives me a twirl. I spin out, feeling the fullness of the chords reverberating through me.

Jack leans forward toward the microphone positioned in front of the bass and opens his mouth slightly.

He isn’t…

It’s a hesitation so slight, I almost miss it. Then I hear his voice singing along with my own, his low register booming out of a speaker on the bar. “It wouldn’t be make-believe if you believe in me,” he sings. He’s off-tune, and his voice cracks every other line.

He may be a professional musician, but he is not a professional singer. It doesn’t matter. The fact that he’s singing at all is charming as hell and, in all honesty, might be the most enchanting thing I’ve ever been witness to.

Only three minutes have passed, but it might as well have been thirty years. I fully lived each second of that song. Jack looks like he’s about to burst at the seams with excitement. He shakes the pianist’s hand and returns to the table. He leans back in the chair and chugs half his glass of water, smiling at me with a shine in his eyes. “Thank you for that.”

I shake my head at him, my cheeks aching from smiling so much. “And you don’t believe in fate.”