Chapter 7

JACK

Outside the jazz club, small flurries blow around in the wind. It’s as though New York City has been turned upside down, and the snow doesn’t know where to land.

It’s 9:28 p.m.

“Do you have to go?” Rooney asks, catching me looking at my watch. A dusting of snow gathers on her shoulders.

I linger near her. “What’s the alternative?”

“We can walk.”

“Just… walk around?” I ask. “Do you have a plan? Are there any places you want me to see?”

“That’s the beauty of the city,” Rooney says, holding her hands up toward the skyscrapers. “You don’t need a plan. Life will unfold in front of us, depending on which corner we turn down. I’m always discovering new places this way.”

“So, no plan.” I prefer plans. No, I require them. I need to know how long something will take. When can I expect to be back at my hotel? Is where we’ll be walking safe? There are too many unknowns without a plan. And yet. “You’re not too cold?”

She shakes her head. “Not if we walk fast enough. Trust me, this’ll be fun.”

I pinch my eyebrows together. I don’t trust. I verify. Every last measurement. Every last approach. Every potential problem. And I have a sneaky suspicion Rooney could be a problem. A cute problem. I never know what to expect from her. But that’s part of the allure. I want to figure her out, understand her mysteries and every inch of her unknowns.

I’m still riding my high from the jazz club. “Trust you? I guess I’ll have to. As long as the lights are still on.” I nod up at the full moon before snapping my fingers and singing, “Oooh.” Rooney joins in on the snaps and “oooh-ing.”

“You really can play,” she says, the beginning of a smile forming. The constellation on her cheek lifts when her mouth grows wider.

I drag my focus from her smile to her sparkling eyes. “The truth is, I’m an even better singer.”

“I don’t know how you’re not headlining concerts,” she says as we stroll down the block aimlessly. “Unless you are… are you a professional musician?”

“I’m flattered,” I say. “I started playing the bass and cello in high school. It’s an instrument designed to collaborate. I liked that.”

She nods slowly. “A real team player.”

She’s the only one who seems to think so.

“I like being part of something bigger than myself,” I reveal.

“So there is a band.”

I tuck my hands into my pockets. “Not quite. I play for me, not for others. Certainly not in public like that. In fact, I haven’t played in front of anyone since I was a teenager.”

She gently bumps me. “The world deserves to know your talent.”

I grin at her. The buzz from the performance still has control over me.

It was a bar full of people. Yet there was only Rooney.

“How far is Times Square from here?” I ask.

Rooney laughs. “You don’t want to go there.”

“Isn’t that quintessential New York? I can’t come to the city and not visit it.” I soak in the view of all the buildings towering over us.

She breathes in deeply. “That’s exactly what you should do. Trust me. Don’t ever go there.”

I stand firmly in place and cross my arms. “I want to go to Times Square.”

“Jack, have you ever been punched in the face before?” She sounds serious.

“No.”

“Would you ever ask someone to punch you in the face?”

“Why would I do that?” I ask.

“That’s essentially what you’re asking me to do,” she says.

“I want to see if Buzz Lightyear is there,” I insist. “Let’s just swing by and check.”

“‘Just swing by and check,’ he says,” Rooney mumbles. She shakes her head and barrels past me as I follow her. “This goes against everything I know to be true.”

I think for a moment, recollecting our conversation from the jazz bar. “What if your string-soulmate—is that what you’d call them?—is in Times Square at this very moment?”

“I highly doubt that,” she says with a grunt. “And I call them stringmates. But not plural. Just one. One stringmate. That’s it.” She purses her lips and looks away from me. Is she blushing?

“Right. Stringmate. Maybe the fact that you don’t want to be there means that you should be there. To see what fate has in store.”

Rooney looks back at me with curiosity. “Are you back to testing fate?”

I consider this. “Why not? Another way to test fate is to… say yes to something you normally wouldn’t.”

Rooney is quiet for a beat. “I played along earlier so why stop now? The only way I’m doing this is if we move quickly and you don’t stop for photos.”

I feel a small smile form. “Sure. No photos, plural. But maybe just one.”

Times Square is a vibrant and bright intersection with restaurants, theaters, and shops. It’s the heartbeat of a city that I’m certain, despite the slogan, does fall asleep. Billboards featuring the latest shows and music hang above us. Digital signs flash and vie for our attention. It’s sensory overload as we wind around tourists taking photographs and holding Playbills.

“I can’t believe I almost missed this because of you!” I shout to Rooney over honking cars and music blasting from street vendors.

She stays close to me, keeping her arms tucked to her sides. “You’re enjoying this?”

“I feel alive!” I shout, lifting my hands in the air. I take in every sign and Broadway marquee. “Rooney! Come here!”

“Do you see Buzz?” she asks, her expression hopeful.

I grab Rooney by the shoulders and spin her around to face me. “Don’t look now.”

“What is it?” she asks, panicked. Slowly she turns around and bursts into laughter when she sees the Red Lobster restaurant sign. “You’re sick.”

“You’re safe with me, Lobster Girl.”

Rooney smiles and rolls her eyes. “You really love this that much? If you’re okay with getting punched in the face, you okay with getting kneed in the groin?”

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” I say.

Rooney leads me into a souvenir shop where the windows are lined with T-shirts featuring catchy slogans and the “I Heart New York” logo. Half a dozen racks showcase hats, mugs, stickers, license plates, and keychains, all trying to capture the essence of New York City.

Rooney holds up a pen in front of her. “I used to have floaty pens as a kid! You don’t see them as much nowadays,” she says as she tilts the end of the pen toward the ground. She flips it upright and turns it to show me. I watch as the Empire State Building floats from the top of the pen down toward the tip. “My two friends met when one of them returned the other’s lost pen. Now they’re married. It looked like this but had the Leaning Tower of Pisa instead.”

“Who knew someone would care so much about a lost pen?” I shake a mini snow globe keychain. Glitter falls over New York City. “This has my name on it. Let’s see if they have yours.”

“You think they’ll have a keychain with my name on it?” she asks. “I’ll bet you a million dollars they don’t have it. Easiest money I’ve ever made.”

“There are some interesting names out there. You might be surprised. And if they don’t, it’s their loss in profit. You have a great name,” I say, searching carefully through the rack. “I’d buy all of the Rooney snow globes if I could.”

Rooney gazes up at me through her eyelashes and smiles. “Thanks. Apparently, it was an Irish ancestor’s name on JR’s side. JR is my biological father.” She runs a finger along the metal loops of the keychains. “It was generous of my mom to give him any input at all. My first name was decided before I was even born.”

This feels like a potentially loaded statement, but she’s still smiling and said all of this so nonchalantly. I decide not to make it a bigger deal by asking questions.

“I have a soft spot for snow globes and actually have a pretty extensive collection,” Rooney shares. “When my mom and I went on trips, we’d get one of the city we were in. Would your parents bring back souvenirs?”

“Actually, no. There weren’t gift shops where they went. But that sounds really nice,” I tell her. I search through each snow globe keychain. She’s right. Her name is nonexistent. “I guess you’re right. Sorry.”

“I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll never have my name on a license plate or keychain,” she says. “Don’t let that stop you from getting one, though. I’m getting this pen!”

I clutch the snow globe in my palm. “As a memento for this trip.”

“Yes. A memento.” Another grin takes over. Somehow seeing her happy makes me happy.

I pay for my “Jack” keychain, as well as her floaty pen. We keep walking with our new souvenirs in tow. Just a few blocks outside of Times Square, we’re back in the darkness.

“Why did you bring me there? That was horrible,” I joke. “Aren’t you glad you said yes?”

“I’ll admit it was better than I anticipated,” she says, “even though we didn’t get your picture with Buzz.”

“Or find your stringmate,” I add. Saying this out loud feels weird for some reason. I don’t think I like it.

Rooney raises her eyebrows. “I don’t know. Did you see Elmo? We look like we’re made for each other,” she says with a laugh.

“Now that’s the picture we should’ve gotten. I guess toys and superheroes have to sleep, too,” I say. “New York wouldn’t be New York without Times Square. You take it for granted. It’s like how we take the moon for granted. There’s literally a natural satellite right there. How often do we stop to appreciate that?”

“Not often enough,” Rooney says with sincerity.

When we pass by lit storefronts, I see that her cheeks are rosy from the cold and power walking. How did I end up sharing this night with a beautiful woman? I shake off the thought. She’s practically a stranger. My pseudo–tour guide. My smart and charming city chaperone.

“What’s something cool that you’ve done?” I ask her.

Rooney laughs. “Wow. Here comes the identity crisis. Uh, I once received painting lessons from this incredible artist who paints these iconic abstract landscapes full of vivid color using objects she finds in nature as her paintbrushes. She even makes her own pigments and paints using colors she finds in the wild like petals, leaves, and berries. Cool, right?”

“Sounds resourceful.”

“Long story short, I now have a painting hanging in MoMA. Oh, sorry. That’s the Museum of Modern Art.”

I chuckle. “I may not know a lot about New York or art, but I do know what MoMA is.”

I must look impressed because she quickly explains herself.

“Well, technically the piece is hers. I’m not even credited or anything,” she says, waving her mittened hands in the air. “All I did was use daisies to swipe butterfly pea flower paint onto the canvas.”

“To represent water?” I ask.

“It was actually for a painting of Mars,” she says.

My ears perk up. “So they’re not Earth-based landscapes?”

“Not always. The sunsets are blue on Mars. Did you know that? I thought that was the coolest thing,” she says, her voice dreamy. “That’s why I chose the pea flower.”

She’s clearly excited by this. I don’t have the heart to tell her that I do, in fact, know this about Mars. That it’s because of the iron oxide in the atmosphere that scatters the red wavelengths of light, leaving room for the blue light to have its moment.

“Sounds like not all sunsets are the same,” I say.

“Like snowflakes,” she says, looking up at one that’s landed on her dark brown eyelashes.

“I want to see the painting,” I declare.

“Too bad. MoMA is closed right now.” Rooney reads the street signs. “We’re not far from the museum. About eight or so minutes from here.”

We pass darkened store windows with steel gates pulled down in front. I’m not used to being out past 10:00 p.m. Seeing the bones of a city without life breathed into it is unnerving. Like intruding on someone when they’re not ready for guests.

We cross one avenue over and are no longer alone on the sidewalks. Rooney’s pace slows. Her attention is directed toward the large white modern building across from us. MoMA. It’s big but unassuming, plopped halfway down the street. Not even on a corner.

“I can’t take you into the museum itself,” Rooney says, tugging on her hat. “But I’ve decided to show you My Spot.”

We walk the rest of the avenue and down one block around what would be the back of the museum. We cross the street. Rooney makes an immediate left turn into an alleyway so narrow, I almost miss it. A flimsy fence door blocks our path. We don’t turn around. Rooney fiddles with the hook and opens the door wide enough for us to fit through.

More illicit activities. Before I can panic or identify security cameras, we’ve arrived.

It’s a small opening tucked between the forgotten back areas of a restaurant and a spa. In the daylight, this space might feel less claustrophobic. In the darkness, there’s only light from nearby streetlamps and store signs that probably never turn off.

Despite where it’s located, Rooney’s Spot is immaculate. There’s an ornate metal bench lined up against the side of a brick wall. In the center of a circular patch of grass is a modern sculpture.

“It’s called X Marks The,” Rooney says with a sly smile. She watches as I survey the space.

“Hence it being your Spot.”

Literally. It’s an outdoor sculpture about three feet high. A steel “X” on a three-dimensional sphere. An “XO” or an “OX” depending on which way you look at it.

“The artist made the sculpture just for this secret hideaway,” she says.

“Is it secret if people know about it?” I ask.

Rooney shoots me a look as she settles into the bench that looks unworn by visitors. “Not a lot of people do know. The key to this garden is the knowledge that it even exists.”

“Sure. Yep. A mental key,” I say. “How do you even know about this place? If it’s such a secret and all.”

Rooney looks around at the square cutout. “I found it randomly one night as a kid.”

“You came here as a kid? Maybe no one knows about it, but there’s no way that’s safe.”

She shrugs. “This city is my home. It’s what I know. This Spot was my escape. I would come here when I needed distance from my mom.”

I join Rooney on the bench and face her as she talks.

“I spent a lot of time with her growing up,” she says. “It was just us two. She was—is—a force. Sometimes she’s too much to be around. Topics of conversation usually end up about her.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “She always knows what to say about things, always has an opinion. That doesn’t leave much room for others who are trying to find their voice.”

The veil of Rooney’s confident demeanor slips. Her edges start to poke through.

“No. It doesn’t,” I say, knowing exactly what she means.

“Her star was so bright, sometimes I had to duck for cover. I found that here.”

Instead of being a dark, dingy back alley, The Spot takes a new form. A soft place to land among concrete and steel.

“Thank you for sharing your Spot with me,” I say. “I won’t tell a soul.”

“You don’t realize how much faith I just put in you, Jack,” she says. “In hindsight, that may have been too much responsibility to give you all at once. And too much trust. You’re not a journalist, are you? You don’t write pieces on What to Do with Twenty-Four Hours in Various Cities around the World, right?”

I lift my left eyebrow. “I can’t confirm whether I do or not,” I say, “but you can look out for my next piece about New York City and the hidden hideaway near MoMA. It’ll be live next week. Let me just take some photos while we’re here.” I dramatically reach for my cell phone in my pocket.

Rooney’s eyes widen, and she pushes my arm playfully. “Try it!”

The sounds of our laughter blend together.

“I can’t have a photo to remember this by?” I ask. I press the side of my phone, but it stays dark. “Great, my phone’s dead.”

“Here,” she says, snapping a photo with her phone. “I’ll text it to you. But you must swear on your life you won’t show anyone. What’s your number?”

I tell her my number as she taps it into a new message.

“Was that a five or a nine at the end?” she clarifies.

“Nine. Ends with one nine.”

“Oh, okay, hold on.” She taps delete a couple of times and retypes numbers on the touchscreen. “There, sent. When you have battery, respond to my text so I know you got it.”

“That’s great,” I say. “Now I have your number, and you have mine. If fate should have it, we’ll talk again.”

“Ha, ha,” she says, shaking her head.

“Or I’ll decide to text you back. I guess we’ll see.”

Once again, she bumps me with the side of her arm. I still don’t mind it. “You’re gathering quite the souvenirs. Top secret photo of a hidden gem, a snow globe keychain, more memories than you’ll probably remember…”

“There’s no way I’m forgetting tonight,” I say. It’s the truth.

She pulls up her own scarf over half her face, covering a grin. “Did you ever have any favorite spots when you were a kid?”

I shift on the cold metal bench. “Me? Oh. I lived with my Gōng Gong for most of the year growing up. It was mostly just him and me.”

“When your parents traveled?” she asks.

“Exactly. They were away for work a lot.”

She nods. “And his house was your Spot?”

I tilt my head down. “That’s a nice way to put it. It was my hideaway, my favorite spot, my literal home away from home.”

“Were you given a pet as a distraction?” she asks.

“I wish. I think my parents worried something like that would’ve fallen on their shoulders when they were home, so it wasn’t even an option.”

“When I pass dogs on the streets, sometimes I’ll pretend they’re mine and walk side by side with them for a block or two until it gets weird,” Rooney admits.

I’m amused by this mental picture.

Yellow light from a window in the building next door streams down into Rooney’s Spot. The light plays off the sharp edge of the “X.”

“You’re into art,” I say, changing the topic.

Her lips form into a subdued smile. “I’m interested in the ways people choose to creatively express themselves.”

“That’s a fancy way of saying yes.” I think for a moment. “There’s a Red Thread of Fate–inspired art installation I think you might like. Not sure if you’ve heard of it.”

Rooney’s grin flatlines. “What? You saw… an installation?”

“It was near the print shop,” I inform her, gesturing above us. I have no idea which way is uptown or downtown. “We can go now. But it might be too dark to see it.” I check my watch.

“Oh, uh, that’s okay,” she says, her voice an octave higher. “I’ll check it out.”

“Okay. Yeah. I hope you will,” I say.

A few seconds pass before Rooney glances up at me. Her face has noticeably brightened. “Jack, have you ever heard of The Dumpling Hours?”