Chapter 8

JACK

Follow me,” Rooney instructs after we emerge from the subway station.

“I don’t know if I want to follow you anymore. Was that a rat in the subway car?” I ask, willing myself to shake off the thought.

“Absolutely not. It was a hot dog with legs,” she says with a shiver. “At least that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself. And you should, too.”

“I hear those are half-off on Tuesdays,” I joke. “So then those weren’t cockroaches but little pecans.”

She laughs. “Exactly.”

I spread my arm out in front of me, directing Rooney toward an invisible pathway. “In that case, lead the way.” After a stretch of silence, I add, “Tonight was… unexpected. In many ways. Definitely not part of my plans.”

“Or maybe it was,” Rooney says, tilting her head.

“Right. Fate,” I say, walking closely beside Rooney. “I have to know more about how this works. You make decisions on what food to eat. How did fate come into play there?”

She gives me a face. “Now it feels like you’re mocking it. The level of belief in fate varies for everyone.”

I put my hands up in front of me. “I don’t mean to. I’m genuinely curious about how it works for you. You make me want to understand it more, even if I disagree.”

“It’s something that’s been a part of my life from the very beginning,” she says slowly, like she’s being careful with which words she chooses. “Fate guides me in love and work.”

“Love and work,” I repeat. “The little stuff.”

“The littlest,” she teases back. “It guides the important stuff. Not what kind of tea I drink. You don’t ever feel like you come across opportunities or events or people in your life because you were meant to?”

I walk around an overflowing garbage can on the sidewalk. “I think what we experience is because of decisions we’ve made in life. We make a lot of small choices every day. Those decisions add up. And those decisions have consequences. Decisions that we made.”

“Do you believe in gravity?” she asks.

“It’s safe to assume I do.” I jump into the air, landing on an icy patch. My foot slides a few inches.

Rooney places her arm under my elbow to steady me, the pressure of her forearm on mine making me aware just how close I want her to be. She lifts an eyebrow as though quietly mocking my firm stance on gravity.

“And what is gravity but an invisible force pulling objects—oceans to the moon, you to the sidewalk, stringmates to stringmates—closer together,” she poses. “You can’t physically see gravity pulling items toward another object, but you trust it’s there, working its magic every day.” Rooney says this so confidently that it’s almost convincing.

I turn to face her and walk backward for half a block. “Sure, we can’t see gravity. But we can measure it. Gravitational effects are how we detect its presence. What are the gravitational effects of fate?”

She smiles. “I thought you’d never ask. People finding the person they’re meant to be with.”

“But how do you know?” I push on.

“Because I believe.”

I can feel a frown forming. “It’s the ambiguity I have a problem with. Life exists because Earth is the right distance from the sun. Any farther and it would be too cold. Any closer and we’d boil.” I look up at the dark sky. “The fact we exist right now is because of the right combination of temperature, oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, and other elements. And, of course, gravity.”

“And fate,” she says markedly.

“With even the smallest shift in anything that makes up Newton’s laws or the rules of atomic physics,” I continue, “we’d all be gone or never have existed. The universe evolved in enough time for intelligent life to evolve.”

“Everything you just said… how were we not fated to be here?” she asks. “You said it yourself. If anything were different, we wouldn’t be here. The stars aligned, and we were destined to exist. To be here in this moment in time.”

“All I can say is I’m glad to be here in this moment in time with you.”

Rooney peers up at me through her eyelashes. “Even if I look like a lobster?”

I laugh with her. “Especially because you look like a lobster.”

We cross the street to a nondescript Chinese restaurant with paper signs taped across the front. Drawn toward the restaurant like hungry tourists after a long bus tour. A red, blue, and green neon “Fried Dumpling” sign is displayed in the window. I’m immediately comforted by the thought. The awning features Chinese characters and the restaurant’s telephone number, both of which are faded, making them illegible.

“I can eat Chinese food at any time of day, but it’s the best late at night,” she explains. “Hence why I call them The Dumpling Hours. I swear dumplings are even more flavorful and chewy after midnight… Okay, yep. Let’s order a lot of them.”

I hold the door open for her as she continues to talk. “Besides corner bodegas, diners, and bars, not much else is open this late. Chinese restaurants are like the North Star. They’re always there when we need them. Constant and dependable. They guide us when we’re lost, hungry, or just need to get our bearings.”

The air is thick with the smell of garlic. “Many people think Polaris—the North Star—is the brightest in our sky,” I say, unzipping my jacket to let the warm air in. “But it’s not.”

“It’s not?” Rooney tugs off her hat. Strands of her straight brown hair stand from the static.

I shake my head. “It’s also not as constant as we think, but it is the fiftieth brightest.”

The constellation on her cheek lifts as she smiles. “I don’t know when I can use that, but one day, I’ll find somewhere to.”

We settle into a vinyl booth across from each other. The yellow walls are covered in black-and-white photos, some with signatures in the corners. Cloth is draped in swoops across the ceiling, the entire place glowing a hazy red.

We’re not alone in the restaurant. Two older men strategize over a game of Scrabble and refills of tea. A woman in a yellow safety vest dips a piece of chicken into sauce. In the corner, three college-age students hover over textbooks and their cell phones. It’s energetic in here, despite it almost being midnight.

I skim over sections for soups, fried rice, pork, beef, and shrimp. My eyes wander up to Rooney, who’s reading the menu like it’s a thriller. She’s intensely following the plotline of the menu. My mind wanders back to the print shop. Without the surfboarding New Yorker, I may never have met this amazing person across from me pondering noodle selections at midnight.

“What’s funny?” Rooney asks.

I realize I’ve snorted. “Oh. I’m just impressed by how many fried rice options there are. It’s too hard to choose.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “Right. Should we just do table dumplings?”

I rescan the menu, looking for what she’s referencing.

“It’s not on the menu,” she adds.

I look at other customers’ dishes. “Then how do you know they can make it?”

Rooney laughs. “It’s just a double order of pan-fried dumplings. For the table. We’ll share.”

I flip the laminated page of the menu. “We’re going to share dumplings?”

“We’ll also share the soy sauce. If that’s okay?” she asks.

I can’t remember the last time I shared a plate of food with someone. It feels intimate. “Okay. Sure. Good with me.”

Rooney lets the waitress know our order while I pour jasmine tea for both of us into little white porcelain cups.

“By midnight, I’m usually sleeping,” I admit, setting down the stainless-steel teapot.

“Yeah. In New York City, even when you’re at home and everything is quiet, you always know you can go somewhere, anywhere, and find another human being.” Rooney slides her teacup closer. “Sure, it’s the city that never sleeps, et cetera, et cetera. But you get to claim your corner of the city where and when you want it. Early morning, the middle of the night. On any day of the week. There are no rules. Does that terrify you?”

I grin. “I would rather have a routine during my preferred times of day.”

“On days like today, how long will it take you to readjust now that you’re off schedule?” she asks.

“I can usually course-correct within twelve hours.”

Rooney snaps her fingers. “I had you pegged at nine.”

“Ten when I’m feeling particularly motivated,” I say playfully.

“I can imagine a routine being nice,” she says. “Like the idea of having a coffee shop where they know your order. The city can sometimes feel isolating, but you’re never truly alone. I’m sure even in LA this is true. People are always somewhere.”

I attempt a very serious face. “You’re right. People are always somewhere.”

Rooney laughs. “Are you taking notes over there? I spew gold at this time of night.” She goes quiet for a moment. “So I was thinking about something.”

“What’s that?” I ask, taking a big gulp of tea.

“How fate comes into play in love and work for me, and the ways you wanted to test fate,” she says. “I materialize it in my own way, and you, what was the word you used? You operationalize it. Basically, we’re both just trying to understand fate in our own ways. And I think that’s beautiful.”

“That’s a nice way to put it,” I say. “I think the tests were coming along nicely. You know, in case you ever wanted to really put fate to the test.”

She scrunches her face. “I’ve lost track of what the tests were. That’s not really how my mind thinks. I’m a little more abstract, some would say.”

“Okay, here.” I pat my jacket for something to write on. Sure enough, I still have a folded-up Chinese menu from the conference. At least it’s good for something today.

“What are you—is that a menu for a different restaurant?” Rooney’s eyes widen as she looks around the restaurant. “Jack, that’s the competition. Do you make it a habit of carrying around Chinese take-out menus in your pocket?”

I smooth the paper menu out on the table. “You never know when the craving for lo mein will hit.”

Rooney laughs.

“May I borrow your pen again?” I ask.

She reaches into her bag and holds up our lantern pen and her new floaty pen. “Take your pick.”

“Ooh. The one that holds all the power. The Discipline Pen.” I make dramatic grabby hands at it, which makes her laugh extra hard. I really like making her laugh.

I pop off the cap and at the top of the menu write: Red String Theory. It merges Rooney’s belief and my science background. And a little bit of Red String Girl’s installation.

Rooney peers over to see what I’m up to. “Wow. Am I really about to witness operationalizing in real time? I feel like once you write out whatever it is you’re trying to capture, the earth’s axis might shift. The construct of time as we know it will be altered forever.”

“I’m doing this for you,” I say, locking eyes with her. “So maybe the first test is… Times Square? Saying yes to something you normally wouldn’t.” I turn the menu sideways and write this down in the empty column between offerings of egg rolls and sesame chicken.

“Right. The second was… the lantern party. So… show up early or late to somewhere you’re supposed to be!” she says excitedly.

I write this down next to Fate Test 1.

Rooney plays with the end of her scarf draped over the chair. “Was there a third? What about the floaty pen story? Returning something.”

I flip the pen between my fingers. “I appreciate that you’re getting into this,” I say. “Even if it’s just for fun. This helps me better understand.” And I do. I want to understand something so important to her. “But of course, I hope you get to experience fate and find your stringmate in the way you always envisioned it.”

Rooney’s eyes search my face. “Right. Of course.”

“So the third is returning a lost object. I’m still not sure how measurable these all are, but it’s a start.” These tests definitely wouldn’t fly at NASA. But like I told Rooney, this is just for fun.

Rooney taps her finger on the table. “That’s it? Just three?”

“Where else do people interact? Online?”

“Like online dating?”

“Sure. I’ve never done it but that seems to be successful for people,” I say.

Rooney twists her lips to one side. “Is that really fate, though?”

I think through the scenarios in my mind. “Sure, why not? You have the timing of when people sign up, whether or not they’re in the same city as you. The fact that they aren’t too far along into a conversation with someone else.”

“You make compelling points,” Rooney says. “There’s a timing element at play. What about social media? People slide into DMs, right?”

“What does that mean?” I ask, the neon light in the window catching my attention. It briefly flickers.

“Maybe it’s better you don’t know,” Rooney tells me.

I nod. “Chat rooms? Do those still exist?”

Rooney’s face lights up. “Probably? So Fate Test 4 can be interacting with someone online. Keep it vague.”

The waitress places our table dumplings between us. After Rooney picks out her first dumpling, I lift one with my chopsticks, dip it in soy sauce, and bite it in half. I close my eyes, letting the savory flavors and crispy exterior warm me from the inside out.

“Thanks for the tour tonight,” I say when there’s a natural lull between dumpling eating. “Or maybe I should say food tour.”

Rooney gestures around the restaurant. “For a man who doesn’t eat when the stars shine, you did good. This city has a lot of great food to offer.”

“It’s clear you really love it here.”

“I’ve never loved anything like I love New York City,” she says softly. It sounds heartfelt and true. Rooney looks down at the glossy table. “Though I can’t say for sure what love would feel like. I’ve never been in a serious relationship. It’s the hope for love one day, though, that inspires me.”

This surprises me. I say so.

Our eyes catch. Rooney studies me, her gaze intense. Like the world has been paused for two seconds. Then it speeds up, spinning faster than ever.

I inhale deeply. “I’ve never been in love, either.” I don’t say it to mock her or to fill the silence. I’ve never been in love. “My relationships don’t last more than half a year. That’s no time for love to take form, whatever love even means. Honestly, I fear it.”

“You fear love?” Rooney asks.

I shrug. “Love is so unknown, and I need to know the unknown. I’ve never met someone who I could feel secure enough with, I suppose. Never met someone who could be there consistently.”

Rooney nods, listening intently. I continue talking.

“Being in love seems like jumping into the deep end without knowing how to swim. Or going to space without a crew in Mission Control helping guide you.”

“It does seem like that,” Rooney agrees. “But I love the unknown because it’s hopeful and explorative. You have to take a leap of faith.”

I grin. “I prefer knowing where I’m going.”

“You took a chance with me tonight chasing our lantern,” she says.

“That was not typical for me,” I explain, still amazed that I agreed to follow Rooney all over the city. I didn’t think anything could distract me from this morning’s news and that shitshow of a conference. But then there was Rooney.

“And yet, there you were.”

I search for answers in Rooney’s eyes. But I think she’s looking for them in mine, too. “What if you spend your life chasing your lantern and it ends in a fiery crash?” I ask. “Was the search worth it?”

Rooney’s eyebrows rise, disappearing beneath her bangs. “If you knew where your lantern was going, would it be as beautiful of a journey? I like to believe it would lead you to the right spot at the exact moment of where you’re meant to be.”

The restaurant is quiet, everyone focused on the food in front of them. Even the classical music playing overhead is low on the speakers.

I clear my throat. “Can I ask you something?”

Rooney sets her chopsticks down. “Of course.”

I regret having made the moment more intense than it needed to be. I take a deep breath in and ask the question I’ve been dreading all night. “Where does our lantern take us?”