Chapter 12

One Month Later

JACK

It’s Day One of the Artist-in-Residence program, one of the most high-profile projects that I’ve ever worked on, and I’m running late. Or rather, Red String Girl and her team are early. Very early. I timed it so I’d be the first one there. Now I just look bad.

Sweat trails down my back as I open the gate to the Mars Yard, where we’re all meeting. Why did I think it would be a good idea to have our first team meeting outside at the end of August instead of in an air-conditioned conference room?

The Mars Yard at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory is a simulated Martian landscape for testing robotic prototypes and applications. I figured that’d be fun. A visual, hands-on place that an artist might love to see.

But now that I’m going to show up drenched, I am cursing Past Jack and his decisions.

I slow from a run to a jog up to the group of people huddling in the Yard. Did everyone get the memo to be extra early today? It looks like Kenneth, Margie, and Nick are already here. So the other two must be Red String Girl and her assistant.

My already-pounding heart picks up speed at the thought of meeting Red String Girl. Do I tell her I’m sorry that her installation was cut down in the way that it was? Or ignore it altogether? Probably best not to say anything. No one wants to be reminded about things like that.

“There’s Jackson Liu now,” Kenneth, who’s facing me, shouts. He gives me a tight smile.

I wave my hand in the air. “Apologies. But I come bearing Welcome Packets,” I say between breaths as I run over. I spot who must be Red String Girl from behind. She’s in a sweater and a red skirt. A sweater in August? I hope she doesn’t get too hot. I’m now realizing it might’ve been nice to bring water for everyone.

I continue with my apology as I near the group. “I really am so sorr—”

As Red String Girl turns around, a sharp pang shoots through my chest. My entire body goes numb in a split second. It’s only when Kenneth is profusely apologizing that I realize I’ve dropped the stack of Welcome Packets mid-jog. In my peripherals, I see packets on the ground covered in dust. But in my direct line of sight, all I see is red.

And by red, I mean Rooney. Why is Rooney here? Unless…

I run my hand down my face, rubbing my eyes to make sure she’s not a figment of my imagination brought on by heat and exertion from my midday jog.

My mouth goes dry as I try to find the words. She looks exactly the same as she did six months ago, just with slightly longer hair. She’s in a red knitted sweater and skirt, her lips painted a striking shade of ruby. She’s both familiar and a complete stranger.

At the sight of me, Rooney’s face pales, and her smile morphs into a frown.

“Jack?” she finally whispers, so low I almost miss it. She looks at the woman to her left, who has a day organizer tucked into her arms, a pen at the ready.

Rooney’s voice is so familiar, having become deeply ingrained in my mind. In hearing it, I’m pummeled by a wave of memories. They happen in glimpses. Her wrapping the scarf around my neck at the print shop. The fire from the lantern casting shadows across her face. Her dancing to my music. Sitting under the moonlight on the bench at her Spot. Sharing dumplings at midnight. An entire night plays out in front of me. I’m right there, and I’m right here.

After months of searching and troubleshooting how to find her, here she is. Problem solved. I thought it was easier to find life on another planet than it was trying to find Rooney. The discovery releases something tight and anxious inside me.

Kenneth takes a step toward me and hands me the dusty packets. “This is Jackson, the mission liaison. He’s a systems engineer on the mission you’ll be learning about.”

At this, Rooney’s eyes grow wider.

“Are you okay, Jackson? You look queasy,” Margie says.

I cling to the Welcome Packets so tightly that they crease. I’m supposed to be a professional here. “Sorry. This is just so… a lot. It’s not every day you meet someone whose art you’ve seen in real life.”

The woman next to Rooney extends her hand first. “I’m Talia Ma,” she says. “My gallery represents Red String Girl.”

I mirror her actions, too stunned to think one step ahead. “Right. Sorry. I’m Jackson Liu.”

I slowly move my hand from Talia’s over to Rooney. She looks at it like I’ve just sneezed into it.

So if Talia is Red String Girl’s representative, that would make Rooney…

Red String Girl.

In my mind, I hear the clicking of pieces into place. This admission doesn’t feel like a surprise. It feels obvious. Because of course she’s Red String Girl. It’s all so clear now. Her knowledge of the Red Thread of Fate, all of her red knit clothing, her interest in art. So then who was the woman handing out paper? Add it to the list of unknowns.

It’s subtle, but I notice Talia nudging Rooney. It’s as though she’s snapped out of a trance. She places her hand in mine slowly. We squeeze at the same time and a chill runs up my neck.

Our eyes lock, and her lips part, as though she wants to say something. “I’m Rooney Gao.”

There could still be a chance that she’s not Red String Girl. That they’re both assistants. Would that make this any less weird? Highly doubtful.

“I’m Jackson,” I say, sharing with her the name I use at work.

Rooney pulls back from me. The absence of her hand in mine is noticeable. I grip the Welcome Packets with both hands now to fill the void.

“We’re all very excited, and a little starstruck, clearly,” Kenneth says, jumping in to keep the afternoon moving along. His tone of voice tells me that this is a warning and it had better not happen again. This program is too high-profile to get off on the wrong foot with our guests. No, NASA’s guests.

“Here at NASA? You’d think you see enough stars,” Rooney jokes, gesturing up toward the sky.

The comment takes the attention off my clumsiness. Luckily for me, the team moves on.

“I want to assure you, Rooney and Talia, that you’re in great hands,” Kenneth adds. “Jackson’s knowledge about the mission is vast.”

I nod, unable to form more words.

“As I understand it, Talia, you’ll be fairly hands off,” Margie says, checking her notes. “And Rooney, thank you for deciding to trust us.”

I look from Margie to Rooney. “Trust us?”

“Jackson, before you arrived, Rooney let us know that she’s Red String Girl,” Margie tells me. She looks excited. Probably not at all what my face looks like right now.

There it is. Confirmed.

“Red String Girl.” I take a deep breath in to steady myself. “I see. Well, thank you for trusting us.”

Rooney winces at this, and I don’t know what’s more confusing. The fact that she didn’t tell me who she was that night or that I understand why she didn’t so I can’t even be mad.

I want to be careful here. I told Kenneth that I didn’t know Red String Girl. Which was true at the time. But now… now I realize that I do. But how much of someone can you really know in one night? If I say that we know each other, I might compromise her position. After what happened to Entangled, I wouldn’t risk taking anything else away from her. And the fact that Rooney hasn’t said anything either must mean she’s thinking the same. So I stay quiet.

“In return, teams she meets here must agree to keep her identity private. To the public she will remain anonymous,” Margie finishes explaining.

I nod. “We’ll make sure everyone you meet at various centers around NASA signs nondisclosure agreements,” I say. “We’ll also make sure you have access to buildings to create your installations in the off-hours.”

Rooney’s eyes soften, and she seems to relax a little. “Thank you. Hey, I have to know, who chose Red String Girl to do this?” she asks the group. “It’s still pretty amazing to believe that Red String Girl, um, that I will be creating something for NASA.”

I let someone else on the team take this one. They can explain how we narrowed down artists and more about the responsibilities.

Instead, Nick decides to jump in and say, “Oh! Jackson put your name in.”

In hindsight, not speaking first was a bad idea. I blow out a breath of air.

The look of shock has resumed its position on Rooney’s face. “Oh…”

“You’re kidding,” Talia says, crossing her arms. Why does she look amused?

“Your installation,” I interrupt in my defense. “What you do. It’s unique. Entangled showed what you could do with science and art. The literal merging of the two. We thought you could potentially do something interesting with FATE.”

“Well, yes. Fate is at the core of my installation work,” she says, nodding in understanding.

“But also with FATE, the mission,” Nick clarifies.

I dip my head and groan silently.

“Wait. Your mission is named, what, FATE?” Rooney’s eyes sparkle. “No way. Who did that?”

I stuff my hands into my pockets. “I actually named it. It stands for Fuel Atomized Technology Equipment.”

She puts her hands up on her hips and smiles so hard that the constellation on her cheek morphs into a new shape I’ve never seen. I’ve fallen out of the habit of connecting the dots. I have a sinking feeling it’s a habit that will come back without any effort at all.

“You believe in fate,” she asks. “And you made it your mission.”

Rooney is warming up. She feels as familiar as she was that night in the city. It’s unnerving.

I shake my head. “It’s not my mission. It’s my team’s mission.”

“This guy! Team player right here!” she tells the team, pointing at me. Her word choice hits deep. Am I really a team player, though? Feedback in my last performance review would indicate otherwise.

Kenneth, Margie, and Nick all laugh. Talia gives a smile like she’s playing along, but I can tell she’s analyzing me. I don’t like being analyzed.

I check my phone for the time.

Talia grunts. “Oh, good. Glad to see you have a phone in working order. You can communicate with us, like you’re expected to,” she says. This feels loaded somehow.

Rooney nudges her and whispers something.

I attempt to redirect everyone’s attention. “Anyway. We’re looking forward to your time with us,” I say in my most professional tone. “As you can see, we’re in the Mars Yard.”

Rooney looks around, confused. “Where’s the ice?”

I sigh. The pamphlets.

Rooney walks over to a large rock and attempts to lift it. “Those aren’t very heavy,” she says.

I join her and tap the rock with the palm of my hand. “They’re volcanic rock,” I inform her as I bend down to lift a smaller one. “They help create a more accurate environment of the Red Planet.”

I place it back onto the dusty ground, a mix of beach sand, brick dust, volcanic cinders, and decomposed granite. The overall terrain takes on a tint of red. For a moment, if I ignore the houses on the hills and deer-crossing signs and the sounds of cars driving by on the road, I could pretend that I’m on a different planet.

Right now it certainly feels like I’m existing in an alternate world or plane. Like at any moment I might wake up and it will all have been a dream. Just like the way that night in New York felt.

Something catches Rooney’s attention. She kneels to the ground, looking excited.

“I found life! Our job here is done,” she shouts, pointing to a small green weed poking out of the soil. When she lifts her head, her bangs fall across her forehead, accentuating her eyes. It stirs something deep in me that I haven’t felt in six months.

I pluck the weed out of the ground. “We can try to leave this planet, but problems will follow us wherever we go,” I say grimly.

She must think I’m joking because she laughs. It’s the laugh that has accompanied—no, haunted—my dreams for half a year.

But this isn’t a dream. Rooney is really here, and we need to work together. There wasn’t enough preparation in the world that I could’ve done to ready myself to ever see Rooney again.

It’s not like she’s going to require hand-holding every single day. I shake off my poor choice of words. There will be no hand-holding, obviously. Rooney will spend time with other teams in the agency, so it won’t be a twenty-four/seven situation. I’ll simply provide information about the mission. Answer questions. Offer more space facts. Ensure that this program is a success and get a promotion. Rooney has spent six months existing in my head. I can spend twelve months with her in real life. Then she’ll leave.

It’s going to be fine. This year is going to fly by.