Chapter 13

ROONEY

This is going to be the longest year of my life. I already thought it was going to feel like forever trying to get creatively unblocked. Now this.

I laugh so I don’t have an emotional breakdown. No. I am completely and totally fine.

“Definitely. The problems follow wherever we go,” I respond to Jack, who’s holding a baby weed between his fingers. I could sketch those hands from memory. I’ll never be able to get the thought of him playing bass out of my head. With those eyes. With that voice. With those fingers.

“Rooney!” Talia calls for me. I snap out of my thoughts and stand. “Jackson is going to take you on a tour. I’m heading back to the gallery, but text me later. We have a lot to catch up on.”

I haven’t even had a chance to freak out to her about this—seeing Jack again, him being here of all places. I plaster a smile on my face and nod.

“If there’s anything else you need, please let us know,” Kenneth tells us. “Jackson, we’ll let you take it from here.”

Kenneth, Margie, and Nick walk with Talia out of the yard, leaving Jack and me behind. Just the two of us alone together.

“This way,” Jack says, pointing to a side gate in the chain-link fence.

“Great. Thanks, Jack,” I say with one eyebrow raised. “Or should I call you Jackson?”

He lets me exit the yard first. “Jackson is my full name. It’s what colleagues call me. But you already know me as Jack, so that’s probably fine.”

I nod. “It won’t be weird that I’m the only one calling you by your nickname?”

Jack wrinkles his nose. “I think it would be weirder if you called me Jackson.”

“Fine. And true. How about this? I become the offbeat anonymous artist who gives nicknames to everyone. That way you don’t stick out.” I nervously laugh to myself as Jack continues marching forward.

We begin crossing the campus to start the tour at what Jack explains to me is the Space Flight Operations Facility. Large buildings surround us. JPL, short for Jet Propulsion Laboratory, is practically its own little city within La Cañada Flintridge, though most people credit Pasadena as being JPL’s home, Jack explained. “It’s a whole thing,” he said with a shrug.

As we walk, my mind races with questions but nothing comes out. It feels like running into an auntie you haven’t seen since you accidentally broke her porcelain vase when you were thirteen years old but still to this day act like it never happened.

“Jack,” I finally say.

“Yes, Ms. Gao?” he says courteously. “Or Red String Girl? Which do you prefer?”

I make a face. “With you? Neither. Just like I know you as Jack, you know me as Rooney.”

“Rooney” is all he says. It’s been six months since I last heard my name on his lips, and after all this time, it still sounds sweet.

I smile. “That’s better.”

“It’s you. I can’t believe it,” he adds. Jack’s posture loosens, the muscles in his face relaxing.

“It’s me. Glad you remember,” I say. Honestly, it’s a relief to know he’s as shocked as I am.

“I knew it was Roo-something, so I took a wild guess,” he says clumsily like he’s trying to make a joke.

“You’re actually spot-on. My name is Rooney Something. Good memory, but I don’t remember telling you my middle name,” I say with a smirk.

Jack’s eyebrows pop up. “Yeah, and my middle name is N slash A for Non-Applicable.”

“No, seriously. My middle name is Something,” I say. “When my mom was asked what my middle name was, she was deciding between Something and Whatever.”

“Oh,” Jack says neutrally. “Sorry about that. In all honesty, I don’t have a middle name. I guess Something is better than nothing.”

I grin. “Only if you like that something.”

Jack pinches his eyebrows together. “So, Rooney Something Gao. RSG. Red String Girl. That’s very… what did you call it in the print shop? Symbolic.”

Jack mentioning the moment we met throws me off. I’ve longed for this since that night, but we’re not in New York City anymore. We’re walking and talking but the context couldn’t be more different. The lit-up skyscrapers that surrounded us have been replaced by olive trees that confidently take up space. We shift awkwardly as the tension builds in the silence.

“I’m sorry about Entangled,” Jack says as we cross the street. “I had blabbered on about it to you that same night that, well, you know. I thought the artist was someone else.”

“You don’t need to be sorry—” I stop in my tracks. “Wait. Who did you think the artist was?”

Jack hesitates. “I met this blunt older woman at your installation. She was handing out sketchbook paper. Her clothing was covered in paint,” he reveals. “She knew a lot about the art and its themes, which is why I thought it was her.”

My jaw drops. “You met my mom,” I say, covering my face with both hands. “What did she say? Actually, it’s better if you don’t tell me.”

“That was your mom?” Jack asks.

“The one and only.”

Jack grimaces and runs a hand through his hair, the ends sticking up a bit. I’m tempted to reach out to flatten the strays, but I’d like for this moment to be less awkward.

Instead, I hold out my hands in front of him, just close enough to touch. “Jack, you clearly didn’t know about Entangled, and you were right that I would’ve loved it. Besides, I have a different perspective about it now. Look where it led me,” I say, lifting my arms up toward the sky. “I’m in California!”

“That you are,” Jack affirms.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say who I was,” I feel the need to add. “It didn’t feel like the right time.”

“I get it,” Jack says. He looks like he means it. “You’re anonymous to the public. It makes sense you would tell us who you are now that we’re working together. Otherwise, it’s a logistics nightmare.”

“Thanks for being so nice about it,” I say.

“I’m Jackson at work,” he says with a smirk. “I kind of live a double life, too.”

I catch up to Jack and reach for his arm, stopping him in the middle of the sidewalk. Since the Mars Yard, he’s folded up his sleeves. My fingertips prickle when it strikes me that I’m touching Jack’s forearms. In New York, he was in a sweater and a coat. It was too cold to have any skin exposed. The friction of us touching sends tingles up my own arm.

“I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you,” I tell him, still holding him. “Because I do. And if you recall, we agreed not to talk about work that night.”

His eyes move to where my hand is, and his expression relaxes. “Rooney, I’m not mad. And don’t worry, I remember it well.”

After a second too long, he pulls his arm away. I fiddle with the visitor badge hanging around my neck, twisting the blue lanyard with “JPL” printed on it.

We continue walking. Jack’s long strides mark the pace as I trail behind.

“Who was it that I spoke to on the phone?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.

“That was Talia and my mom,” I admit.

Jack huffs out a laugh. “They were entertaining.”

“That’s one word for them,” I say.

We take a few steps up shallow, concrete stairs. By now Jack has slowed down enough for me to catch up with him. We’re back in rhythm, walking side by side.

“FATE, really?” I ask. “And I mean the mission, not destiny.”

Jack looks like he’s gathering his thoughts. “We’re building equipment that will serve as fueling stations in space. For spacecrafts heading to Mars and deep space. We’re making reaching Mars a more consistent and frequent reality.”

“Okay. That’s super interesting,” I say. “But why FATE?”

“The letters ended up working well together.”

I tilt my head toward him. “Come on.”

He hesitates. “Fine. Maybe I was inspired in an ironic way by what you told me about it. This equipment is how we take fate into our own hands if you will. Distance becomes irrelevant. We’ll speed up progress.”

I smile. “Ah. Verrrrry interesting. Admit it. You’ve got a little thing for fate, huh?”

Jack raises his eyebrows. “The only fate I believe in or care about is this mission. And the fate of the earth and how it’ll all end.”

“Sure. So then tell me. How does FATE work?” I remove my sketchbook and a pen from my bag to take notes as we walk. I catch Jack looking at my pen, and I realize which one I’m using. The floaty pen from our night together.

“I—”

“It’s nice that you use it,” he says softly. “A memento. Um, so with FATE, we won’t have to wait for Mars to align with Earth anytime we want to send rovers. Eventually humans. There’s less of a risk of missing that short window of alignment, as long as we have the equipment ready. You don’t necessarily have to create something about FATE. It’s one of the many missions happening here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

I balance my sketchbook on my arm, jotting down keywords that I hope will inspire ideas later. While I typically fly through sketchbooks, this is the same one I’ve had for over a year. I don’t dare flip the last page over. I know what I’d see: Gravity, the last idea I had the week after my night with Jack. The remaining blank pages a direct reflection of my lack of ideas and drained creativity.

Jack opens the door to the Space Flight Operations Facility. He tells me this is home to Mission Control for NASA’s Deep Space Network. I notice his tone shifts into something more professional.

We step into the back of the room. Ahead of us, computer banks stretch horizontally while large screens overhead showcase images of satellites with data moving in and out of the dishes.

“This is the center of the universe,” he continues, pointing to a plaque on the floor that says just that. “Data from deep space comes through Mission Control first. Then it’s shared with the operators of the mission and teams so they can use the information to guide their work.”

I spin, slowly observing everything around me. In the blue glow of the room, my sweater looks purple.

“It’s like I’m in NASA’s brain,” I say, loosely sketching the scene in front of us. Drawing something that exists? Fine. Creating something from scratch? May never happen again.

Jack smiles and looks around, too. “Something like that. The data and images that come through here help us improve our understanding of the solar system and universe.”

“Why are these here?” I ask, lifting a bag of peanuts.

“They’re good-luck peanuts. After six failed missions in the Ranger program in 1964, there was a lot of pressure for the seventh mission to be a success. Peanuts were passed around to everyone to relieve tension. To give people something to snack on. Take their mind off the pressure. As you could probably guess, the seventh mission was indeed a success. From that point on, peanuts were designated as lucky.”

This information pleases me to no end. “NASA is superstitious!”

“It’s more of a tradition,” he corrects.

I shake the peanuts. “What if someone’s allergic to this tradition?”

Jack grows quiet. “Hmm. We don’t always leave them lying around. But that’s a good question.” He points out the other people in the room, who are closely monitoring their screens. “There’s always at least five people here at all times.”

“Every day?”

“Twenty-four/seven. Since 1964,” he says, facing me.

In Jack’s eyes are small white rectangles, the monitors in the dark room reflecting off his pupils. Knowing that he works here is like a block falling into place in a Jack-shaped Tetris game. His comments in New York about Polaris and the moon being a satellite pop into my head. It makes so much sense now.

I whistle quietly. “That’s one high electricity bill.”

We peek through the windows of the Multi-Mission Support Area and then make our way up to what Jack explains is the Viewing Gallery.

Peering down over Mission Control, I etch a darker line around the curve of a peanut I’ve drawn. Then, without warning, I poke Jack in the shoulder with the end of the pen.

Jack looks at the light indent in his button-down. “What was that for?”

“Just making sure you’re real,” I say, twisting the pen between my fingers. “I can’t believe I’m here right now. That you’re here right now.”

Jack angles his head up, gazing toward the ceiling. In the few seconds that he’s not watching me, I steal a glance at the face that fills my day- and night dreams. Seeing the crescent moon on his lip sends chills down my spine, a sliver of a reminder from when he kissed me.

He holds his hand against the back of his neck. “I’ll say this: I really never thought I’d see you again.”

“Lightning doesn’t strike twice,” I say, swallowing down unexpected emotion that rises to the surface. It’s nice seeing him shocked. I imagine it takes a lot to rattle him, but he’s not as surprised as he should be. Because this is a Holy-Shit-What-Does-It-All-Mean level of surprise. I keep an awkward grin plastered on my face, smiling through the confusion and absurdity of the situation.

Jack. As my liaison. He was supposed to be someone I could recall stories about when I wanted to share what wild chance encounters really looked like. A What-If who I could feel the low ache of sadness over. A mirage in my memory, wondering if it really happened. He wasn’t supposed to be someone I have to work with for an entire year.

Jack crosses his arms. I notice that his sleeves are rolled down again. I also realize that this disappoints me. “I am looking forward to seeing what you create. Though you’re unknown to the public, your art is really truthful.”

I inhale deeply. “Thanks. I’m thrilled about my work being seen on a national level, and it’s neat that there’s history and legacy behind this program. I hope to teach people about something abstract and bring them together around one exciting moment or cause or concept or purpose. Like FATE. The mission, of course,” I say with a grin.

Jack dips his head and smiles.

“With my art, I want to create what I care about and what I believe in. There’s more overlap with fate and science than you might think,” I add.

“You’re going to have to explain that to me sometime,” he says.

“You’d be surprised. My work isn’t so black and white.”

Jack lifts his chin. “No. It’s red.”

My work was red. At this point I’d take blue, green, yellow. I’ll drop the R from my name and become Ooney, Orange String Girl. I’d work with any color, if only I could think of new ideas.

I don’t share with him that I’ve been feeling creatively blocked. I can’t just tell the mission liaison of NASA’s new art program on the first day, “Hey, great to be here. I know you’re taking a chance on me and that it’s imperative this does well so you can continue to get funding in the future. Oh, by the way, I haven’t had any new ideas in six months. Want me to make a pet portrait of your dog until inspiration strikes?”

Instead, I give positivity a shot. “Perfect for the Red Planet,” I end up saying.

When it becomes unusually quiet, I realize it’s just us in the Viewing Gallery. The glowing blue room feels like a futuristic confessional, so I continue.

“My mom, Wren, you know the one,” I say, attempting to make Jack laugh. When he huffs out a small puff of air, I smile in return. “Your suspicions weren’t far off. She’s also an artist. A pretty famous one, too. I hope this opportunity can do for me what one of her video art pieces did for her. Not the making-me-famous part, but the part that gives me enough exposure to help me branch off on my own. Financially, I mean. I want financial independence, to be a working artist.”

I purposely don’t mention Baby Being Born and needing money fast so that I can buy it back. It’s too weird to try to explain.

“I think that’s great,” Jack says. “And this should definitely bring Red String Girl more exposure. Especially with several showcases throughout the year. More touchpoints for you to have work for people to discuss. The first one will be in January.”

“So that means I need to have an installation ready in… five months.” I write the month down in my sketchbook and circle it a couple of times. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”

“Your work really is incredible, Rooney. I think what you do here is going to impress people. NASA isn’t limiting you, either. You can create installations around whatever you learn that you find interesting. And you can still make your own art and put on shows, of course. It was in the contract so I’m sure you know all of that.”

“Thanks,” I say, nodding and forcing a smile. Before we go down a rabbit hole of questions like where I usually get my ideas and inspiration from, it’s time to change the subject. “Why are you doing this program?”

Jack shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Oh. It was a unique opportunity to resurrect the Artist-in-Residence program. It’s an honor to have a small role in it.”

I lean against the railing. “Right. You trying to be promoted or something?”

In the blue light, I can still see Jack’s cheeks grow a shade darker. “What? I didn’t say that.”

“There’s no shame in trying to get ahead, Jack. I’m curious to know why you’re part of this.”

He lets out a long breath through his nose. “I’ve been told that I don’t inspire. That I’m too transactional. That I do the work but don’t know how to teach it. People need to see that I’m a person and not just a coworker, I guess. Something about emotional connection. On that day in New York, I learned I was passed over for a promotion for a senior engineering role. For a third time.”

I let out a small gasp. “I’m sorry, Jack. That’s why you didn’t want to talk about work that night.”

Jack stares down over the blinking lights of the computers. “We don’t usually have to discuss our work with the press or anything on this scale. Only at conferences and with other teams.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t. “This might be one of those teaching moments you can practice,” I say. “Take it from the top. Systems engineer. What do you do? Go.”

Jack’s mouth quirks. “Oftentimes, early in the development life cycle of a mission, we live in the gray. Develop mission concepts. Do systems modeling and analysis. We’re like producers managing a lot of moving parts and numerous teams trying to keep everyone happy and working in sync, all within a tight budget and timeline.”

“Sounds like you really know what you’re doing,” I say.

“Apparently that’s not enough,” Jack says on an exhale. “The role went to a guy who’s the total opposite of me. Social, involved, inspirational. A real team player. I thought I was a team player because I do my job well. When the next promotion cycle comes around, I need to be ready.”

I nod along. “Hence doing things like this program.”

“I can get really into the weeds, and my manager wants me to see the forest,” he says. “And teach my team about the forest in an inspiring way. That’s the best idiom I’ve got.”

“I was hoping for something space-themed, given where we are, but I get it,” I say, nudging him.

A bigger smile forms on Jack’s face. For a few seconds, we’re just there, frozen in the moment. Staring at each other above the center of the universe, where there’s beeping and blinking lights, the cosmos at people’s fingertips. I take a deep breath in, steadying myself.

And then I have to ask. “Why did you kiss me?” I whisper.

Jack inhales quickly and looks around. “Rooney, we shouldn’t be talking about this here. I—”

“I just want to know what it meant.” I tug at a loose thread on the waistline of my sweater. “What it meant to you.”

“Honestly? I don’t know what it meant anymore. I’ve never done anything like that before. And now it’s more complicated, especially since we work together.” He pauses. “But while we’re on the topic, why didn’t you text me?” he asks, his tone flat.

“Why didn’t I text you?” I whisper. “If you had given me the right number, you’d know I tried contacting you.”

“You must have gotten the numbers mixed up,” he says, his steely reserve softening.

“I texted you on the number you gave me,” I explain. “When I realized it was the wrong one, I texted dozens of versions to try to get it right. When that didn’t work, I called every downtown hotel looking for you. I even went to see if Dave might know how to reach you.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Yeah. Dave is long gone. I tried to find the painting you were a part of at MoMA. Can confirm that you are uncredited. But that pea flower sunset? Wow.”

The fact that he remembers this small detail makes my heart swell.

“I must’ve searched for the Chinese restaurant we ate at thousands of times,” he adds. “I couldn’t for the life of me find it.”

“Oh, yeah. It closed down a month after. Now it can only exist in our memories.” Just like how I thought you were going to exist, I don’t say. Instead, I just keep smiling and pretending everything is totally fine, but there’s a sadness deep down. “I spend months searching for you, and you searching for me. Then suddenly we’re both here. Isn’t that amazing?”

“I never thought our paths would cross again,” Jack says.

“And now they have, but things are… well, they’re different, aren’t they? We work together now.” I think for a moment, trying to untangle the thread. “We have new knowledge. Like how you want a promotion and need this program to do well, how I want to get my art career off the ground in a big way, how this knit blend does not work in the desert.”

Jack looks at my sweater and smiles. “Give it a few months and it’ll be perfect.”

I keep my smile in place. “Regardless of everything, it’s nice to have a friend here.”

“Yes. A friend,” Jack says skeptically. “I don’t really have friends at work.”

“Now you do.”

A small sense of closure washes over me. Closure for that night but also for my wavering belief in the red thread. After that night with Jack, I felt like it had fizzled out. Everything felt hopeless in love and work. At certain points of our night together, it really felt like this man in front of me could be my stringmate. And when that night ended, it took part of me with it.

Now it strikes me that, if that night meant anything, maybe it was ultimately about bringing us here together now, at NASA. Jack saw my installation and didn’t get a promotion. People littered in my garbage net, and it got cut down. We were brought together so that we could help each other in this way. Professionally and not romantically.

It could be that my string and Jack’s string are overlapping, but they’re not connected. This is all just part of the process. There must be something—or someone—else for me here.

Jack looks down at the ground. “Rooney, can we not let that night affect our working relationship? There was this guy who was recently fired for having an intimate relationship with one of the vendors he worked with. He showed preferential treatment. With my job, the promotion, I can’t risk it. New York has to stay in the past.”

I wave my hands. “I don’t want you to lose anything, Jack. I don’t want me to, either.”

His jaw flexes as he clenches it. “You’re here for a year, and then you’ll go back to New York City. I know this is unusual. That night we met, we agreed not to talk about our work. Now we’re at work. Together. The irony.”

“Alanis Morissette would have a field day,” I joke, trying to relieve some of the tension. “But this does feel like a big sign.”

Jack rocks back on his heels. “A sign for what?”

The start of something that will either make me or destroy me.

“I don’t know yet,” I finally say. “But I can feel it.”