Chapter 21

ROONEY

That was so trippy,” I say, my head still spinning from the microgravity and full-motion Mars rover simulators. “It feels like I was spun around in a rolling chair a thousand times. Maybe I could re-create that and make a string maze for people to get disoriented in. Then they’d know what that was like.”

“I’d go to that!” Jack says, zigzagging his way behind me. “I feel like a shaken can of soda. This is what being drunk must feel like.” He falls behind, disappearing behind a corner.

I stumble out the entrance doors of the Kennedy Space Center on Merritt Island, Florida, as the sun lingers inches above the horizon. It’s the beginning of November so there isn’t much humidity, but the air is still thick.

Seconds later, Jack bursts through the doors, waving his arm in the air. “I got us a little treat! Astronaut ice cream bars.”

“You stole those?” I ask.

“They were in front of the kids’ exhibit. I only grabbed two. You’re a big kid, aren’t you?” Jack says, laughing and wiggling the bars in front of me.

“Jackson No-Middle-Name Liu, you stole ice cream bars from children?”

Jack smiles slyly and hands me one. “I left twenty dollars on the table.”

I clutch the ice cream bar. “This is officially the most expensive ice cream I’ve ever eaten.”

The clouds are heavy and hazy, the threat of a thunderstorm looming. In the distance, the sunset is as vibrant and textured as a Van Gogh oil painting. Jack guides us toward the Rocket Garden, which we passed earlier but didn’t have time to explore. Now, it seems, we’re about to.

“Should we be here?” I ask, eyeing a security guard walking the perimeter of the Space Center. He turns the corner to do a loop.

“I just took ice cream from kids. You think I care about being in here after hours?” Jack asks. “Okay, fine. I spoke to the guard earlier. We’re good. I work at NASA, remember?”

The Rocket Garden is empty, even though earlier it was jam-packed with tourists taking photos. Some of the rockets must be over a hundred feet tall, their noses sticking straight up in the air.

We cross over the grass to one of the curved pathways. The garden contains a bouquet of nine rockets of varying sizes, each of them with their own history. Who needs roses when you can have rockets? They’re mounted in their stands as if they could blast off at any moment. The lights at the base of each rocket illuminate the steel in a soft glow, accentuating their length.

I rip the pouch open across the top to discover a cookies-and-cream freeze-dried ice cream bar. I tentatively bite into it, the dessert crumbling between my teeth.

“I’ve gotta be honest, I don’t love it,” I admit. “I prefer the kind that melts.”

“Wait until you try the ice cream I make. Gōng Gong is hoping to have a sundae party at his house next month. A belated welcome for you. I thought it could be nice to invite the team,” Jack says.

“That’s a great idea,” I say, taking another small bite of the dry dessert. “You should definitely invite everyone.”

Jack lifts his arms up slowly. “Oh no. Space ice cream side effects.”

I laugh and reach for his arms to lower them. He levitates them back up. Once again, I push his arms down gently and slowly, holding them firmly at his side. As if he’d really float away. After a few seconds too long, I let his arms go.

“Whew, thanks,” he says, his cheeks rosy.

I try to remind myself that Jack and I are on a work trip. Someone could see us, and we both have our careers on the line. I glance around and confirm that there’s no one nearby. I loosen up more, letting myself enjoy the full effects of the simulation from earlier.

“This would be a cool installation spot,” I say, looking from rocket to rocket, trying to conjure string in my mind to see how it might take shape. If I try hard enough, I might even be able to feel the string between my fingertips. Nope. I only see lines dangling from rockets with no meaning behind them. Even my imaginary thread is a mess.

“It’d be exposed to the elements,” he says, following my gaze. “But I can see it.”

“That makes one of us,” I admit.

Jack’s eyes flick back to me. “Still no ideas?”

“Red String Theory is done, but it clearly didn’t work. I’ve got nothing!” I say.

“That’s not necessarily true,” he says, frowning. “The tests have made you experience things you normally wouldn’t have, like butterflies. Now you know cloud names.”

“And that the Hollywood Sign looks like a constellation of letters from a distance,” I contribute.

Jack lifts his half-eaten ice cream bar like he’s toasting. “See? That’s not nothing. Tests can take time to reveal results. The effects aren’t always immediately obvious. You’ll think of something.”

I lean against the railing circling the Mercury-Redstone rocket. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll even remember how to tie off a knot.”

Instead of trying to convince me otherwise or keep up a can-do attitude, Jack says, “That must be tough. It seems like being creative is such a big part of your identity.”

“It is, and I love what I do.” I break off a piece of the ice cream bar and drop it into my mouth.

Jack stuffs his empty wrapper in his pocket and offers to take mine, too. I hand him the remains of my ice cream. During this exchange, he doesn’t say a word or try to problem-solve. He gives me time to think.

“I feel like I don’t know how to create anything while also feeling assured that, once I actually get started, I’ll somehow know what to do. Does that sound weird?” I ask, playing with the button on my red knitted cardigan. I’ll be wearing this for the next few days until the airport delivers my lost luggage. The one time I go against Mom’s golden rule of only carrying on.

“Of all the things you’ve ever said, Rooney, that is the least weird,” Jack says. His tone is gentle, and I can tell he’s trying to make me laugh. A small one comes out. It feels so good to laugh in this moment, my tightly packed emotions shaking loose.

“A lot of this is probably in my head,” I say. “I want to believe I can do this, but what if it’s not good enough and people think my work is awful?” I let out another laugh, but this one’s humorless. Jack’s expression doesn’t change. Steady, as always. “I want this to be successful.”

“And what does that mean?” Jack asks. “What does success look like to you?”

“Positive reviews of my installation,” I say right away. “Lots of people coming to see it. NASA being happy with choosing me.”

Jack nods. “So you need a thousand good reviews and a million people who want to come see your art?”

I’m caught off guard by his response. “I mean… no.”

“How many positive reviews do you need to feel successful? How many people need to show up?” He doesn’t ask these questions in a mean or judgmental way. In his voice is curiosity and thoughtfulness.

I don’t have an immediate answer. I run my hand along a railing guarding a silver rocket, taking the time to think. Overhead, gray clouds roll in slowly.

“I’ve always wanted my art to mean something. To have a positive impact on even one person’s life,” I admit quietly.

“So, one. If one person understands what you’re trying to do with your art and feels something from it, then you’ll feel successful,” he hypothesizes.

It clicks into place, what he’s trying to do. “Are you going to try to turn this into another test?” I groan playfully.

“Not a test. But let’s keep going through this. If one person is positively impacted, then it’s also likely they’ll have good things to say about your work. Do you think that’s true?”

I nod, a small grin forming on my face.

“And let’s say the average museum has roughly three thousand visitors in a day. Your installation will be up for about three months until the next one. Minus a couple of holidays. That’s, what, two hundred and seventy thousand visitors who will see your work in person? And then there’s social media. I think it would be safe to assume that one—no, more than one—person will be positively impacted by your work.”

I’m stunned not only by Jack’s mental math but by the way he broke down my anxieties and made them tangible.

“Okay, fine. So maybe one person is inspired. I also want to be a financially independent, working artist,” I tell him. “I know that this will take time. My mom wasn’t an overnight success until she did Baby Being Born. That exposure changed the game for her.”

“It does take time,” Jack says. “I know this from missions I’ve worked on. It takes literal years before there’s even the chance to see if we’re successful. For you, your work will compound. One person will see something you do, and over time, your audience will grow. It’s hard to do one thing and expect everyone to know your name.”

I sigh. “It’s just that, between my birth and everything in between that led me to art, I really do believe this is what I was meant to do. I literally picked a paintbrush as a baby.”

Jack must be able to sense my hesitation. “But?”

“But if everything is fated, what was earned? Is what I do actually good or is it only successful because it was meant to be? What if I’m really not that good and people are going to find out that I’m a fraud?” I ask. “It’s like everything I’ve done in my career is built on top of unsecured string and it can all unravel at any second.”

Around us, bushes rustle as the wind picks up. I’m in nature’s version of an air shower with my hair flying across my face. When the gust temporarily dies down, I flip my bangs back into place and meet Jack’s gaze.

“You aren’t a fraud, Rooney,” he says kindly, slowly reaching toward me to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You made choices about what installations you were going to design. The way I see it, you chose to be an artist. You make that choice every day when you wake up and create.”

“I construct installations about the Red Thread of Fate and love and bringing people together… when I haven’t ever been in a serious relationship before. Who am I to have anything to say about that?”

“You can have an opinion on love, even if you’ve never been in a relationship worthy of it,” Jack says. “Don’t discount your achievements. Have you ever considered working under your own name now that you’ve established yourself? I know there are people who love your work. I’ve seen the reviews.”

I shake my head firmly. “I can’t risk outing my identity. People will think I’m successful because of my mom. I don’t want them to think differently about my work.”

“It’s up to you and what you’re comfortable with,” Jack says. “But what you’ve accomplished is because of you. You’re NASA’s artist-in-residence. These things don’t just happen.”

I give him a weary smile. “Of course these things just happen. You literally called out of the blue.”

“Let me put it this way. If you were fated to be a success as Red String Girl, who’s to say you weren’t fated to also be successful as Rooney Something Gao?” Jack asks. “No one is going to make the switch for you. You have to be the one to choose it.” He takes my hand in his. “When you let fate take credit, you discount your hard work. You’ve had the ideas. You’ve executed them. Have you ever considered that maybe you are good enough, and it’s because of you?”

A somber laugh spills out of me and into the wind. “I don’t know how to answer that.” With my free hand, I squeeze the guard rail tighter. “I’ve been working at this for years, and I want to make the most of this moment, this second chance. I don’t want another Entangled on my hands. I don’t just want to shine. I want to sparkle, Jack. Like the stars.”

“Entangled led you here,” Jack says with a soft expression. “To me.”

It takes my breath away, the way he phrases this. It’s like our minds are following a similar thread.

He clears his throat. “But I think this is the start for you. I’m excited to be around to witness it.”

We continue to stroll, not feeling the need to fill the air with words. We can just be.

The more time I spend with Jack, the more I feel myself pulled toward him. A tug on my heartstrings in his direction. What is Jack to me? What are we to each other? Trying to understand the signs feels like stargazing on a cloudy night.

Beyond the nose of a turquoise rocket called Delta II, storm clouds that I forget the official name for take on a plum hue. In the distance, there’s a muffled roll of thunder. Not wanting our night to get cut short, I will the storm to blow in a different direction.

Our pinkies touch as we drift toward each other walking along the path, the point of contact sending chills up my arm. The proximity to each other puts every nerve in my body on high alert in both a good and an alarming way. In the back of my mind, I can hear Mom’s advice.

Jack slows to read the sign in front of one of the rockets. “These remind me of the intricate experiments I used to do as a kid. But these are way cooler than a paper towel roll and baking soda.”

I lean closer to get a better look at his face. “How intricate are we talking? Erupting volcano? Tornado in a water bottle?”

“Please. My experiments were next level. My most intense experiment was what I called The Exploding Star,” he says proudly. “It involved balloons, baking soda, ice cubes, vinegar, and too much glitter. It’s how I got this.” He sticks his lip out. “An experiment gone awry.”

I tilt my head. “It’s your Supernova Scar. You wouldn’t be you without it.”

Jack smiles. “Supernova Scar. I like that. I was self-conscious about it for a lot of my life.”

I tentatively reach out and brush my thumb over his bottom lip. He lets me. “It reminds me of a crescent moon. But it also looks like a parenthesis, as though everything you say is just extra information.”

Our bodies gravitate closer together. We’re completely lost in the moment until Jack gasps, his gaze directed behind me.

“It must be Kenneth,” he says, watching a man round the corner back toward the Rocket Garden. “He mentioned something about being in town at the same time as us.” We’re too far away to confirm that it’s him, even when the person turns and calls out to us. It almost sounds like he’s saying Jack’s name. Jack pulls me around to the back of the rocket and not a split-second later he whispers, “Run.”

I’m frozen in place. “Wait, what? You said—”

Jack wraps his arm around my waist and gives me the forward momentum I need to move my feet. We sprint behind the base of another rocket and out of view.

“Think he saw us?” Jack pants.

“Maybe. He was too far away to know for sure,” I shout-whisper. “Could’ve been a guard? You did confirm we could be in here, right?”

Jack makes a face. “Well, no. We’re not supposed to be here. We’re breaking every rule there is. If they catch us, deny everything.”

Adrenaline pumps through my veins. Jack reaches for my hand, gripping his fingers around mine.

“When I count to three, we head to that space capsule, okay?” Jack says, nodding toward a black horizontal pod with steps leading up into it.

I agree and grip his hand tighter.

“Three!”

We run for our lives toward the capsule, trying not to make too much noise clambering up the metal stairs.

We squeeze inside the pod, and I practically fall into Jack’s lap. We’re holding our breath, careful not to let our panting give us away.

“That was close,” Jack whispers, his chest rising and falling.

“I can’t believe you,” I say quietly, still unsure who might be around. I push Jack gently against his shoulder.

Jack catches my hand in his, holding it against him. Our faces are a foot apart, given that we’re crammed into a space capsule the size of a bathtub. I can practically hear our pounding hearts echoing off the walls surrounding us.

My mind swirls with colors from moments of our time together. A red scarf in the print shop. Cream lanterns. The orange hue of Jack’s jazz show. Golden table dumplings. Bright yellow cabs. The blinking green neon light. White bunny suits. Fuchsia sunsets. Jack’s brown eyes. And now, the charcoal interior of this capsule. It’s a rainbow palette in shades of Jack, and it’s all I want to paint with.

My heart flutters as erratically as butterfly wings in topsy-turvy flight. Up, down, side to side.

Our eyes find each other, my thoughts trailing off. The moment feels like a loose tangle, the space within it still flexible.

Jack traces his fingers up the length of my arm, over my shoulder, and along my neck until the side of my face rests against his palm. I tilt my head into his warm hand. Gently, he sweeps his thumb over my cheek.

It’s delicate, his touch. I want him to grab me tighter, hold me close. There’s no choice in this, no decision making. It’s what’s meant to happen. It must be.

“Have you ever wanted to do something that you know you shouldn’t do, but can’t help it?” Jack asks.

“Just kiss me already,” I say, leaning into him.

As if defying some sort of physics and logic, our bodies somehow move even closer than they already were. We don’t break eye contact until we close our eyelids at the moment our lips touch.

And just like that, the string pulls tight, collapsing into a smooth line.

I’m kissing Jack. Jack is kissing me.

We shouldn’t be doing this.

We’re doing this.

My tangled-up thoughts last until Jack runs his hands through my hair. His kiss is slow, unplanned, explorative. His teeth gently brush against my upper lip as I press into him. My head is spinning faster than it was in the simulator. My lips graze over his Supernova Scar, and I can feel the small crescent mark on my tongue.

We softly breathe in rhythm as we break for air. He holds my face in his hands. It’s a gesture that’s tender and protective and purposeful. His eyes search mine. I’m lost in his gaze, weightless against him, spacewalking without a tether.

We’re apart too long. He pulls me back to his parted mouth, and I twist his hair between my fingers to secure myself to him.

Then, a bright flash of lightning illuminates the capsule, shortly followed by a crack of thunder filling the silent air. We both startle.

“We’re in a garden full of metal,” Jack says. “We have to go.”

I scramble off his lap, out of the capsule, and down the stairs. Above us, the sky has split open, the downpour of rain soaking us. Another rumble of thunder overhead speeds us both up, and we sprint to shelter, exiting the Rocket Garden hand in hand.