“I wouldn’t. I would want Jack. I would choose Jack over him,” I say, fully feeling the meaning behind the words that escape my mouth. It dawns on me how delicate the distinction is between fate and having a choice, how lucky we are to be able to have both in our lives. To let greater forces play a role while still guiding our own path. Maybe it’s time that my belief in the Red Thread of Fate gives way to something like… Red String Theory.
Mom wraps her arms around me. “Don’t wait around forever being an observer in your own life.”
I lean into her rare embrace. “I need to tell him that I choose him,” I say, a desperate urgency taking over. It’s not a solution to the work problem, and it might complicate us keeping our distance, but at the very least I have to tell him that he’s the one I choose.
I find his name in my phone and tap it.
He doesn’t answer. What if he’s moved on?
“I have to get back to LA. I need to do something. I don’t know what yet exactly. It’s not like I have a plan here!” I say to Mom, a laugh fueled by adrenaline escaping. “All I know is that I need to find Jack before it’s too late.”
Chapter 32
ROONEY
As soon as I step outside of the museum, the chill of the wind cuts through every layer of clothing on my body. The overcast sky mostly blends together in grays and whites, but there’s one cloud in particular that looks like a butterfly. It’s the closest the city will get to having butterflies in the winter. I wrap my scarf once more around my neck, pulling my coat tighter around my body.
Outside the entrance, I catch my breath and let my heart rate come down a notch.
All this time, I’ve been so obsessed with signs that I let myself think that I didn’t have any choice. I grit my teeth in the cold, even though I’m overheating at the thought that this realization has come too late. That I’ve irreparably scared Jack away from any kind of future with me, that he might not believe he’s the one I choose.
I fight back premature tears. I should go back to my apartment to pack. Or I could go straight to the airport and board a flight to LAX. I’d go to My Spot to think but there’s no time for that now. I turn away from MoMA and start walking uptown when my phone rings with a number I don’t recognize. I answer, thinking maybe it’s another installation opportunity.
“Hi, I saw your number on the petal of a plastic rose,” the voice on the other end says.
Someone found the flower and actually called me. But why now, after three months? And why does the voice sound like Jack’s? I’m done for. He’s really in my head now.
“I’ve reworked some variables and think we should start over with Red String Theory 2.0,” the man says. “Fate Test 6: Write your number on something that can be found. Check.”
These words stop me in my tracks. ItisJack.
I spin around and look up, expecting to see him. Instead, there’s a row of giant white signs duct-taped to traffic light poles, bike racks, trees, and garbage cans. It looks as though the cue cards fromSaturday Night Livehave escaped and are making their way uptown. They flap noisily as another gust blows through the streets. I rule out thatLove Actually 2is filming for real this time when I see “Red String Theory 2.0” written on the first poster. There’s an arrow pointing to the next sign, which reads “Fate Test 5: Go the wrong direction on purpose.”
I take ten steps in the opposite direction of the arrow on the sign until I reach the next sign secured to a bike rack. “Fate Test 4: Interact with someone online. (Look at your phone.)”
On my screen, there’s a notification about a direct chat on my Cloud Lovers League app. I tap into it, and a photo of an overcast sky appears. In the upper portion of the picture is a cloud with puffs that form wings. It’s the butterfly! I look back up to the clouds, but it’s gone now. Are Jack and I sharing the same sky? My heart pounds harder against my rib cage. I “like” the photo to complete the interaction.
I keep walking down the avenue to the last poster that’s taped to a traffic pole. The words “Fate Test 3: Return a lost object. Take me to X marks the spot” are written in the center of the board with a red pen taped into the upper corner. My Discipline Pen. The one I gave Jack one year ago. I shouldn’t be surprised to learn that he keptit all this time. I peel back the tape, grab the pen, and practically run to My Spot.
I move quickly down the alleyway until I reach the fence, where there’s another sign: “Our definitions of signs may be different… but what if they still lead us to the same place? Fate Test 2: Show up early or late to somewhere you’re supposed to be. Wait 10 seconds.”
A bright red string is taped to the board. I take it between my fingers and tug. There’s slight resistance. Something—or someone—is at the end of this string. I start the countdown in my head and slide sideways through the fence door, following the string to My Spot. A tingling sensation pulses through my body so strongly that it nearly makes me breathless.
The string shortens, the resistance when I pull becoming stronger. Inch by inch, I let the string guide me to my safe place. I follow it all the way up to the opening of my hideaway, where Jack stands with his back to me facing the “X” sculpture. His brown hair is wild from the wind. I give the string one last tug and trace its path down to his ankle, where it’s tied off.
I go numb at the sight of him. Jack’s here, in New York City, at My Spot. It’s just the two of us in this little world of our own, the city rushing around us.
“Jack. How are you—why are you…” I start, speechless.
“Rooney,” he says, taking a step closer to me. He burrows his chin into the Red Thread of Fate scarf I gave him when we first met.
Silence hangs between us, both of us searching each other’s eyes as if everything can be communicated like this. In a way, it can. In his eyes, I see his apology, a glimmer of belief, and a look of what, I hope, might still be love. I know because I’m looking at him in the exact same way.
“I believe this is yours,” I say, handing Jack the red pen.
He takes it, our gaze never breaking once. “I was wrong. I don’t want distance. I don’t want another day to go by where we’re apart.”
“Me neither, but what about your job?” I ask. “I don’t want to compromise any—”
