“I had given you an F-minus for leaving without saying anything,” a voice I now recognize says behind me.
I spin around, a smile widening on my face. Rooney peers up at me from behind her bangs.
“I have your pen,” I say, handing it to her.
Rooney takes her pen from my hand. “For this, you get a B-plus. I thought you left.”
“I thoughtyouleft,” I say, relieved.
“I was in the kitchen loading up on more tangyuán. It’s red bean filled. My favorite.” She dips a shallow porcelain soup spoon into a bowl filled with liquid and a small mound of perfectly round, Ping-Pong–size rice balls. “You want one?”
I shake my head. “I don’t usually eat after seven thirty.”
“A.m. or p.m.?” she asks, keeping her face fixed.
I let out a short laugh. Rooney seems to have this effect on me. “I filled up on the cheese and charcuterie boards earlier. I’ve heard there’s good food here, but I didn’t get to explore much. I leave tomorrow.”
Suddenly, Rooney looks concerned. “Already? What were you here for?”
I feel my smile fall. “A work thing. But I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Right. Long day. I get it. I don’t want to talk about work, either. Can we just agree right now that anything work related is off-limits? It’s officially a rule, okay?”
“Deal.”
“Great.” She goes in for a bite and a half-eaten rice ball rolls down her coat. “Fudge!”
I look closer at where the red bean dripped out. “Luckily it blends in. Sorry,” I quickly say before realizing where I was looking. “I wasn’t trying to look at your—” I clear my throat as heat rushes to my face.
Rooney smiles coyly. “I was gonna say, Jack,” she teases, “it’s fine. I made this. I can always make another one.” She rubs at the spot with a napkin.
“I’ve never met someone who knits their own winter coat and scarves,” I admit.
Her face lights up with a grin. She’s always either smiling or laughing.
“And I’ve never met someone who doesn’t eat solids after the sun goes down,” she says. “What about liquids? Are those okay?”
I consider her question. “Depends on what kind.”
“Papaya juice? There’s a Gray’s Papaya nearby,” she says.
I nod in agreement, remembering the advertisement I was handed earlier. Those flyers really do work.
“Should we try to figure out who the host is and say thanks before we go?” I ask.
“Normally, I’d say yes, but we’d probably be here all night,” Rooney says with a shrug. “For all I know, you could be the host.”
In the elevator, Rooney pulls a—surprise—red knitted hat over her head.
I hold in a smile. “Do you have a fascination with crustaceans or something?”
She looks genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
“Are you aware that you’re practically dressed head to toe in red?” I ask with a laugh. “With your hat, coat, mittens, and scarf, you look like a cooked lobster.”
Rooney gasps. “I was going for more of a crab look, but I’ll take lobster,” she says, side-eyeing me. She can’t hold in her laugh. Her body forms a comma as she tilts forward in laughter. A momentary pause, as though she might keep laughing.
We burst out from the warmth of the building into the freezing cold night. In a matter of minutes, my bones feel solidly frozen.
