He tilts his head down. “Not even a little. Not even now.”
I nod. “Just had to make sure.”
He smirks. “I guess that’s the end of the rainbow, then?”
I follow the invisible path from where the lantern went dark up to the building in front of it. On the street level are stairs leading to a bar below ground.
“Maybe that was supposed to happen, after all. This is where it took us,” I say, grinning. “Shall we?”
Jack must be curious, because he follows me. We descend the steps to the entrance of Mangetsu Jazz, where there’s an old wooden door with muffled music behind it.
“It’s like a speakeasy,” I whisper quietly to Jack. “How are we supposed to get in?”
Jack reaches over my shoulder and presses the button on the call box. It rings twice before a woman answers with, “Passcode, please?”
Jack and I lock eyes, as if the answer will be there.
“Full moon?” Jack says tentatively.
Two seconds later, there’s a buzzing noise, and then the door clicks. Success.
My jaw goes slack. “What… how? Are you serious? We’re in!”
“Mangetsu means ‘full moon’ in Japanese. It was a lucky guess.”
“You speak Japanese?” I ask.
Jack holds the door open to let me pass through first. “My dad is Japanese and Chinese American. He tried to teach me and my mom Japanese. My mom speaks some Chinese because of my Gong Gong, but my grandma, who was White, only spoke English. All I remember from both languages are basic greetings, numbers, and random words like ‘swimsuit’ and, apparently, ‘full moon.’”
“Clearly words that come in handy during crucial moments,” I say. “My mom and I are trying to learn Chinese. It’s tough.”
I squeeze past him into the intimate, dimly lit room. Even at first glance, I can tell this place is magical. Immediately, we’re met with aromas of smoked wood and whiskey. The space is a saving grace for its warmth. Candles flicker in votives on small round tables covered in checkered cloth. The mirrored bar is fully stacked with Japanese whiskeys and sake. Table lamps are the main source of light, creating a relaxed ambiance for settling into the evening.
The bar is packed for a Tuesday night, but there’s one last table for two. We shake off the cold and slide into chairs across from each other, amused by our good luck. I soak in the atmosphere. Squeezed into the far corner is a two-person band—one pianist and one bassist—pouring their souls into the music. It’s a lively sound.
“Yummmm,” I groan, flipping the paper menu over in my hands. The menu is full of small plates like Japanese-style fried chicken, curry and rice, seaweed salad, and a couple of dessert options. “If I had to eat one thing for the rest of my life, it would probably be rice.”
Jack looks surprised. “That’s probably the least practical food choice for a lifetime of eating,” he says before pausing. “But I love rice, too.”
Our first similarity. I store that piece of information in my mind, collecting details about him like rare treasures.
The waitress swings by to take our orders, depositing a metal cone filled with breadsticks on the table.
“These are sprinkled with seaweed!” I have never before been this excited over a breadstick. I twist one between my fingers and admire it, the nori as small as confetti and dotting the dough like terrazzo.
We each order onigiri with different fillings—salmon for me, chicken for Jack—yuzu and ginger mocktails, and red bean ice cream for dessert.
Having mostly thawed, I unbutton my coat and drape it across the back of the chair. Jack does the same. Without the scarf and his puffy coat, I can see more of him for the first time. He’s wearing a thick sweater over a blue button-down. From what I know about Jack so far, this outfit doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. He seems like a rule-following professional through and through. He stretches up straighter in the seat. Jack still towers over me sitting down, so I’d peg him somewhere around six feet. He’s long-limbed, his shoulders broad but not bulky. When he leans forward to place his forearms against the table, I notice the sweater tugging against his waistline. From his shoulders to his waist looks like an upside-down triangle.
Across the room, the pianist stands while playing and turns around to the guests, a big smile on his face. The band plays a slow song and then picks it back up with a couple of fast ones. The vibe in here is contagious. Even for Jack, it seems. This is the longest smile I’ve seen on Jack’s face. At this point, his cheeks must be exhausted.
I sneak in another few seconds of looking at him, memorizing his features. From the print shop’s fluorescent lights to moonlight to this bar’s warm table lamp glow, the angles of his face change in different settings. What remains the same, though, despite where we are, are his gentle brown eyes.
I tear my gaze away from him right as the waitress is back with our orders, sliding our small plates in front of us along with the fruity mocktails housed in martini glasses.
“To our lantern.” I lift my glass, careful not to lose any liquid.
“We can’t be sure it was ours. Toalantern,” Jack corrects me with a charming smile, “that we assigned meaning to and followed relentlessly.”
