I cringe at the realization that My Spot will likely never feel the same without Jack.
“Cross my heart,” Jack promises playfully. A third taxi stops in front of us and honks, eager for our business. “You go first.” He opens the taxi’s door for me.
I rest my hand on top of the door, taking in the scene. Jack’s face, Jack’s scent, Jack’s laugh. Not another second passes before his hand is on my waist, pulling me toward him. Our lips touch gently, like a whisper. It lasts two seconds, maybe three, but it’s all I need to know that this man is meant to be in my life more than just tonight.
“See? Sometimes it does get better,” I mumble, touching my fingers to my lips as I sink into the backseat of the taxi.
“Maybe sometimes it does,” he says.
“Have you ever wondered how many good-bye kisses happen outside of taxis?” I ask, still in a daze.
“This isn’t good-bye, Lobster Girl,” Jack says, looking equally stunned.
“May our paths cross again, Times Square,” I whisper.
Through the back window, I watch Jack step onto the sidewalk and then peer through the glass at me. Twice in one day, I’ve been separated from things I care about. In the reflection, the green neon restaurant sign glows, the letter “R” blinking rapidly. It finally fizzles out, the absence of the letter shadowing Jack’s face before the taxi pulls out into the road. I know I’ll read too much into what the disappearing “R” means later.
Two blocks down, I reach for my phone to send Jack another message. Anything to feel connected to him. Minutes later, my phone buzzes with a text. My heart soars before I see what the message says:Thx for the pic earlier, but also weird. IDK who Lobster Girl is, but think u have wrong number.
Then my heart plummets. Wrong number?!
“Turn around!” I call out to the driver, tapping his seat. “Back to the restaurant. Hurry! Please!”
The driver does as I plead. We wind through the empty streets, but we might as well be moving in slow motion. When we round the corner back to the restaurant, it’s too late.
The sidewalk is empty. Jack is gone.
I guess this really is good-bye.
Chapter 10
Five Months Later
JACK
Iget 1,840,000 results for my search of “dumpling restaurants chinatown nyc open late.” I sift through news articles, best-of lists, and dozens of menus. The number of restaurants with neon signs in general in New York City is limitless. At this point, my memory and the hundreds of photos I’ve seen of Chinese restaurants have blurred into one collage. The only concrete lead I thought I had for finding Rooney was Mangetsu Jazz. Until I remember that I paid. I scour Street View around MoMA like it’s a part-time job.
When none of these restaurants jogs my memory, I try yet another search for “Rooney.” “Rooney MoMA,” “Rooney NYC,” and “Rooney tour guide.” Any combination I can think to try with her name, I do.
The results give me dozens upon dozens of articles about Rooney Mara and Sally Rooney. No leads, no clues. After the address of the party yielded no name results for owners or renters, my coworker went out of his way to track down the host through his wife’s chain of connections. Rooney couldn’t have been on the guest list because there wasn’t one.
I at least thought Dave at the print shop would come through. But Dave wasn’t kidding when he said he was getting out of there assoon as he could, self-imposed or otherwise. Apparently, the mix-up happened for more customers than just me. At the very least, I hope he followed his surfing bliss.
Even though Rooney never texted me and let me kiss her like a fool, still I search. Why did I have to go and make it awkward for everyone by kissing her like that? The way she got into the taxi, just staring at me. I scared her off. That has to be it. I terrified her with my lips and my talk of the law of diminishing returns. It’s no wonder why she didn’t want to text me. I wouldn’t even want to text me.
I feel the start of a tickle in my throat. All of this overthinking is starting to take its toll.
I solve harder problems than this every day at work. Why is this one impossible to figure out? I just want this resolved. I should let it go.
I glance at the calendar on my monitor. Ten minutes until I have my first special committee meeting.
As soon as I got back to work after New York City, I scoured the company’s internal websites for opportunities. It’s what I do best: take action and put pen to paper.
Performance review feedback runs through my head on repeat. And here I am, without a promotion. The most obvious next step is to do something more social. More visible.
The description for the Artist-in-Residence Mission Liaison role was vague, but I needed to join something big. And this opportunity felt especially relevant to my time on the East Coast. I had just seen an art installation, and I understood what it was about. Art and me? We go way back. A whole five months back.
For the role being voluntary, there were a surprising number of interviews to be part of it. It’s taken all the way up from when I first applied back in February until now for me to be selected as mission liaison. It felt good to be picked for a change.
