“No, seriously. My middle name is Something,” I say. “When my mom was asked what my middle name was, she was deciding between Something and Whatever.”
“Oh,” Jack says neutrally. “Sorry about that. In all honesty, I don’t have a middle name. I guess Something is better than nothing.”
I grin. “Only if you like that something.”
Jack pinches his eyebrows together. “So, Rooney Something Gao. RSG. Red String Girl. That’s very… what did you call it in the print shop? Symbolic.”
Jack mentioning the moment we met throws me off. I’ve longed for this since that night, but we’re not in New York City anymore. We’re walking and talking but the context couldn’t be more different. The lit-up skyscrapers that surrounded us have been replaced by olive trees that confidently take up space. We shift awkwardly as the tension builds in the silence.
“I’m sorry aboutEntangled,” Jack says as we cross the street. “I had blabbered on about it to you that same night that, well, you know. I thought the artist was someone else.”
“You don’t need to be sorry—” I stop in my tracks. “Wait. Who did you think the artist was?”
Jack hesitates. “I met this blunt older woman at your installation. She was handing out sketchbook paper. Her clothing was covered in paint,” he reveals. “She knew a lot about the art and its themes, which is why I thought it was her.”
My jaw drops. “You met my mom,” I say, covering my face with both hands. “What did she say? Actually, it’s better if you don’t tell me.”
“That was your mom?” Jack asks.
“The one and only.”
Jack grimaces and runs a hand through his hair, the ends sticking up a bit. I’m tempted to reach out to flatten the strays, but I’d like for this moment to be less awkward.
Instead, I hold out my hands in front of him, just close enough to touch. “Jack, you clearly didn’t know aboutEntangled, and you were right that I would’ve loved it. Besides, I have a different perspective about it now. Look where it led me,” I say, lifting my arms up toward the sky. “I’m in California!”
“That you are,” Jack affirms.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say who I was,” I feel the need to add. “It didn’t feel like the right time.”
“I get it,” Jack says. He looks like he means it. “You’re anonymous to the public. It makes sense you would tell us who you are now that we’re working together. Otherwise, it’s a logistics nightmare.”
“Thanks for being so nice about it,” I say.
“I’m Jackson at work,” he says with a smirk. “I kind of live a double life, too.”
I catch up to Jack and reach for his arm, stopping him in the middle of the sidewalk. Since the Mars Yard, he’s folded up his sleeves. My fingertips prickle when it strikes me that I’m touching Jack’s forearms. In New York, he was in a sweater and a coat. It wastoo cold to have any skin exposed. The friction of us touching sends tingles up my own arm.
“I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you,” I tell him, still holding him. “Because I do. And if you recall, we agreed not to talk about work that night.”
His eyes move to where my hand is, and his expression relaxes. “Rooney, I’m not mad. And don’t worry, I remember it well.”
After a second too long, he pulls his arm away. I fiddle with the visitor badge hanging around my neck, twisting the blue lanyard with “JPL” printed on it.
We continue walking. Jack’s long strides mark the pace as I trail behind.
“Who was it that I spoke to on the phone?” he asks, looking over his shoulder.
“That was Talia and my mom,” I admit.
Jack huffs out a laugh. “They were entertaining.”
“That’s one word for them,” I say.
We take a few steps up shallow, concrete stairs. By now Jack has slowed down enough for me to catch up with him. We’re back in rhythm, walking side by side.
“FATE, really?” I ask. “And I mean the mission, not destiny.”
Jack looks like he’s gathering his thoughts. “We’re building equipment that will serve as fueling stations in space. For spacecrafts heading to Mars and deep space. We’re making reaching Mars a more consistent and frequent reality.”
