“You stole those?” I ask.
“They were in front of the kids’ exhibit. I only grabbed two. You’re a big kid, aren’t you?” Jack says, laughing and wiggling the bars in front of me.
“Jackson No-Middle-Name Liu, you stole ice cream bars from children?”
Jack smiles slyly and hands me one. “I left twenty dollars on the table.”
I clutch the ice cream bar. “This is officially the most expensive ice cream I’ve ever eaten.”
The clouds are heavy and hazy, the threat of a thunderstorm looming. In the distance, the sunset is as vibrant and textured as a Van Gogh oil painting. Jack guides us toward the Rocket Garden, which we passed earlier but didn’t have time to explore. Now, it seems, we’re about to.
“Should we be here?” I ask, eyeing a security guard walking the perimeter of the Space Center. He turns the corner to do a loop.
“I just took ice cream from kids. You think I care about being in here after hours?” Jack asks. “Okay, fine. I spoke to the guard earlier. We’re good. I work at NASA, remember?”
The Rocket Garden is empty, even though earlier it was jam-packed with tourists taking photos. Some of the rockets must be over a hundred feet tall, their noses sticking straight up in the air.
We cross over the grass to one of the curved pathways. The garden contains a bouquet of nine rockets of varying sizes, each of them with their own history. Who needs roses when you can have rockets? They’re mounted in their stands as if they could blast off at any moment. The lights at the base of each rocket illuminate the steel in a soft glow, accentuating their length.
I rip the pouch open across the top to discover a cookies-and-cream freeze-dried ice cream bar. I tentatively bite into it, the dessert crumbling between my teeth.
“I’ve gotta be honest, I don’t love it,” I admit. “I prefer the kind that melts.”
“Wait until you try the ice cream I make. Gong Gong is hoping to have a sundae party at his house next month. A belated welcome for you. I thought it could be nice to invite the team,” Jack says.
“That’s a great idea,” I say, taking another small bite of the dry dessert. “You should definitely invite everyone.”
Jack lifts his arms up slowly. “Oh no. Space ice cream side effects.”
I laugh and reach for his arms to lower them. He levitates them back up. Once again, I push his arms down gently and slowly, holding them firmly at his side. As if he’d really float away. After a few seconds too long, I let his arms go.
“Whew, thanks,” he says, his cheeks rosy.
I try to remind myself that Jack and I are on a work trip. Someone could see us, and we both have our careers on the line. I glance around and confirm that there’s no one nearby. I loosen up more, letting myself enjoy the full effects of the simulation from earlier.
“This would be a cool installation spot,” I say, looking from rocket to rocket, trying to conjure string in my mind to see how it might take shape. If I try hard enough, I might even be able to feel the string between my fingertips. Nope. I only see lines dangling from rockets with no meaning behind them. Even my imaginary thread is a mess.
“It’d be exposed to the elements,” he says, following my gaze. “But I can see it.”
“That makes one of us,” I admit.
Jack’s eyes flick back to me. “Still no ideas?”
“Red String Theory is done, but it clearly didn’t work. I’ve got nothing!” I say.
“That’s not necessarily true,” he says, frowning. “The tests have made you experience things you normally wouldn’t have, like butterflies. Now you know cloud names.”
“And that the Hollywood Sign looks like a constellation of letters from a distance,” I contribute.
Jack lifts his half-eaten ice cream bar like he’s toasting. “See? That’s not nothing. Tests can take time to reveal results. The effects aren’t always immediately obvious. You’ll think of something.”
I lean against the railing circling the Mercury-Redstone rocket. “Honestly, I don’t know if I’ll even remember how to tie off a knot.”
Instead of trying to convince me otherwise or keep up a can-do attitude, Jack says, “That must be tough. It seems like being creative is such a big part of your identity.”
“It is, and I love what I do.” I break off a piece of the ice cream bar and drop it into my mouth.
Jack stuffs his empty wrapper in his pocket and offers to take mine, too. I hand him the remains of my ice cream. During this exchange, he doesn’t say a word or try to problem-solve. He gives me time to think.
