Confucius Jane (10 page)

Out of the corner of her eye, Sutton saw Reginald's posture stiffen. Aside from a few close friends, her parents were the only people she had told about her attraction to women. After they had failed to convince Sutton that her sexual orientation was some sort of stress-triggered phase, they had asked her to be discreet. Her one fling with a postdoc several years ago had ended so quickly that Sutton had never truly chafed under their passive-aggressive homophobia.

“I'm sorry to say, there's no special man,” she said. “I don't have any time for a relationship right now.” The latter, at least, was the truth. Unhelpfully, her brain summoned the image of Jane, eyes flashing with humor as she teased Sutton about her “favorite part of the brain.” No. Just because they had spent a fun day together, and seemed to have some sort of physical chemistry, did
not
mean she wanted a relationship with Jane. Far from it.

“Speaking of time,” Sutton spoke as much to distract herself as to escape the conversation, “I have rounds this afternoon and should be going. If you'll excuse me?”

“Of course.” Reginald embraced her quickly. “Travel downtown safely.”

After another exchange of air kisses with Beverly, Sutton headed toward the coat check. Before she could so much as step up to the window and display her token, the attendant had whisked her pea coat off its hanger. She thanked him and tipped him more than usual, the prospect of freedom making her generous.

Only when the chilly February air sluiced down her throat did she begin to relax. Fumbling for her gloves, she walked quickly to the nearest subway station. When she stepped onto the platform just as a train was arriving, she indulged in her first true smile of the day. The sooner she could be downtown, the sooner she could turn this into a productive day.

After sliding into one of the plastic bucket seats, she leaned her head back against the window and allowed her breathing to align with the rhythmic thumps of the train traversing each seam of the tracks. Slowly, she craned her neck and pushed her shoulders down toward the center of her torso, hoping to ease some of the knots that had formed during lunch. Maybe lying by omission to her father was a mistake, but as soon as he found out about her new research interest, he would fight hard to change her mind. Again. She didn't have the energy for a string of arguments right now. Why jump the gun? In another few weeks, the publication of her article would make her persona non grata. She might as well soak up her family's misguided approval while she could.

The train pulled into the station at Twenty-eighth Street, and she quickly walked the three blocks east to the hospital. After flashing her badge for the security officer, she hurried toward the locker room. She was just ten feet from the door when Travis McPhearson rounded the corner. A fourth-year medical student, he was at the top of the class and never let anyone forget it. Travis had played basketball in college, and the running joke behind his back was that he loved to look down on everyone.

“Hel-lo, Sutton.” He wolf-whistled. “Look at you, dressed to the nines. Did you have a lunch date? Who's the lucky gentleman?”

“My father,” Sutton said, resisting the urge to make some snarky comment about his assumptions.

“Oh.” His tone shifted faster than a Maserati. “I see. Please give him my regards when next you see him.”

“Of course.” Sutton had no intention of doing so, and she didn't turn her head as she breezed through the locker room door. The routine of afternoon rounds and paperwork would help to calm the unsettled feeling in her chest. Maybe she would even have another chance to work individually with a patient. No matter what happened, afterward she could indulge in comfort food at Noodle Treasure. Perhaps Jane would be there again, helping Min with her homework.

If you want to see her so badly, you could always call her.
That little voice had been inside her head for days now, urging her to at least send a text. But along with the text, wouldn't she also be sending the wrong impression? It really would be ludicrous to date someone right now. She would only end up hurting Jane, and probably herself as well.

No, she wouldn't call. She wouldn't text. But she also wasn't about to deprive herself of her favorite place to work. If fate threw the two of them together again, she'd just have to think on her feet.

*   *   *

JANE FLICKED HER PEN
onto the back of her hand and walked it across her knuckles as she stared out into the night. Across the street, the brightly illuminated windows of Noodle Treasure mocked her. Sutton hadn't called, texted, or come to the restaurant in almost three full days.

“She's busy, right?” Jane asked of her reflection, dimly visible in the windowpane. “Superhero-grade busy.”

There was no need to panic. Sutton came to the restaurant a few times a week, not every single day. She probably had meetings to attend or patients to see or experiments to run. She wasn't avoiding Chinatown. She hadn't decided to find a new place to do her writing. No. She was off saving the world one person at a time, and she would return once her schedule allowed it. Right.

As she glanced down at her notebook, Jane tried to console herself. At least she had been productive for a few hours. Today's prospective fortunes had started out on an anticipatory note.
Be ready to seize your opportunity. Let your happy memories empower you. Love rewards patience.
But by the time the early winter's dusk had fallen, a note of desperation had entered her work.
Don't let a chance at love slip away. The darkest hour is just before the dawn.
She'd had to look up that aphorism to be sure she wasn't violating any copyright, but it had been around since the seventeenth century. The things she learned on this job!

The sound of footsteps in the hall were a merciful distraction. She turned to the sight of Min, bundled up against the cold in her bright yellow “Lorax” hat and a puffy pink coat that had once been Cornelia's. Jane smiled as she recalled Min's stoicism at being given the hand-me-down. The Lorax would approve.

“Mom asked me to give you this.” She handed Jane an envelope and then squinted at the window. “Has Sutton come back to the restaurant yet?”

“Nope.” Jane tried to change the subject quickly. “How was your day? Need any homework help?”

“Please.” Min's tone was dismissive. She turned, hands on hips. “What did you do to drive her away?”

“Nothing!”

“Have you been acting clingy? Sending pathetic text messages?”

Jane was about to vehemently deny both charges when she realized she was allowing herself to be baited. “No, and no. And I'm not having this conversation with you.”

Min regarded her skeptically. “Maybe you should. You must've done someth—”

“Nuh-uh. No way. Out. Shoo.”

“But—”

Jane worked one fingertip beneath the seal of the envelope in an effort to look busy. “I mean it.
You're
stifling
my
creative fl—”

The word died on her lips as she caught sight of the return address. Grief, all the more potent for being unexpected, constricted her chest. For one terrifying moment, she couldn't breathe.

“What happened?” Minetta leaned over her shoulder. “Who's it from?”

Jane swallowed hard, and mercifully, the vise around her lungs loosened. “Someone unexpected,” she managed.

“Are you okay?” Min's tone was uncharacteristically subdued. “Jane?”

“I'm fine.” The words were an effort, but hopefully they didn't sound as shaken as she felt. “I just … I need to read this in private, kiddo.” Jane kept her eyes fixed on the blurred image of the envelope, not daring to raise her head. “I'm sorry.”

“No worries.” Min patted her shoulder tentatively. “I'll be across the street. If Sutton comes in, I'll text you. Promise.”

“Sure.” Jane blinked furiously, struggling to process Minetta's words over the riot of emotion clouding her brain. “Thanks.”

At the sound of the door closing, Jane refocused on the letter.
Niles,
read the name above the familiar Brooklyn address. Anders Niles, her thesis advisor at Hunter, had been the ideal mentor. Despite being the recipient of numerous awards for his poetry, he had always treated her more like a colleague than a student. He and his wife, Sophia, had invited her to weekly meals at their cozy walk-up in Williamsburg. And he had been instrumental in helping her secure her first—and so far only—publication.

She had noticed his weight loss in the spring of her junior year but thought it intentional. By the time he confessed that he was dying, a few weeks were all he had left. She had visited him in the hospital once, where she sat at his bedside next to Sophia and tried not to feel ashamed of her tears. He had gripped her hand with surprising strength and had made her promise never to stop writing. She had given her word and was keeping it as best she could.

Wasn't she?

Jane sliced through the crease of the envelope, perversely glad when a paper cut opened along the side of her index finger. One thick, marbled sheet of paper lay inside, and her fingers trembled as she unfolded it.
The Anders Niles Memorial Fellowship for Emerging Poets
was stenciled in script across the top third of the page. The world went blurry again, but she shook her head and scrubbed harshly at her eyes.

The more she read, the dizzier she felt. The fellowship had been created by Sophia in her husband's name. Applicants were required to submit a personal statement and ten poems by April first. Applications would be judged by the fellowship's Board of Trustees, and twenty-five thousand dollars would be awarded annually to an emerging poet—someone whose early work had promise but who was not yet established. Someone exactly like her.

At the bottom of the page, she found a brief note:

Jane,

I hope you're well. If Anders were alive, he would want this award to be yours. I hope you apply.

All my best,

Sophia

This time, Jane didn't try to suppress her tears. They rolled down her cheeks to plink against the metal desk, tiny chimes tolling her grief. She couldn't have said how long they lasted, or how long she stared out into the darkness after her cheeks had dried. But eventually, the weight of the card stock beneath her fingertips drew her attention back down to the paper. Sophia had not only tracked down her address, but had taken the time to write a special note.

Anders would want this award to be yours.

Would he, if he could see her now: holed up in a closet, writing fragments of pseudo-prognosticatory verse? This wasn't the life Anders had envisaged for her, and it certainly wasn't the life she wanted for herself. Now, from beyond the grave, he had offered her a way out. Twenty-five thousand dollars might not be much in the grand scheme, but it would be enough to allow her to focus on her real work—at least for a little while. And the prestige of winning such a prize would be useful, in certain circles.

Suddenly energized, Jane reached for her poetry notebook and turned to the first page. As she began to flip through it, she grabbed her pen and began to mark the top corner of every piece that held a hint of promise. By the time she reached her most recent page, she had identified nine poems with potential, including her unfinished work-in-progress about Grand Central Station. Sitting back in her chair, she drummed her pen against the edge of the desk. She had to do this. It would mean splitting her free time between editing her older work, finishing her current piece, and trying to write something new, but … it almost felt as though Anders had been watching over her since his death and had finally decided that she needed an intervention. Laughing—laughing!—at the thought, she laced her hands behind her head and thought of what she might do with the prize money. The cautious, responsible plan involved putting it into her savings account. But the entire purpose of the award was to support her work, not maintain the status quo. Maybe she would travel for a while. After almost five years, she had lived longer in New York City than anywhere else, and claustrophobia was starting to set in. She could dust off her camping pack and sleeping roll and book an open-ended flight and—

Her phone chimed with a text from Minetta:
Sutton just walked in.

Jane stood up so fast that she knocked her notebook and pen to the floor and nearly upended her water bottle into her lap. Her first impulse had been to make a headlong dash for Noodle Treasure, but as she returned her scattered belongings to their proper places, logic interceded. She'd had an emotional meltdown and probably looked terrible. In the tiny bathroom, that suspicion was confirmed: her eyes were still red, and tear tracks stained her cheeks. Jane shucked off her T-shirt and tucked it into her back pocket as she scrubbed her face. For good measure, she ducked her head under the faucet to restore some of the spikiness to her hair. By this time of the day, the effects of gravity always trumped her gel. Even if Sutton wasn't a fan, Jane liked the way she looked with a bit of texture, and right now she needed every drop of self-confidence she could get.

As she stared at her reflection, she felt a stab of guilt at how quickly she had gone from mourning Anders to obsessing over Sutton. But Anders wouldn't want her to wallow in grief. He would want her to live.
Write every day,
he had told her poetry workshop class one warm spring morning near the end of his last semester.
But not all day. To filter the world, you must be in the world. Learn a new language. See a new city. Make something with your hands. Climb a mountain. Fall in love.
Not that she was falling in love with Sutton, of course, but a healthy crush had to be just as good for the muse, didn't it?

After tucking the letter carefully into her notebook and shoving a stick of gum in her mouth, she hurried downstairs and nearly crashed into her aunt, who was just rounding the corner.