Confucius Jane (20 page)

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AFTER VIGOROUSLY TOWELING OFF
and throwing on the clothes she'd brought into the bathroom, Jane swiped a dollop of gel and ran it through her hair. She paused to inspect her reflection, adjusting one stray strand before pointing at the mirror.

“Don't mess this up.”

Sutton had sought her out because she was in need during a difficult time. Now, Jane had an opportunity to be there for her. But she had to keep her head. Just because Sutton was beginning to open up, didn't mean she wanted something … more. Whatever was developing between them couldn't become serious. No matter how much she wished the circumstances could be different.

Not wanting to dwell on that line of thinking, she hurried out the door and down the stairs. The hum of voices grew louder as she descended, punctuated by Sutton's laugh. Seated at the table between Min and Uncle John, Sutton was intently focused on the laptop screen in front of them.

“What are you watching?”

“Cats,” Min said, eyes glued to the screen.

“Cats? As in, the musical?”

Min deigned to shoot her a withering glance. “No, dummy, real cats. Online.”

“Will you look at that!” interjected Uncle John. He sounded more animated than Jane had ever heard him.

“So cute,” Sutton agreed.

Neither of them had so much as looked up. “Really? You're all sitting here spellbound by one of the millions of videos of cats on the Internet?”

Uncle John turned toward her with a look of shock. “You mean there are more?”

Jane had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. “Oh yeah. For sure.” She looked to Sutton. “Can I tempt you away from the adorable felines?”

Her eyes glinted. “I don't know—can you?”

The teasing note in Sutton's voice, combined with her mischievous expression, went right to Jane's head. She wanted nothing more than to cross the room, lean down, and kiss her with a ferocity they had yet to explore together. The craving burned inside her, twisting and turning like a filament warping under heat. Gripping the banister hard, she held herself in place and her desires in check.

“I'm prepared to deliver that comfort food you asked for earlier,” she said, trying to keep the edge out of her tone.

Sutton frowned and tapped her chin, making a show of making up her mind. Jane watched Min hang on her every movement, and even Uncle John had stopped watching the cats.

“Well, in that case…” She stood and pushed in her chair. “Thanks for the laughs, Min, and for the hospitality, John and Jenny. It was wonderful to see you all.”

“Enjoy your night,” Uncle John said simultaneously with Aunt Jenny's “Have fun.” But as Jane allowed Sutton to precede her down the hallway, Min simply had to weigh in.

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do!”

“For goodness' sake, Minetta.” Aunt Jenny's chiding voice followed them down the stairs.

As they emerged into the night, Sutton caught the hem of Jane's hoodie and tugged her close. When Sutton's arms came around her neck, Jane was beset by twin surges of relief and desire.

“I just wanted to say thank you.” The teasing note had left Sutton's voice, and her eyes were serious.

“For what?”

“For being such a good listener, earlier. For welcoming me into your home.” Her fingertips caressed the nape of Jane's neck. “You're a very nurturing person.”

Jane had known the kiss was coming, but the sensation of Sutton's lips sliding against her own was still miraculous. The soft heat of Sutton's mouth seeped into her blood, spreading warmth beneath her skin. It ended all too soon, leaving Jane breathless. She wanted to memorize the way Sutton looked right now—her expression soft and unguarded, her golden hair illuminated by the red neon letters of the Confucius Fortunes sign in the window.

“You feel good,” she said, daring to smooth her palms along Sutton's rib cage.

The low rumble of Sutton's stomach broke the moment, and she pulled away, laughing. “I think that's a sign. Where are you taking me?”

“It's a surprise. You'll have to follow my lead.” Jane stretched out her hand. “Better hold on.”

As they walked north, her breathing slowed to match the cadence of their footsteps. The air was crisp but not painfully cold, and the promise of spring invigorated her, even as she steadfastly ignored the ticking clock in her head. This was not the time to fret about the future. She could do that when she wasn't holding Sutton's hand.

“I should tell my parents about the postdoc at Lund,” Sutton said after a few blocks of silence. “Especially now that my father knows about the article.”

The trepidation in her voice made Jane want to turn around, walk Sutton back to her apartment, and hold her for the remainder of the night. But that wasn't what she needed. Sutton wasn't asking for her comfort right now—she was asking for a sounding board.

“Okay. How do you want to tell them?”

“I don't really care, just as long as I do. But I think I'm in serious danger of losing my nerve.”

“What if you set yourself some kind of deadline? That might help you feel less anxiety about it.” Jane shrugged, not wanting Sutton to feel pressured. “It's what I did when I was tying myself in knots over coming out to my family.”

“How did that work?”

“I finally just gave myself a week to do it. This was during my senior year of high school, while we were living in Portugal.” Jane felt a sharp pang of nostalgia at the memory. “On the fifth day, we were eating at this cute little café in Lisbon that my mom had discovered while shopping, and the sun was setting over the water as we sat drinking our coffees. I just remember feeling like the world was so at peace in that moment. And I wanted to feel the same way, you know? At peace with myself and my identity. So I told them.”

“That's beautiful. How did they react?”

“They were great. I think my mother might have been a little disappointed that she wouldn't get to see me married off to some dashing, exotic bachelor, but that's just a feeling I get. They've never been anything but supportive to my face. I'm one of the lucky ones.”

“Yes.” Sutton's expression was pensive. “Everyone should be so lucky.”

The note of pain in her voice tore at Jane, and she detached their hands to slide her arm around Sutton's waist. “You don't have to tell me. But I'll listen if you like.”

“There's not much to tell. My parents have always had a very clear picture of what my life would be like, and that picture did not include me eventually settling down with another woman. I think they still hope it's a phase.”

“I'm sorry.” Jane hugged her closer. “I hate that they made it difficult for you. You deserve to be cherished, not guilt-tripped.”

“It's only been a few years. I'm hoping they'll come around yet.”

Jane was just considering whether to ask what had motivated her coming out to her family, when they turned a corner and found themselves at the edge of Washington Square Park. Before them, the fountain's basin was entirely dry, still awaiting the advent of true spring. She could remember playing in it once as a child, on a hot summer's day, during one of her family's visits to the States. Beyond the fountain, floodlights illuminated the ornate façade of the Washington Arch.

“Let's go underneath,” she said, pointing.

Sutton smiled. “All right, tourist.”

“Hey, now. Just because I'm not a lifer like you doesn't mean—” The sound of a trumpet made Jane break off her argument, and she searched out the musician as a jazz riff filled the air. He was sitting on the edge of the basin and playing, instrument case open at his feet.

As they approached, Sutton extracted a dollar bill from her purse. “Thank you,” she said, bending to deposit it on the black velvet. The man never stopped playing, but he dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“He sounded good,” Jane said as they walked away.

“Very. I wonder what made him have to busk.”

“Maybe he doesn't have to. He might just want to play for a different audience. Or maybe he just doesn't want to practice inside on a night like this.”

“Good point.” Sutton sounded thoughtful, and Jane wondered whether that was a new notion to her. There were plenty of impoverished artists in New York City, but not all of them needed to beg to eke out an existence. Some of them simply wanted to perform for the joy of it.

Their pace slowed as they meandered through the park. The chorus of human voices filled the mild air with a soft buzz, and Jane reached for her notebook as words and phrases jumped out from the cacophony like fish from a river.

How many times are you going to stand there and argue with him?

Is it called ‘Some Greek God Café?'

But I'm not going to eat, so I don't know if that will bother you—me sitting there and watching you eat.

“That would totally bother me,” Sutton murmured.

“Me, too,” Jane said as she finished scribbling. “I don't trust people who don't like food.”

As they drew abreast of the fountain, they passed a skinny, Mohawked young man under a street lamp whose cardboard sign read, O
NE DOLLAR JOKES.
M
ONEY BACK IF YOU DON'T LAUGH
.

Jane nudged Sutton. “Want to risk it?”

“I'll save my money this time, thanks. But I have to admit I'm intrigued.” She nodded toward a bearded fellow standing next to a placard advertising T
AROT
R
EADINGS BY
K
YLER
. “Oh, look. Maybe he and Sue should compare notes.”

“Maybe he'd be a better match for her than Giancarlo.”

Sutton's laugh sounded as musical as the jazz. “Or maybe they'd be hopelessly at odds. Do Chinese astrology and tarot have anything in common?”

“No idea. Have you ever had your cards read?”

“Never. You?”

When Jane shook her head, she noticed a slender woman perched on a bench near the arch, her hand resting possessively on a piece of poster board. Her inner arm bore a script tattoo that Jane couldn't quite make out, but her sign was clearly legible. H
I.
I
'M COLLECTING YOUR STORIES.
S
TOP BY AND SHARE ANONYMOUSLY OR ASK, “
W
HAT FOR?”

“That's an intriguing project,” Jane mused.

“Do you want to go talk to her?” There was an unexpected edge to Sutton's words that aroused Jane's curiosity. Sutton was frowning as she looked at the woman, and the muscles in her chin were tightly bunched. She seemed almost jealous—only that was crazy, wasn't it? Crazy, but intoxicating. If Sutton were jealous, that meant she cared. That her feelings were more than simply casual.

Careful to keep her tone nonchalant, she shrugged. “No, I want to feed you comfort food.”

“Oh, really?” The teasing note was back in Sutton's voice.

Blindsided by the mental image of sharing a pint of ice cream in bed, Jane hurriedly tried to pull herself together. “Not that … I mean … obviously you can feed yourself.”

“Mm.” Sutton sounded positively smug.

As they passed beneath the arch, a man, holding a copy of what Jane presumed was a Bible, spun in a slow circle. “You'll be crumbling in the ground while Satan scorches you,” he ranted. “That's what happens to those who think God is a joke!”

“Lovely.” Sutton picked up the pace, and Jane was happy to match her.

“The hellfire-and-brimstone ones are the worst.” She glanced over. “Are you religious?”

“Only on Christmas and Easter.” Sutton's mouth twisted wryly. “My parents' real church is the Metropolitan Club. Yours?”

“My dad's a lapsed Irish Catholic and my mother believes more in the power of medicinal herbs than in any sacred deity.”

“No wonder you feel so at home in Sue's shop.”

As Jane steered them further east, the age of the passersby noticeably decreased. The East Village was dominated by NYU students, lending the neighborhood an atmosphere at once Bohemian and bourgeois. As they crossed Astor Place, she felt a pang of nostalgia for her college days, followed by guilt that those days weren't exactly over yet. Taking a deep breath, she focused on the hum of the crowd and the sensation of Sutton's fingers intertwined with her own.

She doesn't want him in her house.

Yeah, I can hear you. You sound very obese. Can you hear me?

Well, I was made in a Petri dish …

“You're getting some good ones tonight, aren't you?” Sutton asked as Jane unlaced their hands to write down a few more lines.

“I am. You must be good luck.” Jane blinked as she realized she had paused mere feet from their destination. “And here we are.”

“Pommes Frites?” Sutton sounded a little dubious, and Jane mentally crossed her fingers.

“Is there any better comfort food than Belgian fries smothered in the sauce of your choosing?” She pulled Sutton toward the tiny hole-in-a-wall restaurant. “C'mon. Trust me. I'm getting the parmesan peppercorn, and if you're nice, I'll let you have a bite.”

“If I'm nice?” Sutton sounded affronted, but when Jane glanced over, she was already perusing the menu above the restaurant. “Vietnamese Pineapple Mayo? On French fries?”

“On Belgian fries.”

“Is there really that much of a difference?”

“Light-years. Belgian fries are thicker, and they're always served in a paper cone. Usually with mayonnaise and ketchup.” When Sutton continued to look skeptical, Jane shook her head. “Seriously, just trust me. And if you ever find yourself in Belgium, go to a friterie.”

A few minutes later, Jane watched as Sutton took a tentative bite from a large, golden-brown fry slathered with a sauce called “Honey Mustard Mayo.” She chewed, swallowed, and frowned.