2. Nick
NICK
T he only reason some people don’t appreciate art is because they’ve never stood in front of a masterpiece. When you’re in the presence of a truly timeless piece of art—say, the Sistine ceiling, or a Rothko—you’re forever changed.
But this piece, as eye-catching as it might be, isn’t likely to change anyone’s life.
I lean closer to the gallery window, shielding my eyes against the afternoon sun streaming between the buildings in Manhattan’s West Village, to take in the large square canvas, crisscrossed with black lines and blocks of color. Very Mondrian. Or at least aspiring to be.
My gaze traces the sharp angles, and I find myself longing for a curve, a single organic line, something that flows and dips, but it’s all corners and walls. I can’t fault the brushwork, the precision, but acrylic paint always lacks the depth you find in oil. Or, ideally, early tempera.
With a sigh, I push my wire-rimmed glasses up my nose and carry on. Marcus will be waiting for me, and explaining that I’m late because I stopped to gaze into the window of a local art gallery won’t make an ounce of sense to him.
As expected, he’s already seated at an outdoor table when I arrive at the bistro on Bleecker Street. My older brother is never late. As a prominent surgeon at NYU Langone, he’s never anything but punctual and exact. Clinical, almost, in everything he does.
Which is why Marcus takes me entirely by surprise when he rises, pulling me into a hug.
I stiffen as my brother’s arms encircle me. I haven’t seen him in at least a year, probably longer, and we’ve never been the hugging type. He’s never been the hugging type.
“Nick,” he says, clapping me on the back as we part. “So good to see you.” He motions for the waiter to bring me the same beer he’s drinking, and while I don’t normally drink, I let it slide, settling in at the table, eying him warily.
“You too,” I reply, trying to get a read on him.
At forty-eight, he’s six years older than me, but we share the same features; tall, blue eyes, brown hair, though a touch more gray threads his than mine, and he wears contacts instead of glasses.
We also share a disposition that leans toward stoic and serious, but today he looks… happy. Too happy. Giddy, almost.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Never been better,” he replies cryptically, eyes shimmering.
The waiter brings me a bottle of Miller High Life, already beading condensation in the heat of summer. I take a sip as I study my brother.
“I’m getting married,” Marcus announces at last, and I choke on my beer. He chuckles as I reach for a napkin, mopping the spill from my tweed jacket.
“Seriously?”
He nods, regarding me with amusement, and I take a moment to let this sink in.
Marcus is getting married. Marcus . The man who’s never once had a serious girlfriend, putting his career above all else. The man who’s always seen the world in diagnoses and repairs, never in feelings or beauty.
The man who once looked at my sketchbooks and saw nothing but a waste of time.
My breath trickles out as I struggle to make sense of this. His fiftieth isn’t far off. That probably explains it.
“Well, I guess you’re not getting any younger.” The words are out before I can stop them, and I immediately regret how they sound.
“No, and neither are you,” he points out dryly. I ignore it.
“Who is she?”
“Dr. Priya Patel. She’s an anesthetist at the hospital.”
“Right,” I murmur, taking a long slug from my beer. I didn’t realize how much I’d need it for this conversation. “That makes sense.”
“Meaning?” he asks, lips twitching.
“Well, you know…” I shrug. “She’s probably a female version of you. That’s why you’re marrying her.”
Marcus laughs. “I’m marrying her because I’m in love, jackass. I thought you’d be happy for me.”
I grimace. Shit, he’s right. I am a jackass.
“Sorry, yeah.” I clink my bottle to his, conjuring a smile. “Congrats, man.”
It’s not that I’m not happy for Marcus. It’s more that I’m… thrown. Throughout my entire life, my brother has been single-minded and driven, detached to the point of being cold.
And now he sits here telling me he’s in love ?
“I’m surprised,” I add, and thankfully Marcus chuckles again as he scans the menu.
We order food, and he asks about my work as we eat.
I give him the short version, telling him about the summer class I begin teaching next week.
He nods in the right places, but he’s never understood my work.
We might both have “Dr.” before our names, but his carries weight in a way mine never will.
He talks far more than I do after that—about Priya, how they met in an operating theater, of course—and I nod along, feeling like I’ve slipped into a parallel universe where a lovestruck teenager has taken over my brother’s body.
By the time we’re done, I’m more than ready to return to my office and something that makes sense again.
I hurry back to campus, cutting through Washington Square Park, where people lounge on benches in the early evening sun, and kids splash in the large central fountain, their laughter ringing out above the sounds of city traffic.
Outside the Silver Center building, I pause.
Built from limestone in the Gothic Revival style in the 1890s, it’s the main hub for the NYU College of Arts and Science, housing lecture halls, classrooms, and faculty offices, including my own.
My summer class doesn’t start until next week, but I always come in early to finalize the syllabus and ensure the class is ready to go.
Pushing through the glass doors, I step into the wide foyer, modernized in the mid-twentieth century with pale walls and practical tile floors.
The elevator takes me to the third floor, where I follow the labyrinth of corridors to my office.
Stepping inside, I release a long breath, unbutton my jacket, hang it on the hook on the back of my door, and rake a hand through my hair as I wander to the window, cracking it open to let the warm air in.
My gaze lingers on Washington Square Park below, taking in the large round central fountain, the famous marble memorial arch, before returning to my office.
The space is functional, if not particularly inspiring: bookshelves jammed with textbooks and tomes, an antique leather armchair under the window—left by my predecessor—and a university-supplied desk, piled with notes, my laptop, and empty cups.
I imagine my brother’s place of work—clean, sterile, not an item out of place—and shake my head.
That’s the guy I know. Not the man at the bistro, waxing lyrical about falling in love.
I straighten the postcard of Florence’s Duomo taped to my wall, then sink into my desk chair, reaching for my notes from last summer’s class.
I’ve been an associate professor of art history at NYU for ten years now, and even though Renaissance art hasn’t changed a great deal in that time, I like to tweak the syllabus each semester to keep things fresh.
But as soon as I find my flow annotating in the margins, my phone rings, interrupting my thoughts.
“Nicholas Sweetman,” I say, one eye still running over the syllabus as I take the call.
“Dr. Sweetman?” a slightly harried voice asks. “This is June Crosby, director of the Brooklyn Heights Community Arts Center.”
“June,” I echo, surprised. “Hello.”
“So, you do remember me,” she says, laughing awkwardly.
“Of course.” I gave a guest lecture at the community arts center last winter, and even though I haven’t heard from June since, she’s not easy to forget.
She donated her own brownstone on Fruit Street to create the arts center, facilitating classes in everything from sculpture to block printing, and hosting events like poetry readings and book clubs.
“Excellent,” she says, sounding relieved. “I’m sorry to call you out of the blue, but I’m in a bit of a bind, and you’re the first person who came to mind. I don’t suppose you’re free this evening?”
I hesitate, glancing at my syllabus again.
“What would you say to leading a life-drawing class?” she adds, before I can respond.
I scrape a hand across the scruff on my jaw, frowning. Despite the hours I spent as a teenager scribbling in my sketchbook, I prefer to study art instead of making it. I thought June knew I taught art history , not art.
“Are you sure you’ve got the right person?” I ask, trying to be tactful. June must be in her seventies at least, and while she seemed sharp as a tack the last time I met her, it wouldn’t be the first time someone has confused what I do.
“This is Dr. Sweetman, professor of art history, yes?”
“Yes,” I begin, “but…”
“Then I have the right person,” June cuts in. “I remember your guest lecture well, Dr. Sweetman. The way you spoke about da Vinci’s sketches… You understand proportion, form, and movement. I know you will do the class justice.”
Exhaling heavily, I slide my glasses off to pinch the bridge of my nose.
I’d hoped she might say she had the wrong person, and that would be the end of it.
I have enough of my own work to do, but it’s more than that.
The thought of working with a live model makes something tighten uncomfortably in my chest. I’m used to speaking about subjects that are either mythical or have been dead for centuries.
“I’m flattered, June, but…”
“I really hate to put you on the spot,” she cuts in again, a desperate note in her voice. “But the arts center has struggled lately, and if I have to cancel this class, I worry it could seal our fate. You of all people can appreciate the importance of the arts, Dr. Sweetman.”
Fuck. For someone I’ve only met once, she knows exactly where to press.
“Fine,” I mutter, setting the syllabus aside. I’ll have to work on it later tonight. “What time do you need me?”
“Six-thirty would be preferable, to help with setup. Do you need the address again?”
“No.” I slide my glasses back on with a resigned sigh. “I remember.”
We end the call, and I catch sight of the time. Five forty-five. Shit, I’d better get moving.
Stuffing the syllabus into my leather crossbody bag, I pull my tweed jacket back on and head out the door, hoping to get the damn class over with as quickly as possible.