9. Nick
NICK
B y the time I push through the glass doors of the Museum of Modern Art—or MoMA, as it’s more commonly known—my clothes are damp with sweat. It’s a relief to step into the cool, climate-controlled foyer, and I take a moment to breathe in the crisp air, loosening the button on my jacket.
I hadn’t planned to walk here, but after a restless morning in my office, I paced across town in the heat, mind racing.
My words to Zinnia, after yesterday’s class, play on a loop in my head, followed by her shocked silence as I strode from the lecture hall.
I was harsher than I’d intended, but when she approached the lectern with her bright smile and warm energy, I panicked. I snapped at her and shut her down.
But what was I supposed to do? Link arms with her and skip through the halls, gabbing about Italy?
Besides, I tell myself, as I flash my membership pass at the front desk and head for the stairs, what I said was true.
We’re not friends. Before yesterday, at a push I would have called us colleagues, but now even that isn’t accurate.
We’re professor and student, and there are very clear boundaries.
Boundaries I’ve already violated by thinking about Zinnia in ways I shouldn’t.
I grimace as I recall pulling up her student file yesterday after class.
She’s older than most undergrads, but still younger than I thought.
It was bad enough to let myself picture her the other night when I thought she was the thirty-year-old model from life-drawing class, but knowing she’s twenty-five and my student?
Fuck. This is why I don’t let myself indulge desire.
I need to regain some sense of control before my carefully constructed life comes crashing down around me.
I shove the thoughts away, taking the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor.
There’s a Jackson Pollock painting I’m here to see as part of a research paper I’m currently working on, examining the through line from early narrative art to modern abstraction.
It’s not due for months, but I figured getting out of the office—and out of my head—might help.
Being firm with Zinnia was the right thing to do.
It was one thing when we were in a brownstone in Brooklyn, but it’s another thing entirely on campus.
She needs to know there are lines there we cannot cross, and once I quit life-drawing class tonight, that will make it abundantly clear.
We’ll only see each other in my lectures, and everyone will know their place.
That’s why I had to shut her down yesterday. It was best for everyone.
But that doesn’t explain why guilt has shadowed me ever since I walked from that lecture hall.
I weave my way across the fourth floor, searching for the painting I need: Pollock’s One: Number 31.
Turning the corner, I come face to face with the piece, slowing my steps.
There’s no missing the massive canvas, splattered with paint in shades of black, white, teal, and brown.
It takes up an entire wall, so immersive it’s like you’re standing inside the painting itself.
I step closer, the tangled drops of paint making my eyes hurt.
This is why I prefer Renaissance work. It’s structured and clear. Controlled and disciplined, following strict rules of composition. Everything makes sense.
But this… this is the opposite of that. Impulse. Chaos. Feeling.
I study the marks on the canvas, looking for patterns, shapes. There has to be some sense to it, surely. Some logic, some reason.
But the longer I stare at it, the more I see a reflection of myself. A tangle of messy sensations and thoughts, my sense of order gone.
I scowl at the painting, resentment burning in my gut. It’s all fine and good for Pollock, but I need structure. Composure. Those are the principles I’ve built my career on. My life on. And somehow, Zinnia Sinclair has upended those in only a few days.
She’s turned me into a fucking Jackson Pollock painting.
And I don’t like it.
My jaw tightens, and I turn away, hardening my resolve. The sooner I quit life-drawing class, the better.
I’m late to that evening’s class, for no reason other than avoidance. I know that the minute I walk through the door, Zinnia will be smiling and effervescent—not to mention naked —and I can’t face it.
I can’t face her .
The first thing I notice when I finally force my feet up the front steps of the community arts center is June, anxiously wringing her hands. The second thing I notice is the heat in what is usually a comfortable, air-conditioned space.
“There you are, Nicholas!” A relieved smile etches its way into her weathered features. “I was worried you might have decided not to return.”
Guilt worms through me. “Not at all, June. Apologies for my tardiness.” I hesitate, reminding myself of what I have to do. “But I would like a quick word after class tonight, if that’s okay?”
“Of course.” She leans closer, wincing. “I should warn you, though, the air conditioner is on the fritz.”
I nod politely, as if I hadn’t noticed.
“I can’t get the technician out here until tomorrow, so I’m afraid it’s going to be a hot one tonight.”
Great. As if I don’t have enough to deal with.
I give her a tight smile. “We’ll make it work.”
“I knew you would.” She pats me on the arm and wanders off.
I take a moment to center myself, breathing in the hot, stale air before stepping into the studio.
The low hum of chatter fills the room as everyone settles in at their easels, a few people fanning themselves.
As I set my bag on the sofa, my eyes move to the center of the room against my will, but the pedestal is empty.
Shit.
In all my dithering about class, it hadn’t occurred to me that Zinnia might be the one not to show this evening.
But there’s a sound at the back of the room, and I turn to find her stepping through the pocket doors in her silk robe. The strangest sensation moves through me, a mix of relief and something else I can’t pinpoint. Something… light. Something nice .
I shake it off, removing my jacket to hang by the door.
Focus. Two hours, then life can get back to normal.
“Alright,” I tell the class. “I know it’s a little hot in here, but let’s do our best to get through this.
” I force my gaze to Zinnia, determined to be professional for our last class.
To make it clear that even here, I’m her professor.
“Zinnia, please take a basic standing pose, one leg crossed in front of the other.”
She nods, hesitating before letting her robe slip to the floor. But instead of giving me that same seductive look she gave me last time, she keeps her gaze turned away as she takes the pose.
Good. She understands the rules.
I set the timer and walk the class through a few warm-up exercises, giving Zinnia clear instructions on how to pose.
Each time I glance across to make sure she’s holding the pose correctly, and each time she stares straight ahead.
She hasn’t once smiled, hasn’t cracked a joke.
Hasn’t even checked to see if I’m looking at her.
It’s exactly how a professional life-drawing model should behave.
And yet, it makes me uneasy.
We move into one of the longer poses, and I wander behind the easels, half looking at the students’ work, half puzzling over Zinnia. She’s been bubbly since day one, so why won’t she smile?
Why won’t she even look at me?
I think back to the last time we spoke after Monday’s lecture, grimacing. She’d been excited to speak to me, saying something about her grandmother taking her to the Scrovegni Chapel, and I’d dismissed her because of my own bullshit. Guilt swarms me as I replay the moment in my head.
God, my brother’s right. I am a jackass.
“Let’s take a break,” I say to the class, needing some air.
I wander to the bay windows as everyone sets their pencils down, moaning about the heat, and lift the sash to let warm air in from the street. Closing my eyes, I listen to the distant hum of New York.
I shouldn’t be thinking about why Zinnia won’t look at me.
If anything, I should be glad. Last week’s classes were unbearable, with her eyes following me around the room.
I thought I’d been far too aware of her body, but now I realize it’s her gaze that has my attention.
She’s gone from being Titian’s Venus of Urbino , gazing boldly at the viewer, to da Vinci’s La Belle Ferronnière , gaze angled just enough to deny connection.
I thought her boldness was dangerous, but her restraint hits me in a way I couldn’t have expected.
And it’s even more unsettling.
Especially when I realize that what I really want isn’t simply for her to look at me. What I want is her forgiveness.
“Er… should we get back to it?” I turn to find Gary, an older gentleman, beside me. “It’s been twenty minutes.”
I remove my glasses to wipe a hand across my eyes. Christ, I’m losing it.
“Yes,” I mutter, motioning for him to return to his seat.
Zinnia waits patiently on the pedestal, dropping her robe with little fanfare as the class settles in at their sketchbooks.
She’s pulled her hair back in the heat, piling it into a bun on top of her head, a few tendrils floating loosely around her face.
I think of Venus of Urbino again, the way Zinnia gazed up at me in that first class as she reclined on the pedestal, and make a decision.
“Settle into reclining contrapposto for our final pose,” I tell her.
She hesitates, and for a second I think it’s because she isn’t sure what I’m asking, but she lowers herself onto the pedestal and assumes the same reclined pose she took in our first class.
This time, the shape and curve of her breasts is far more pronounced without her bra, and I tear my gaze away.
You’re her professor , I remind myself. Seventeen years older than her .
But more than any of that, she doesn’t want me to look at her tonight. She’s denying me that right with her body language.
And it’s my own fault.
I suck in a lungful of hot, sticky air as I pace the room, rolling my sleeves restlessly. A younger student named Bernice asks for help, and I pause beside her, explaining how to gauge the distance between parts of a subject by holding your thumb up to measure and translate it onto the page.
Checking the time on my phone, I continue around the room.
Ten minutes remaining. It’s a long pose, and Zinnia holds it well, like she always does, but as I glance at her, a strand of hair falls loose from her bun to hang in her eyes.
She blows at it, attempting to get it out of her face without breaking the pose, brows scrunched in concentration.
It’s comical, the way she does it, and it’s the first time she’s seemed like herself all night. Despite myself, it makes me smile.
Without thinking, I cross and kneel beside her, reaching to push the strand of hair away. Her eyes fly to mine, and I freeze, cursing myself. She’s made it clear she doesn’t want me to even look at her, let alone touch her, but her gaze softens. And as it does, something softens in my chest.
She’s forgiving me.
I should pull away, but I can’t. Instead, my fingers brush her forehead with the tiniest, briefest touch, but it’s enough to tilt my world on its axis. Zinnia’s gaze bores into mine, and my pulse scrambles, hand shaking as I withdraw it.
Fuck. What am I doing ?
I rise on unsteady legs, heading back to the window to drag in a ragged breath.
Thankfully, the class doesn’t seem to have noticed my serious lapse in judgment, and when the timer goes off a few minutes later, I sneak a plastic cup of wine from the drinks table and down it in one, telling myself it’s because of the heat.
Then I set about packing up the easels, head lowered, praying Zinnia doesn’t try to help.
“Did you see that?” I overhear Gary say as he and Ruth head for the door. I try to tune them out as I drag the pedestal to the corner, but Ruth’s next words land clearly, almost as if she wanted me to hear.
“I did. Maybe he’s human after all.”
I drop my head, heart hammering my ribs. What they don’t realize is that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
“Goodnight.” Zinnia’s gentle voice cuts into my thoughts, and I snap my head up. She’s in the doorway, dressed in denim cutoffs, with an oversized tee hanging loosely off one shoulder, her bag in her hands. It’s clear she’s not going to help me pack up, and that’s good. That’s what I want.
But it doesn’t explain the twinge of disappointment in my gut. Her lips curve into a soft, tentative smile, almost as if she knows.
“Goodnight,” I say, watching her head out the door. And as I quickly pack up and slip into the warm evening air, I think about that smile more than I should.
It’s not until I’m home that I realize I didn’t tell June I can no longer teach the class.