11. Nick
NICK
T he faculty lounge is always quieter during the summer semester, but there’s no escaping the low hum of conversation as I head to the kitchen.
Colleagues bemoaning having to spend their summer days in stuffy lecture halls instead of at the beach, the students who are already giving them grief, all the reasons they’ll never teach another summer class again.
I tune them out as I wait for my tea to brew, then add a dash of milk. Summer isn’t my favorite time to work either, but the extra money is good, and I rarely have other plans. I like to keep busy.
I glance around the room at the worn furniture—chairs whose upholstery has seen better days, Formica tables with chipped corners—and spot a colleague from the art history department, Dr. Teagan Webber, who teaches a class on patronage in Renaissance Italy.
She’s young, eager to prove herself, and very chatty.
She spent the last department fundraising dinner flitting from person to person, talking about anything and everything, while I escaped to the corner and fell into conversation with one of the few people there who actually seemed to care about the art.
I decide to head for the door, but Dr. Webber notices me, waving me over. “Dr. Sweetman! Over here!”
Forcing an exhale through my nose, I head for her table. All I wanted was a cup of tea and a quiet moment before class. I should have stayed in my office.
“Dr. Webber,” I say politely. My gaze drifts over the pile of books and notes she has spread across the table, like a student studying for midterms.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Her cheeks color, and she shoves a textbook out the way, motioning for me to sit. With a resigned sigh, I drop into the seat.
“How are your classes going?” she asks, pushing a lock of strawberry-blond hair behind her ear.
I sip my tea, considering this. I’m only one class into the summer, but it feels like more. Maybe it’s the life-drawing classes on top of my regular workload.
Or maybe it’s Zinnia messing with my head.
“Fine,” I say at last. “You?”
“Great!” She beams. “I love teaching summer classes. Fewer students, so you can really get into those deep discussions, you know?”
“Mm,” I say noncommittally, because that’s never been my style. I’m not the warm, chatty type, and everyone around here knows it.
She opens her mouth to say more when my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I reach for it, pleased for the distraction, until I notice my brother’s name on the screen. I haven’t seen the guy for a year, and now we’re talking twice in two weeks? What’s his deal?
“Excuse me,” I say to Dr. Webber, rising from the table.
At least the call gets me out of making awkward chit-chat, even if I’m not sure what more my brother could possibly have to say to me.
I drain my tea and dump the cup in the sink before stepping into the corridor.
“Marcus,” I say flatly, taking the call.
“Nick! How are you, little brother?”
“Fine.”
“Good. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you at work, but this was my only free moment. What are you doing next Thursday night?”
I scratch my jaw. “I teach a class,” I say without thinking. But I won’t be teaching that class anymore, will I? Not once I finally speak to June.
“Okay then, Friday,” Marcus counters, before I can correct myself.
“I’m… free.”
“Great! You’re coming to our place for dinner. You have to meet Priya.”
I blink. “Really?”
My brother’s laugh echoes down the phone. “Yes, really. She’s going to be my wife. She wants to meet you.”
I lean against the corridor wall, processing this. It hadn’t occurred to me she’d want to meet, though I guess that makes sense. But what will we even talk about? Marcus and I caught up on work last week.
“Besides,” he adds, as if feeling the need to convince me, “you haven’t seen our place in Brooklyn Heights yet.”
“Brooklyn Heights?”
Another laugh from Marcus, but this one sounds a little more annoyed. Or maybe it’s hurt.
“That’s where I’ve lived for a year now, jackass. If you ever called, you’d know.”
I grimace, guilt darting through me. Shit, am I really that distant from my own brother that I don’t know where he lives?
He hasn’t called you either , I remind myself. We’ve never been that close.
Until now, it seems.
“Okay,” I agree. “Sure. Dinner sounds good.” It’s only one night, and besides, I have to admit I’m a little curious about the woman who’s caused such a dramatic transformation in my older brother.
“Great. I’ll text you the details.”
We end the call, and I catch sight of the time. Shit, three minutes until class starts.
I swing by my office to grab my laptop and notes, then hurry into the lecture hall. Students are already filing into their seats, and my pulse trips in anticipation as I instinctively search the tiered seating for Zinnia. When I don’t spot those familiar dark bangs, something tightens in my chest.
I force the feeling away, smoothing my tie and cuing up the first slide. So what if she’s running late? I still have a class full of students here. I should focus on teaching them.
But as I dim the lights to begin the lecture and Zinnia still hasn’t arrived, an unsettling thought occurs to me.
Maybe she’s not coming at all.
My mind spins as I try to focus on what I’m saying, gaze straying to the door without my permission. She wouldn’t really do that, would she? Quit class?
Maybe she would , another part of me counters.
When I think back to the last time we were in this room together, I couldn’t blame her.
Why did I overreact like that? Why couldn’t I have just let her talk to me about the Scrovegni Chapel?
She was clearly excited about it, and even now I find myself curious to know what she was going to say.
This thought catches me off-guard, and I pause, shuffling my notes as I try to make sense of it.
If anything, I tell myself, it’s about doing my job well.
I’m here to encourage learning, to promote student engagement, but with Zinnia I shut it down.
I wasn’t being a good professor. That’s why I’m concerned about her not being here.
Satisfied with this explanation, I move on to Masaccio’s Tribute Money , drawing particular attention to his use of single-point perspective, when a sound comes from the door.
I break mid-sentence to glance across the lecture hall, where I find Zinnia sneaking in, arms laden with books.
Her eyes meet mine in the dim light, and she winces, almost as if in apology.
I stare at her silently as she finds her seat, apologizing to another student when she has to push past them to settle in. I should be furious. She’s late, and she’s interrupted me.
But try as I might, I can’t summon any anger. Instead, all I feel is the cool trickle of relief.
She hasn’t quit class.
Inhaling deeply, I return to the screen, unbuttoning my tweed jacket. It takes me a moment to remember where I am in my notes, but as I get back on track, the knot in my chest eases.
I’m not sure I want to examine why.
We move through Masaccio, Brunelleschi, and Donatello, but my mind wanders to Zinnia more than once, wondering why she was late.
Each time, I shake the thought off, annoyed with myself.
By the time class ends and she approaches the lectern, I’m torn between wanting to talk to her and wanting to retreat.
But when I see her tentative smile, guilt prickles through me. I won’t shut her down like last time. I’ll listen, engage like I would with any other student. More than anything, I want to encourage a warm and supportive learning environment.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
“Uh, hi.” She hesitates, those gold-rimmed eyes meeting mine.
Her floral scent wafts toward me, and I pretend not to notice.
I wait for her face to break into a grin, for her to say something about how much she loved Brunelleschi’s dome in Florence, but instead she only says, “I want to apologize for my lateness, Professor Sweetman. It won’t happen again. ”
I blink in surprise. That’s it?
“I was at the Met with my grandmother and lost track of time,” she continues.
“I know you don’t put your lectures online, but I’ll find a way to catch up.
” Her gaze drops to the books in her arms—three massive tomes on art history, all of which appear to be brand new.
“Maybe these will help,” she adds with a shrug.
I should leave it there. She’s apologized for interrupting class and promised to catch up on work. That’s more than I’d get from most undergrads.
But try as I might, I can’t do it.
Instead, I reach for my notes on the lectern and wordlessly slide them on top of her books.
Her eyes are wide when they return to mine. “Are you sure? I don’t expect—”
“Have them back to me by Monday,” I say, with more grit in my voice than usual.
“Oh.” She bites her bottom lip, and it’s an effort to stop myself from noticing how plump it is.
“Of course. I promise.” She contemplates me for a moment, the tiny stud in her nose winking in the lecture hall lights.
My pulse ticks up as she adds, “Thank you.” Then she heads for the door, and my eyes follow for a beat longer than strictly appropriate.
I wrench my gaze away, muttering a curse under my breath.
What the hell did I do that for? I’ve never given my notes to a student before.
Never. Usually, if a student is late, I make a habit of calling them out in front of the class to ensure it doesn’t happen again.
I certainly don’t hand out my own lesson notes to help them catch up on work they’ve missed.
I think about what Zinnia said, that she was visiting the Met with her grandmother. If she’s going to miss class, that’s a pretty good reason. That must be why I did it.
But that doesn’t explain why my neck is suddenly hot, why I feel the need to tug off my jacket. I push away from the lectern and return to my office, tossing my jacket over the back of my chair as my phone buzzes again.
God, what is it now? Marcus calling to tell me they’re having a baby?
But it’s an unfamiliar number, and I answer it with a frown. “Nicholas Sweetman.”
“Nicholas, it’s June. From the community arts center.”
“June,” I echo, bemused. “Hi.”
“You mentioned wanting to speak to me last night, and it completely slipped my mind.”
Oh.
Of course.
“You’ll have to forgive me. That’s one of the dangers at my age, I’m afraid.” She gives a light laugh. “Now, what did you want to discuss?”
I turn to the window, absently loosening my tie. Now’s my chance. Summer classes have started, and she’ll understand why I can’t keep schlepping over to Brooklyn Heights twice a week.
And yet, I can’t get the words out.
It occurs to me much too suddenly that the reason I gave Zinnia my notes wasn’t because I approved of her visiting the Met during class time.
It was because I needed to know she’d be back next week.
But when I picture how reserved she was as she approached me a few minutes ago, that knot returns to my chest. She’d behaved as she should: respectful, polite, distant. A student speaking with her professor. It’s exactly what I needed from her, so why does it unsettle me so much?
My gaze drifts over Washington Square Park as I try to process this. As it slowly dawns on me that if I quit teaching life-drawing classes for June, that’s all I’ll get from now on.
And God help me, it’s not enough.
I pull my glasses off, grinding the back of my wrist into my eye. I don’t know where that thought came from, but I don’t like it. I can’t have it.
And I need to put a stop to this right now.
But when I open my mouth to tell June I quit, that’s not what comes out.
Instead, I hear myself saying, “There’s nothing to discuss, June. Nothing at all.”