19. Nick
NICK
T hat night I get home and head straight to the shower. I’m not proud of it, jacking off to the thought of Zinnia again, but Ruth was right. I’m only human.
And it gives me the clarity I need.
I devote the weekend to a complete mental reset, putting in extra hours at the gym, working on my research paper, spending a long afternoon at the Met to prepare for an upcoming field trip. By the time Monday morning rolls around, I feel clearer.
We were in an unusual situation during that storm.
Stranded in the community arts center alone, nothing but the flickering of candlelight and the beating of rain on the windowpanes for company.
Of course the situation got weird. Blackouts are always unsettling, like a parallel universe that’s close to reality but far more eerie, where time is suspended, and the usual rules don’t apply.
That’s the only reason I can think of for why I shared the truth about Marcus and my sketchbook. Why I let Zinnia touch my arm.
Why I leaned in.
I keep thinking about what she told me, that she’ll be gone by Labor Day. At first I was taken aback—disappointed, almost—but the more I think about it, the more relieved I am. It’s what’s best for both of us.
I just need to get a hold of myself. No lingering after life-drawing class.
No more visits to Joe’s, chatting over coffee.
I’ll do only what’s required of me, keep my head down, and I’ll be fine.
The summer semester ends in three weeks, two if you don’t count this one, then Zinnia will be out of my life—out of the city—and life can return to how it should be.
By lunchtime on Monday, I’m itching to get out of the office.
I’ve been cooped up for hours working on my research paper, so some fresh air will do me good.
Grabbing a sandwich from a nearby cafe, I find a bench in Washington Square Park and sit, closing my eyes, listening to the laughter and chatter from people nearby, the sound of the fountain, letting the warmth of the sun wash over me.
Everything will be fine , I tell myself, and for the first time in weeks, I believe it.
“Did you know there are 20,000 bodies underneath us?” a voice says beside me.
I turn, blinking against the bright light to find Zinnia sitting on the next bench. She’s in a flowing tangerine-colored summer dress, dark hair shining in the sun. When my eyes meet hers, she grins.
“Crazy, huh?”
Despite myself—despite all the hours I spent this weekend getting her off my mind and out of my system, hours telling myself it will be better when she’s gone—my heart quickens.
I smile, surprised she knows that little fact, and even more surprised by how casually she says it.
Afraid of the dark, not afraid of sitting on a mass grave.
As if she could somehow become even more fascinating.
“I did,” I say, taking a bite of my sandwich.
She opens her own lunch. A wrap. “Kind of amazing if you think about it.”
I nod, distracted by a sensation I can’t pinpoint. Like a calm washing over me, a slow, easy settling at being near her again.
“Yellow fever, mostly,” she says thoughtfully. “In the late 18th and early 19th centuries.”
I fight a smile as I eat, impressed. Most people walk through this park oblivious, but not Zinnia.
She notices the world, thinks about it, sees it in her own way.
Her assignment on Botticelli was no different, exploring the idealized female body in Renaissance art, and I had to stop myself from underlining every other sentence for its sheer brilliance.
“So, listen,” she says, turning to me and lowering her voice, expression becoming serious.
My heart lurches as I think she’s going to mention what happened between us on Thursday night—or rather, almost happened—but she says, “I, um, wanted to thank you for being so kind when I lost my shit during the blackout.”
I chew my sandwich, keeping my gaze fixed ahead on the fountain.
If anything, I should be the one thanking her for listening to me without judgment in a way no one ever has.
That’s what makes this so difficult. Yes, she’s beautiful, with those gold-rimmed eyes and curves I ache to trace with more than my pencil.
And yes, she’s funny and insightful and interesting.
But more than any of that is the way she cares.
Wondering how I felt in that chapel. Buying me the sketchbook. Asking why I don’t draw.
And understanding, really understanding, why I stopped.
“You’re welcome,” I murmur, stuffing my sandwich in my mouth to hide the low scrape of my voice.
She’s quiet for a moment, eating. “I got stuck in a bathroom during a blackout as a kid,” she says at last.
I glance at her. “How?”
“It was a new house. I couldn’t figure out the lock. It was pitch-black, and I panicked. I mean, it was years ago, but—”
“But you don’t forget,” I say, thinking of Marcus with my sketchbook. I was seventeen. A lifetime ago.
But sometimes it still feels like yesterday.
Her gaze meets mine, softening, as if she knows what I’m thinking. “Yeah.”
I look away. “How long did it take you to figure out the lock?”
“I never did, but it didn’t matter. We moved a few months later. We were always moving.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s just what my parents did. They still do.” When I give her a puzzled look, she adds, “They’re management consultants, and never in one place for long. Sometimes I’d only stay in a school for a few weeks before we had to move again.”
“Shit,” I say, and she shoots me a wry smile. “That can’t have been easy as a kid.”
She lifts a shoulder, turning to look at the fountain. “You get used to it.”
I study her, the way she lifts her chin, brushing off my comment.
She’s putting on a brave face, but that sort of instability would be incredibly difficult for a child.
Constantly having to make new friends. Meet new teachers.
Learn new places. Never knowing when it will change again.
Even though my parents have now retired and moved to Maine, I’m lucky that my childhood was stable.
I think again about what she said last night: I’ll be gone by Labor Day . Not, I’m going home , just, I’ll be gone . And for the first time, I wonder where “home” is.
If she even knows.
“Where’s home now?” I ask, pretending to be fascinated by the contents of my sandwich.
“I’m not sure.” She laughs. “I tend to move around. I was in Phoenix for a while, then Austin, now I’m at Gran’s… I haven’t figured out my next move.”
I chew slowly, processing this. That’s what I thought.
Why she’s leaving New York. Why she’s not taking more than one class at NYU.
Hell, why she volunteered to model rather than draw.
This woman is so good at feeling, at being in her skin, but maybe that’s all she does—live in the moment rather than planning ahead, rather than committing to something.
She doesn’t know how.
Part of me aches at this, and not only for her. The same part that wonders what it would take to get her to stay.
“Tell me about your grandmother,” I say, and a soft smile slides onto her lips.
“She’s the best. I spent all my summers here in the city with her.
It’s amazing to be back.” She lets out a quiet laugh.
“Her house is the closest I’ve ever had to a real home.
” Something moves across her expression then, uncertainty maybe, or sadness, but it falls away.
“What about you?” she asks, biting into her wrap. “Have you lived in the city long?”
“I’ve lived in New York all my life,” I say, chuckling. We couldn’t be more different. Her world is big, expansive. Mine barely goes beyond the West Village. “Been in the same apartment for fifteen years.”
“Really?” Her brows rise. “Nearby?”
I nod, finishing my sandwich. “Yeah, just a couple blocks over on Cornelia.”
“I know Cornelia.” She smiles, and the warmth of it could rival the sun. “There’s a great cafe down there, and the cutest carriage house.”
I grin, speaking before thinking. “That's my neighbor’s place.”
She arches a playful brow. “The cafe or the carriage house?”
God, I want to tell her. I want to give her my address and ask her to meet me there after class, wearing nothing but her life-drawing robe.
But the rational part of my brain kicks in, and I ball up my sandwich wrapper, rising from the bench. “I should get ready for class.”
Her face falls. “Of course. See you there.”
I force my feet to walk away, even though all I want to do is stay. Talk to her about anything and everything. Life, art, the city.
And as I make my way across the park, fighting the urge at every step to turn back, I know it doesn’t matter what I tell myself.
I can’t turn these feelings off.