23. Nick
NICK
I don’t want to wake up on Wednesday morning. Not because it’s the last day of class, but because I’m deep in a dream about Zinnia, her clothes on the floor, her hands all over me, and her mouth—
My alarm breaks into the reverie, and when I blink awake, I’m breathless, grinding my stiff cock into the mattress.
Fuck.
I haul myself out of bed before I blow my load all over the sheets, and finish myself off in the shower. As ashamed as I am to admit it, I’ve woken with morning wood every day this week.
God, the look on Zinnia’s face when I told her the truth in that bar. Not satisfied that I’d finally confessed. Not pleased. Just pure hunger. And that breathless note in her voice as she said my name, the way she tugged my arm…
I try to push the memories away as I step from the shower. Maybe I should regret how honest I was with her, but as hard as I try, I can’t. I could blame it on the alcohol, on the things my brother said to me, but I know that wasn’t it.
It was the truth.
And now she knows.
I won’t be your student in a week.
Her words echo through my head as I dress and walk the short distance to campus. She’s not wrong, but even after today I can’t touch her. Not after she’s already been in my class. I shouldn’t have even been in that bar with her.
But fuck , I want her so badly I ache. It physically hurts to be around her and not be able to touch her. Kiss her.
I laugh bitterly as I enter my office. The me of two months ago would be appalled by who I’ve become. Infatuated with a student, barely able to sleep for thinking about her. Waking up hard every day, wishing she was beside me.
But I’ve lost the ability to care. The more I think about what Marcus said at his bachelor party, the more I realize he wasn’t only talking about himself. He was talking about me.
All these years I thought I’d been living, but I was kidding myself .
As painful as it is to want a woman I can’t have, it’s good to feel something for once. To no longer sleepwalk through my life.
I just don’t know what to do with it after this class ends.
It’s bittersweet, I realize, as I take my laptop and notes to the lecture hall for our final class. As much as Zinnia has surprised me with her own knowledge, I’ve enjoyed teaching her. Guiding her through the course material, talking about the artwork, reading her assignments.
Her final assignment was, as expected, brilliant.
She compared Titian’s Venus of Urbino to Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus , contrasting their depiction of the female form through composition, color, and perspective, drawing particular attention to the gaze and hand placement.
I gave her an A+, and had to repeatedly check myself to make sure I was being impartial, but I couldn’t think of anything she could have done differently.
Done better. She’s my top student, and as I watch the class file into the tiered seating, I realize I’m sad to lose that. Sad she’s not studying further.
I’ll be gone by Labor Day .
There’s an unpleasant twist in my chest as I think back to what she said on the night of the blackout. A couple more weeks and she’ll be gone. Not only from class. From the city.
From my life.
I force myself to inhale deeply as I bring up the first slide, telling myself I still have a couple more weeks in life-drawing class with her. It’s not nearly enough, but it will have to be.
Zinnia glances my way as she finds her seat, sending me a small, polite smile. Since Friday, she’s been perfectly appropriate, acting as if nothing untoward has happened. As if I hadn’t spilled my guts to her in that bar.
I don’t know how she does it, keeping her composure like that, while I’m a wreck.
She’s either a very good actress or her feelings have changed.
That thought has crossed my mind more than once.
That maybe after I told her the truth she saw it for what it was, her professor—a much older man—saying things he shouldn’t. Feeling things he has no right to feel.
I’m hyper-aware of Zinnia as I quiet the class to lead them through the concluding lecture.
Every time I adjust my glasses or straighten my tie, I can feel her eyes on me, and the action takes on a different meaning, to the point that I can’t tell if I’m doing it for me or her.
It’s almost comical, being up here as her professor after what I told her on Friday night.
Like I’m acting in a play neither of us wants to see.
But I have no choice. I work through the slides, even though most students are barely listening. They’re either waiting for their final grades to be handed out or already thinking about what they can do with the last few weeks of summer now that class is ending. I can’t say I blame them.
Finally, I turn to the room and ask, “I want you all to take a moment and think about what’s changed for you in how you view art after this class.”
A few students sit up as they realize they’re being addressed, one yawns, and a couple look confused. It doesn’t surprise me in the slightest to see Zinnia’s hand rise.
With a rueful smile, I motion to her. “Yes, Miss Sinclair?”
“I’ve learned a lot of the technical aspects,” she says thoughtfully. “Composition, color, all that. But what I’ve found most fascinating are the risks so many artists took.”
My pulse jumps. She’s talking about art, but it almost feels like she’s talking about me. About us .
Heat creeps up my neck, and I force my gaze to remain steady. There is no us , I remind myself, straightening my glasses.
“Can you elaborate?”
I expect her to grin, maybe give me a look that says, You know what I’m talking about , but her expression remains neutral as she continues.
“So many of the works we studied only exist because people dared to do things differently. Work with different perspectives, different subjects, go against the accepted conventions of the time. That takes courage.” She pauses, as if to gather her thoughts, and adds, “Imagine what we’d be missing today if they hadn’t taken those risks. ”
I nod slowly, absorbing her words. I’d never thought about it like that, but as always, she has a way of making me see art in a new light. My chest aches as I gaze at her. She’s beautiful, but more than that, she’s intelligent and perceptive. She’s funny and caring and full of life.
She’s everything I could possibly want.
And I’ll never get to have her.
My heart clenches tightly, and I tear my gaze away. It’s a relief when another student raises their hand, and as I turn my attention to them, I do my best to pretend everything is fine, when in reality it feels like I’m slowly dying inside.
Like I’ll never be the same again.
After sparse, uninspiring discussion, I grab the students’ final assignments, calling their names one by one to give them their final grades.
They take their papers, some of them thanking me half-heartedly as they file from the lecture hall.
It wasn’t intentional to save Zinnia’s paper for last, and my gut roils nervously as she approaches the lectern, the last remaining student.
She smiles pleasantly, and I hesitate. I still can’t get a read on her. There are a thousand things I want to say, to ask, but I know I can’t.
I need to let her go.
I’m being ridiculous. I’ll see her in life-drawing class tomorrow night. It will probably feel normal. But I can’t shake the heavy feeling of finality weighing on me.
I look at her final assignment in my hands with a sigh. “It’s a shame you won’t be continuing your studies.”
She chews her lip, looking as if she wants to say something, but holds back. At last, the silence between us grows awkward, and I hand the assignment over.
“This was excellent, Zinnia. Well done.”
“Thank you.” She reaches for the paper, fingers brushing mine. They linger, warm and soft, sending a jolt of awareness up my arm. And when I catch the dynamite swirling in her gaze, I know the way she feels hasn’t changed. She’s holding back because of me.
And it takes every last ounce of my strength not to beg her to stay.
“Your class was the highlight of my summer,” she says, clutching her paper to her chest. “Thank you for… everything.” Then she turns on her heel.
And I watch her leave my class for the final time.