24. Zinnia
ZINNIA
G ran’s in the kitchen making tea when I arrive home that afternoon.
I dump my bag on the round wooden table in the center of the kitchen, the same one Gran and I have eaten at since I was a child. It’s marked from years of use, but that’s what makes it special. All the memories it holds.
“Good,” I say. Class itself was great, but I was sad to walk out of NYU for the last time.
I’ve loved every minute of class, even if the past week has been especially torturous.
Nick was more subdued than ever today, and all I wanted was to linger after his lecture, to follow him to his office and see if I could cheer him up.
I don’t know what was going on with him, but I have a plan.
And I can only hope he's prepared to take the risk.
“I guess you’ll be packing your bags then,” Gran says, eying me as she dips her tea bag.
I snort a laugh, taking an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter. I haven’t even unpacked my bags, so packing isn’t an issue.
“Trying to get rid of me already?” I joke, but Gran doesn’t laugh.
“No,” she says quietly. “Trying to get used to how much I’ll miss you when you’re gone, Z.”
My heart twists. “Gran,” I say softly, touching her arm.
“It’s not like I’m running off tonight .
” I give her a cheeky grin, adding, “I’ve got plans.
” What I don’t say is that my plans involve pursuing my professor.
Well, ex-professor, but even then I’m not sure Gran would approve.
Especially not when it’s a man she knows.
She smiles, reaching for something on the counter.
“What’s that?” I ask, biting into my apple.
She lifts a bony shoulder, feigning innocence as she holds out some kind of booklet. “Just a little something to read.”
I take the booklet, realizing it’s a brochure of NYU’s fall courses, and a laugh slips out. Real subtle, Gran . But despite myself, curiosity tugs at me as I flip through the pages.
“Alright,” I say, chewing. “I’ll take a look.”
Satisfied, Gran pats me on the arm and pads from the room.
I flick absently through the brochure as I eat, and something catches my eye.
A class titled Art, Patronage, and Power in Renaissance Italy , with Dr. Teagan Webber.
My pulse quickens as I read the description.
Ever since Gran explained it to me years ago, I’ve been fascinated by the concept of patronage, the financial support provided by the wealthy to artists and scholars, particularly common in the Renaissance.
We covered it a little in Nick’s class, but given it was only six weeks, we didn’t have time to dive as deep as I would have liked.
And even though it goes against everything I’ve done in the past, I wonder what it might be like to stay for a full semester. To take this class, maybe get a job…
The thought sends a strange thrill through me, unfamiliar and a little unsettling. I set the brochure down, swallowing my apple and forcing myself to take a deep breath. Could I really do that? Sign up for an entire semester?
The question percolates as I toss my apple core into the trash and turn to the fridge.
But as I go to grab a bottle of water, I spot something strange.
Gran’s box of tea bags in the produce drawer.
And when I move them to the pantry where they belong, I find the milk beading condensation on the pantry shelf.
My stomach sinks. To anyone else it might seem like nothing, a simple mistake, but deep down I know it’s something else. Something I’ve been desperately trying to deny.
Closing the pantry, I wander into the living room.
Gran’s in her recliner, flicking through the channels, and doesn’t look up when I enter.
My chest squeezes as I gaze at her, small and frail in her chair.
I open my mouth to suggest I stay home tonight, then snap it shut.
She’d never let me cancel my plans for her. She hates me making a fuss.
Instead, I grab the brochure and my bag from the kitchen, and climb the stairs to my room.
My gaze lands on my suitcase, still packed on the floor at the foot of my bed.
With a sigh, I take my dresses, hanging them in the closet.
At least this way if Gran walks in, she won’t see my suitcase packed and get upset.
Once I’ve unpacked my clothes, I sink onto the edge of the iron-framed bed and open my laptop, bringing up the NYU class registration page. Before I can talk myself out of it, I enroll in the patronage class. No harm in at least enrolling, I tell myself. I can still decide later.
My pulse thrums as I put my laptop away and head to the bathroom, stepping into the shower. As I wash and dry my hair, I don’t let myself think about the clothes hanging in the closet, the fall class.
And as I choose a dress to wear for Nick, I pretend I’m only thinking about this evening, and nothing more.
It’s after eight when I finally get to the West Village. I wanted to give Nick time to come home and unwind after class, do whatever it is he does when he’s not at work.
Or maybe I was scared.
I walk between the rowhouses of Cornelia Street in the warm evening light, but the beautiful scenery does little to calm my racing heart.
What if this is a mistake, showing up at his place unannounced?
That’s assuming I actually know where he lives.
He said it was beside the carriage house… or the cafe. Which is it?
I pass the carriage house first, pausing at the redbrick apartment block next to it, and when I spot his name— N. Sweetman —on the nameplate beside the intercom button, my pulse skitters. This is the place.
Shit. Am I really going to do this?
I hesitate, knowing there’s still time to back out. I could return to Brooklyn, and he’d be none the wiser. We’d see each other tomorrow night at life drawing as usual, and everything will be as it was. As it should be.
But that’s not what I want.
Taking a deep breath, I smooth a hand down my coral-colored wrap dress and press the buzzer. It’s deafeningly loud on the quiet street, and I wince, waiting for Nick’s voice over the intercom.
But it doesn’t come.
Huh. It never occurred to me he might not be home.
I feel a momentary flicker of relief, but it’s eclipsed by something else. Something more urgent. I don’t want to back down this time. And even if he won’t admit it, I don’t think he wants me to, either.
Lifting my hand, I go to press the buzzer again when the door flies open.
“Zinnia?” Nick blinks at me in shock, and my heart lurches into my throat.
“Hi,” I begin, but his brows crash together as he glances over my shoulder, along the street. Before I know what’s happening, he grabs my arm and yanks me into the building, pushing the door closed behind me.
“What are you doing here?” he asks in a low voice. “Someone could see you.”
I try to still my shaking hands, reminding myself how much he likes Venus’s boldness. Reminding myself what he said to me in that bar, the raw edge of need in his voice, the desire burning hot in his eyes.
Reminding myself that he wants this as much as I do.
“I’m sick of pretending,” I say, lifting my chin. “And I think you are too.”
I half expect him to tell me to leave, but he swallows hard, staring at me unblinking for a long moment. “Come on,” he mutters, motioning up the stairs. “Before one of my neighbors comes out.”
I exhale in relief, climbing the stairs behind him.
He lets me into his apartment on the second floor, a beautiful prewar place with polished wooden floors and exposed brick walls boasting an impressive collection of art prints, one entire wall lined with bookshelves.
I might be here for Nick, but that doesn’t stop me from going to the shelves and examining his books, everything from medieval art to the Renaissance to modern, contemporary movements.
“Wow,” I breathe, running a finger along the spines. Why is it so damn hot that he has such a huge book collection? I glance back to find Nick watching me with a tiny smile.
He catches himself, letting it fall. “You shouldn’t be here, Zinnia.”
I straighten, nodding. “I know.” My gaze roams the rest of the room, landing on the coffee table. There’s a single glass of whiskey, and beside it, the sketchbook I bought him, which still appears to be untouched. “And I don’t care.”
Nick tugs his glasses off to wipe them on his shirt. He’s not wearing the tweed jacket, but he’s still in his shirt from today, hem untucked, sleeves rolled, top buttons loosened. Like he ran out of energy halfway through undressing.
“You didn’t seem like yourself in class today,” I say, fiddling with the tie on my dress. “I didn’t like it.”
He exhales heavily, picking up his whiskey and taking a swig, without offering me one. That’s okay. He’s still on the fence about me being here, and I’m grateful he hasn’t asked me to leave.
I gesture to the sketchbook on his coffee table. “You still haven’t used it?”
He shakes his head, not meeting my gaze as pink creeps onto his cheeks. God, I love when he gets self-conscious. It makes me want to kiss him senseless.
“Maybe I can give you some inspiration.”
His eyes lift to mine. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I want you to draw me.” I reach for the tie on my wrap dress, but stop when I see the hesitation in his eyes. I’ll only do this if I’m certain he wants it.
“Zinnia…” He shakes his head. “I know I’m not your professor anymore, but the semester has only just ended. It’s still…”
“Risky.” I let my hand fall. “I get it.” He’s not wrong. Even if I’m not in his class anymore, I’m still his former student. The optics aren’t great. “But why should it be anyone’s business but ours?”
“You’re right,” he agrees, surprising me. “But even if that weren’t the case…” He grimaces, glancing away. “You’re young. Too young for me.”
I scoff. Now this surprises me. Yes, he was my professor on campus, but in all our conversations outside that, we simply felt like two adults talking about life.
“I’m twenty-five,” I point out. “In Renaissance times I’d be married with kids by now.”
He opens his mouth to protest, but it dies on his tongue. I hadn’t considered he might have a problem with the age difference between us, and I need him to know it shouldn’t matter.
“I’m not a child,” I say firmly. “Actually…” I huff a mildly indignant laugh. “When we talked in Joe’s, I always felt like you saw me as an equal.”
He softens. “I did. I do .”
I step closer, gazing up at him. His breath catches, and I inhale his clean, masculine scent.
It’s an effort not to reach out and touch his scruffy cheek, not to run my hands through those messy waves of his.
It’s painful being this close and not touching him, and while I know he needs a nudge, I also need to know he’s okay with this before I push too hard.
“I’ll leave if you want me to,” I say. “If you can tell me that’s really what you want, I’ll leave.”
He drags a hand through his hair, looking agonized. His mouth opens, and I’m certain he’s going to tell me to go. My heart leaps hopefully when he shakes his head.
“No,” he says, voice rough. “Stay.”
And with that, I untie my wrap dress and let it fall.