42. Nick
NICK
I wake early Monday morning, instinctively reaching for Zinnia, but her side of the bed is cold and empty. My heart tightens as I remember last night. How I told her I’d go to the department chair. How I asked her to move in with me.
How she left.
I reach for my glasses on the nightstand, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed.
The T-shirt of mine Zinnia wore yesterday is still draped over the chair in the corner, and I pick it up, breathing in her floral scent.
As much as I replayed her leaving last night, I also replayed how it felt when we made love.
How she offered herself to me. The way she cried when we talked about wanting a future together.
I’m yours, Nick. And you’re mine . I love you so much .
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing restlessly. There’s no doubt in my mind that she loves me. Hell, she was the one to say it first.
But what I don’t know is if she’ll stay.
I need a minute to think .
Those words cut deeper than I cared to admit. I wanted her to say she’s there too, that she wants to move in and make this official, but she couldn’t.
I understand. I’m asking for a lot. For permanent, when she’s used to temporary. She’s spent a lifetime moving from place to place, and I’m asking her to commit to the city. To me .
I check my phone, even though I know it’s futile. She said she needed space, and I have to respect that.
But I can’t sit at home doing nothing.
I glance at the time, knowing it’s too early to go straight to work. Instead, I change into my workout clothes and head to the gym, needing to move. Needing to work the adrenaline out of my body before I speak with the department chair first thing.
I’ll give Zinnia the time she needs, but I already know what I want.
And it’s about damn time I acted like it.
I’m surprisingly calm when I knock on the department chair’s door.
In her mid-fifties, Dr. Greta Fuller has been with the university for decades, and chair of the art history department for at least half that time.
She’s known for her no-nonsense attitude, and I can only hope she sees this situation for what it is—two people who fell in love at the wrong time.
“Dr. Sweetman,” she says, as I step inside. Her tone indicates surprise, but she doesn’t glance up from her laptop.
I cast my gaze around her office, not unlike mine—shelves crammed with books, framed Baroque prints, a large desk stacked with papers—before finally landing back on the woman.
She’s in a tailored navy blazer, a pair of readers perched on her sharp nose, her blond hair cut into a tidy, chin-length bob.
“Do you have a moment, Dr. Fuller?”
She nods, motioning to the chair opposite her desk. I lower myself into it, facing her squarely. I spent my workout figuring out the best way to phrase this, and decided that the only way forward is the truth.
“I wanted to make you aware of a situation.”
She nods, typing something as I speak, the gold tennis bracelet on her wrist hitting the keyboard with each stroke.
“Over the summer, I met a woman,” I continue, undeterred. “And we hit it off.”
Finally, Dr. Fuller stops typing to peer at me over her readers, impatience creasing her brow. “I’m not sure I follow.”
My pulse climbs as I know what I need to say next, but I keep my gaze steady on hers. “She then turned up in my summer class.”
The impatience gives way to concern. “How did you meet?”
“We work together at the Brooklyn Heights Community Arts Center. I teach a life-drawing class there.”
Dr. Fuller’s eyes narrow. “How old is she, Dr. Sweetman?”
I grimace. “Twenty-five.”
Perhaps Dr. Fuller is imagining an eighteen-year-old undergrad, but I’m well aware that twenty-five is still young. That most people would view our relationship with distaste.
I hasten to continue, “I taught her for six weeks without crossing a single line.” As I speak, I hold my head high, because it’s true. I wanted Zinnia more than anything, but I didn’t lay a finger on her while she was in my summer class. At least I can say that much.
Dr. Fuller steeples her fingers on the desk in front of her, regarding me carefully. “Are you telling me you’re now involved with this young woman?”
I nod. “Yes. During the break, we fell in love.”
There’s a long beat of silence, then, “Is she still a student here?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I wanted to disclose this because…” I suck in a deep breath to steady myself. “She’s in Dr. Webber’s patronage class. The class I’ve recently taken over teaching.”
“Let me get this straight,” Dr. Fuller says, voice low. “You’re teaching a student you are involved with, Dr. Sweetman?”
I swallow hard. “Yes.”
She leans back in her chair, her expression unreadable as she scrutinizes me. My heart pounds in my throat, and I brace myself, knowing this is it. The moment I could lose my job. My career.
And as that hangs in the balance, I think of Zinnia.
Her laugh. Her boldness. Her heart.
The way she teased me in Joe’s about being too intellectual in my approach to art, and forced me to consider how it made me feel. The sketchbook she bought me, and how insistent she was that I draw again.
What it feels like to make love to her, knowing she wants me as I am, for who I am, and never wants me to hold back.
There’s no denying I’d be devastated to lose my life’s work, but I also could never regret being with her. Even if she turns around and says she can’t stay in the city, can’t commit to the life I want, I’m still grateful for every moment we spent together.
She’s worth it all.
I let my breath out, waiting for Dr. Fuller to speak, but she’s still examining me through narrowed eyes. “Do you realize how serious this is?”
I nod solemnly, because I’ve known from the start. But the mere fact that she hasn’t told me to get out makes me bold enough to wonder—to hope—if I might still have a job.
“I’m prepared to step aside from the class,” I say cautiously.
She glares at me, irritation flickering in her eyes. The silence stretches long enough that my pulse spikes.
“You can’t step aside from the class, Dr. Sweetman,” she mutters at last, letting her readers fall onto the chain around her neck. “You’re the only person who can teach that class with Dr. Webber out on leave.”
Shit. She’s right. That’s why I’m in this damn mess in the first place.
She sighs heavily, massaging the bridge of her nose. “You’ve been an associate here for ten years now. A respected member of the faculty.”
I adjust my glasses, looking down at my hands. It’s unlikely I’ll be a respected member of the faculty once this gets out, but I can make my peace with that if I get to keep my job.
If I get to keep Zinnia.
Dr. Fuller’s shrewd gaze comes back to me. “You stepped in to cover Dr. Webber’s class at the last minute, and for that I’m grateful, but you cannot be involved with a student.”
My heart plummets. I knew this, of course. What else could I have expected?
“This is precisely the kind of situation we try to avoid,” she continues, tone laced with reproach. “It exposes the department to risk.”
“I understand,” I say, rising from the chair.
“Situations like this end careers, Dr. Sweetman.”
Heat creeps up my neck, but it’s nothing compared to the tightness in my chest when I realize what this means.
That it’s time to head back to my office and start packing up my desk.
“If this had come to me as a complaint, we’d be having a very different conversation.” Dr. Fuller pauses, and when I glance back, she’s regarding me warily. “But I suppose… there may be a way to contain the situation.”
“Contain it?”
She nods, sliding her glasses back up her nose. “The student would need to transfer out of your class.”
I blink in confusion. “Sorry?”
She leans forward, expression impatient again. “I need you to keep teaching that class,” she says, “and you cannot do that if she is in there.”
My mouth opens and closes as I search for words. “So I’m… I’m not fired?”
Dr. Fuller tilts her head, weighing this.
“It sounds to me like you’ve crossed no ethical lines.
You met before she was your student, did not pursue her while you were in a position of power, and you’ve disclosed this to me voluntarily.
While it’s a little late in the game,” she adds pointedly, “it suggests a degree of integrity.”
My breath comes rushing out, and I sink back into the chair in disbelief.
“HR will want a formal record of this disclosure on file,” she adds, shuffling a stack of papers on her desk, as if she’s ready to move on. “And you will not meet with her one-on-one in any academic capacity. Got it?”
“Of course,” I say, stunned.
“Let me be clear.” Her gaze returns to mine, sharp as ever. “If this had started while she was your student, we’d have a serious problem.”
“I understand.”
“I’m trusting your judgment here, Dr. Sweetman. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t,” I say, rising from the chair. Then I slip out the door before she can reconsider.
My head spins as I step into the corridor, processing everything.
I’m not fired. I get to keep my job and, if I’m lucky, keep Zinnia.
I head back to my office, but I can’t sit still. Adrenaline flows through my veins, and if I’m honest, part of me is worried Dr. Fuller might come to her senses and march into my office to fire me.
Grabbing my bag with shaky hands, I head back out the door. I don’t teach a class today, and I’d rather work from home. Rather tidy my apartment and wait—hope—Zinnia comes home later so we can talk this through.
So we can make the future I imagine for us a reality.
But as I stride across Washington Square Park, I recall Dr. Fuller’s words.
The student would need to transfer out of your class .
I think of Zinnia in my office that first day of the semester, overflowing with joy. All the evenings we’ve lain awake in bed, talking about topics we’ve covered in class, things she’s read that she’s excited to share.
And I have to ask her to give that up.
My stomach twists uneasily as I climb the stairs in my building. Can I really ask her to do that? To sacrifice so much?
I let myself into the apartment, disappointment washing through me when I find the place empty, as if a part of me had secretly been hoping she’d be here, waiting. Wanting to see me.
She’s not.
I dump my bag on the counter, then sink onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, dropping my head into my hands. The university knows I’m seeing Zinnia. Better yet, they haven’t fired me.
But that doesn’t mean she’ll stay in the city.
And even if she does decide to stay, she has to lose something that brings her so much joy. What if she’s not prepared to give that up for me?