4. Zinnia
ZINNIA
I t’s amazing that in all the summers I spent visiting Gran in Brooklyn, I’ve never once walked the few blocks to Joe’s Coffee.
Gran has an appointment late Thursday afternoon, which she insists on going to alone. It makes me wonder why I’m here if I can’t accompany her to a damn appointment, but I remind myself it’s just for the summer.
Instead, I take myself out for coffee before life-drawing class.
The shop is busy when I enter, and I glance around as I wait in line.
Exposed brick walls and pressed tin on the ceiling give the place a historical feel, while the double bay windows let in lots of natural light from the street.
It has a friendly vibe, and if the coffee is good, I can see myself returning.
At the counter, I order a mocha, along with a brownie from the glass cabinet, then take the brownie to one of the few free tables in the window, pulling out Gran’s old Italy guidebook.
I found it on the rolltop desk this morning, and while it’s a little outdated, nostalgia made me pick it up.
After Tuesday’s life-drawing class, I’ve thought about our trip, about art.
I haven’t told Gran I’m using the class to model instead of draw, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll disappoint her when I do.
“Thanks,” I say, as the barista sets my coffee in front of me. Her hair is long and dark like mine, her pretty button nose scattered with freckles. I notice her name tag says Daisy, and smile.
“I’m named after a flower too,” I tell her as she turns to go, and she stops, glancing back at me with interest.
“Really?”
I nod, grinning. “Zinnia. It’s my grandmother’s favorite flower.”
A strange expression comes over Daisy’s face. “I’ve never seen you in here before. Are you new to the neighborhood?”
“I’m staying with Gran, along the street.”
Now I have Daisy’s full attention. “Is your grandmother Sylvia Sinclair?”
“Yes,” I say, surprised. “You know her?”
Daisy nods, stepping closer. “She comes in here sometimes. We’ve been wondering about you.”
“We?”
“Oh,” she says, pink staining her cheeks. “Sorry. Sylvia lives across the street from me, and my friend Poppy lives next door. She’s been worried about Sylvia…”
“That’s why I’m here,” I tell her. “Poppy called me, but Gran seems fine.”
Daisy hesitates, as if unconvinced, but doesn’t press it. “Well… say hello to Poppy. She’s dying to meet you. You’ll know it’s her because of the baby…” Daisy trails off when she notices someone waiting to order. “I should get back. Great to meet you, Zinnia.”
“You too.” I smile, watching her leave, and my gaze snags on the man at the counter.
It’s him.
Nicholas .
He has his back to me, but it’s unmistakably him.
Same tweed jacket with the suede elbow patches, same dark jeans, a leather crossbody bag slung over one shoulder.
He’s taller than I realized, around six-two, with an armload of papers, light glinting off his wire-rimmed glasses as he turns to scan the room for a table.
My heart jumps when his gaze meets mine.
He blinks, as if surprised to see me, and I grin.
“Nick.” I motion for him to join me. “Here.”
He hesitates, balancing a muffin in his free hand, napkin slipping off the plate, gaze darting away again. Finally, he heads in my direction and, with a polite smile, says, “Thanks, I’ll take this one,” and slides into a chair at the table beside me.
My eyes follow his movements as he sets down his papers, pulling a fountain pen from his bag, his gaze carefully directed away from me.
He’s cuter than I remember, with gray threaded through the tousled walnut-brown waves of his hair, sprinkled in the short beard on his jaw.
I’d guess he’s in his early forties, and between the glasses and the jacket, he’s got that sexy teacher thing going on—a fact I did not fail to notice during our life-drawing class on Tuesday.
My lips quirk as I think back to that night.
He’d seemed vaguely annoyed when I volunteered to model, and when I pulled off my dress, he couldn’t look away fast enough.
He spent almost the entire class with his back turned, shoulders tense and rigid, looking anywhere but at me.
Maybe I made it awkward. Maybe I moved wrong, stood incorrectly, joked too much.
I didn’t even remove my underwear, for Christ’s sake.
Even now, in public—with everyone’s clothing still very firmly on —he looks uptight as hell. I watch him annotate his papers with stiff, jerky movements, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he studiously ignores me.
Well, whatever. He obviously doesn’t want to talk.
Distracting myself, I reach for Gran’s guidebook and sip my mocha, leafing through the pages. I feast on images of Florence’s Duomo and the canals of Venice, surrounded by Gran’s illegible scrawl and notes on hidden gems we had to visit, places to find a bargain, galleries we couldn’t miss.
I pause on the chapter of the Uffizi gallery, sighing dreamily at the picture of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus —the curvaceous woman emerging from a seashell.
On Tuesday night, I was lucky enough to see a few of the sketches, and while they weren’t quite Botticelli, several of them took my breath away.
I hadn’t expected to like posing so much, to enjoy being seen like that.
It was surprisingly thrilling, as if I was the subject of a Renaissance painting, posing for Michelangelo’s skilled paintbrush.
As I turn the page, a photograph slides out, and I pick it up.
It’s my parents and me outside a house somewhere in Wyoming.
Gran had insisted I take a picture of “home” with me when we went overseas, but I don’t remember this one.
Then again, there were so many houses, they blur together.
Something tightens under my ribs as I stare at it, a familiar restlessness.
The feeling that creeps in after I’ve been somewhere a little too long.
I slide the photo back into the book and glance out the window at the rowhouses of Fruit Street. I might not remember half the places I grew up in, but this street has always felt the same, steady and unchanging. If anything, I should have taken a photo of Gran’s house with me to Italy.
My gaze drifts to Nick sitting beside me, sipping what appears to be tea.
He drinks tea . Why is that kind of adorable?
I glance at his left hand. No ring, but that doesn’t mean he’s single.
He strikes me as the kind of guy who does the crossword silently beside his girlfriend during breakfast, who has the same quiet missionary sex every Sunday evening without much thought.
But the longer I watch him awkwardly study his notes, the harder it is to picture him with a girlfriend.
My guess is he’s been single for a while.
His brow furrows as he scribbles something on the papers in front of him, and I crane my neck, trying to see what they are, but I can’t make the words out from here. His eyes lift to find me peeking, and I smile sheepishly.
“Sorry, I’m being nosy.” I chew my lip as his gaze darts away again. “What are you doing?”
He sighs, setting his pen down. “Just some work,” he says, reaching for his muffin.
My lips twitch at his vague response. He’s so tightly wound it’s almost impressive. I study him, wondering why he still won’t look at me. I can’t shake the feeling I made it awkward somehow.
“Our class on Tuesday inspired me,” I say, picking up my guidebook. “Got me thinking about my trip to Italy.”
Nick’s gaze strays to the book in my hands, almost as if against his will. “You’ve been?” he asks at length, and I smile.
“Years ago. My grandmother took me one summer.”
He gives a polite nod, finally taking a bite of his muffin as his gaze slides away, and I sense my chance at conversation slipping with it.
“Have you been?” I ask.
He nods again, not offering any information, and I press on.
“You went to the galleries, I’m assuming? Surely it would be a criminal offense for an art teacher to visit Italy without seeing Botticelli or Michelangelo.”
I’m hoping for a smile, maybe even a little laugh, but his brow furrows again. “Yes,” he says at last. That’s it.
Honestly.
“It was amazing to see David in person,” I continue. “The scale of it, the detail in the marble…” I shake my head. “Like the veins in his hand. The line of his jaw. I swear, it felt like he would come to life any second.”
Something shifts in Nick’s expression. He draws breath as if he wants to say something, but lets his mouth close again. I think back to what Gran told me on that trip, wanting to impress him.
“Most artists portrayed David victorious, post-battle,” I say, cradling my mocha. “I think it’s interesting that Michelangelo chose to depict David before the battle. All that concentration, tense and coiled, ready to spring into action. Maybe that’s what makes him feel so alive.”
Nick’s lips part in surprise. His gaze moves over my face, as if searching for something, and the intensity of it creates a flutter behind my ribs.
“And of course there’s his contrapposto stance,” I add, grinning as I emphasize the word Nick taught me on Tuesday; “counterpose” in Italian. I went home that night and looked it up.
His eyes shimmer behind his glasses. I notice for the first time they’re a muted blue, soft like denim that’s been worn and washed a thousand times. The tiniest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and my gaze falls to it, following the line of his full bottom lip.
Shit. He might be uptight, but he’s also hot .
“Did you go to the Uffizi?” he asks at last, voice a little lower than before.
A thrill shoots down my spine. A question. He asked me a question .
“I did.” I sip my mocha, trying to be casual. “Have you been?”
Another nod from him, and this time he doesn’t look away.
“What was your favorite piece?” I ask.
“Titian’s Venus of Urbino .” He answers without hesitation, then his gaze falls to his tea, as if embarrassed. As if he’s revealed some secret part of himself he’d never meant to.
“I don’t know that one.” I study him over my cup, fascinated by the pink creeping under his beard. The tiny crack in his composure. “Why is it your favorite?”
He breaks off a piece of muffin, but doesn’t bring it to his mouth.
“The balance of intimacy and restraint…” he begins, then stops himself, shifting in his seat.
His brow tugs into a frown, and he glances at his watch.
“I should set up for class,” he says, discarding the muffin and brushing off his hands.
“I can help,” I offer, setting my cup down.
“No.” He rises from his seat, fumbling for his papers. “Thank you,” he adds hastily, as if remembering his manners. “That’s not necessary. I’ll…” He swallows. “I’ll see you there soon.”
I watch him scurry from the coffee shop, disappointment dropping into my gut like a stone. One minute we’re talking about art, the next he’s running for his life. Did I say something wrong?
The balance of intimacy and restraint…
His words echo through my head, and curiosity has me reaching for my phone.
I type the painting’s name into Google, and what appears on the screen steals my breath.
A nude woman reclines on a bed, staring boldly at the viewer, as if inviting their gaze.
But more than that, it’s almost the identical pose I took at life-drawing on Tuesday, when Nick could hardly bring himself to look at me.
I think back to that class, how he turned away as I pulled off my dress. How uncomfortable he seemed when someone asked for help, forcing him to study me in that reclined position. I thought I’d made things awkward, but that wasn’t it at all.
He saw me far too clearly.
Something hot and determined rises inside me as I think about class tonight. Undressing in front of Nick, posing in front of him. Because I want him to look. I want him to see me.
And I want to see what happens if he doesn’t look away.