8. Zinnia
ZINNIA
H e is not taking this well.
I chew the end of my pen as Nick removes his glasses to wipe a hand down his face, as if he’s received devastating news. I mean, it’s not like I knew he was my art history professor either, or I probably wouldn’t have undressed quite so readily in front of him.
Seeing him at the podium when I entered class was a pleasant surprise, and as I glance at the course information again, I wonder how I didn’t connect the dots.
Renaissance Art History: Italy & Europe, with Dr. Nicholas Sweetman.
I guess because in my head he’s just been Nick , the uptight guy from life-drawing class. Not Professor Sweetman .
But Professor Sweetman he is, because he clears his throat roughly and dims the lights, launching into his first lecture in disjointed, muttered sentences.
I frown as I listen. A few moments ago he was centered and calm, firmly shutting down the guy next to me who had the gall to be pissed about having to actually show up for class, but now Nick can’t even get his own thoughts in order.
Guilt zips through me as I watch him falter, adjusting his glasses as he checks his notes for the third time in under a minute. It was one thing to push him in life drawing, but this is too much. He’s got a lecture hall full of students.
I glance at the door, wondering if I should leave.
I’m only here because Gran signed me up, and I’ve never seen Nick so uncomfortable.
Even in life-drawing class, with my clothes off, he mostly kept it together.
I can’t figure out why he’s stumbling so hard right now, but if I’m the reason, I don’t like it.
After a few minutes something shifts, and I breathe out as he finds his footing.
I watch him move through the slides, voice taking on an edge of quiet authority as he gets into the flow.
He’s different here, somehow even more distant and formal, with his brown tweed jacket buttoned over a dark tie.
I should take notes, but I’m captivated by him in this new environment. Dr. Sweetman, my art history professor.
I grimace as I remember the things I said about David at Joe’s last week, as if I had a clue what I was talking about. If I’d known who he was, I never would have opened my big mouth.
But when I think of the way he opened up, just a little, I wonder if I wasn’t so far off the mark. He’d seemed genuinely surprised by my comments, joining the conversation almost in spite of himself.
You know, before he took off.
I sigh, finally opening my laptop, when something he says makes me pause.
“Giotto di Bondone was considered the founder of Italian painting. He began to challenge the flat, stylized conventions of medieval painting with his work in the Scrovegni Chapel.”
Scrovegni Chapel .
Breath catching in my throat, I glance at the screen.
I’ve seen that. I’ve been there.
My heart skitters as I take in the image of the small chapel projected behind Nick.
Gran took me there on our trip to Italy.
We’d been to Rome, to Florence, and on our way to Venice she’d insisted on stopping in a tiny Italian town called Padua.
I remember thinking it was totally random, but the moment we stepped inside the chapel…
wow. It was as if time stood still. Wall-to-ceiling frescoes showing biblical stories, under a vaulted ceiling of the deepest, most perfect azure blue.
Before we went in, we had to wait in a little entry room, like a tiny temperature-controlled airlock, to keep the delicate paintings in the chapel safe, and I remember thinking, this had better be worth it .
It was.
I’ve never been religious, but the imagery moved me to tears in that chapel.
My chest fills at the memory, and I race to capture Nick’s words as he explains how Giotto’s early attempts at three-dimensional space and realistic human emotion foreshadowed what was to come in the Renaissance.
And while I’m fascinated to learn more about the beautiful chapel, it’s hard to reconcile the dry, academic way he discusses Giotto’s masterpiece with the way it felt to stand inside it.
Either he hasn’t seen it for himself, or he’s forgotten how awe-inspiring it is.
By the time class wraps up, I’m buzzing. The awkwardness from earlier is the last thing on my mind as I gather my laptop and textbook, then bounce down the steps to the front of the lecture hall.
“Nick! Hi.” I grin, hugging my textbook to my chest. I’m eager to talk to him about the chapel, to tell him I’ve seen it, ask if he’s been, but as I approach the podium, he stiffens.
“It’s Professor Sweetman,” he mutters.
Well, that’s fair. We’re in class, after all.
“Professor Sweetman,” I amend, laughing. “I had no idea you were my teacher. What a small world.”
He says nothing as he gathers his notes, refusing to meet my gaze.
“Have you seen the Scrovegni Chapel in person?” I ask. “Gran took me, and I swear, it was the most amazing—”
“I have to go.” He glances past me to the door.
“Oh. Sure.” I shift my textbook to my other arm. “Which way are you heading? Let’s walk—”
“Look, Miss Sinclair,” he cuts in coolly. “I don’t know what you think is happening here, but we’re not friends.”
I blink as the sting of his words registers. He’s been blunt in the past, but never like this. My hands tighten on my textbook, embarrassment burning my chest.
He’s right, of course. We’re not friends.
We’re not anything.
See , a mean little voice reminds me. This is why you don’t get attached .
My pulse pounds in my temple as he snatches up his laptop and strides from the lecture hall, not once looking at me. All the lovely memories of the chapel and Italy vanish, and I dip my head as I hurry out of the building, desperate to get home. Well, to Gran’s house.
The closest thing I’ve ever had to home.
The embarrassment from class fades into the muted ache of disappointment by the time I get to Fruit Street.
It’s my own fault. I should have known better than to let myself develop an interest in Nick.
This is why I prefer to keep things casual.
The shorter the better. With men, with friends.
With jobs, with apartments. Nothing lasts, so why delude yourself?
The only person I’ve ever let myself get attached to is Gran, and she won’t live forever. Maybe that’s the reason I’ve grown distant over the past few years. An attempt to steel myself against the inevitable loss when the time comes.
And yet, Gran’s as full of life as ever.
It’s clear she doesn’t need me here, and I’m wondering if I should move on sooner than planned.
Sure, I could continue with life drawing and art history, but they’re just summer distractions.
I won’t pursue either once I leave. And let’s face it, Nick has made it pretty clear I don’t belong there.
I don’t belong anywhere.
A sound on the neighboring stoop catches my attention as I arrive at Gran’s, and I glance across to see a woman with long, caramel-brown hair holding the arm of a pregnant blond woman as they descend the front steps.
I think back to what Daisy said in Joe’s, about recognizing Poppy because of the baby. This must be her.
“Hi,” I call from Gran’s stoop, waving to the women. They turn to me with interest, and I add, “You must be Poppy.”
“No, I’m Violet.” The blond motions to the woman beside her, who smiles. “And this is Iris.”
“Oh.” My face heats. Shit, I’m putting my foot in it today.
“Sorry. I’m Zinnia, Sylvia’s granddaughter.
I met Daisy at Joe’s, and she told me Poppy had a baby, so…
” I gesture to Violet’s belly, then freeze in horror as I realize I’ve committed the ultimate cardinal sin, assuming a woman is pregnant. “I mean, uh…”
But she laughs, and relief floods through me. “Yes, I’ve got one on the way, but Poppy has her little girl already.”
Iris grins as they reach the sidewalk. “We’re waiting for Poppy to put Rose down for a nap, then she’ll be out. She’s got cupcakes for Sylvia.”
As if on cue, a redheaded woman appears at the front door, a box in her arms, and a baby monitor clipped to her chest. “Sorry, guys, that took forever,” she says, clambering down the front steps. “She seems to be in this new phase where she wants to do anything other than sleep.”
Violet grimaces. “Great, I’m so looking forward to that,” she deadpans, and Poppy laughs.
“We could have taken the cupcakes for you,” Iris points out.
“No.” Poppy shakes her head, turning up Gran’s stoop with the others.
“I need to get out of the house. Even if out of the house is literally just next door.” She glances up and spots me hovering on Gran’s doorstep, her pretty face breaking into a smile.
“Oh, hi! I didn’t see you, sorry. You’ll have to forgive me.
I haven’t slept in months.” She reaches my side, and up close I notice the dark circles under her eyes.
I smile. “Of course. I’m Zinnia, we spoke on the phone?”
“Yes!” She grins. “It’s great to finally meet you. Sylvia’s told me so much about you.”
Gran’s front door swings open, and she smiles, the creases deepening around her eyes as she finds the four of us there. “Girls! What a lovely surprise.”
“I’ve got the cupcakes, Mrs. Sinclair,” Poppy says, and Gran waves a hand.
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Sylvia?” She shakes her head in mock disapproval. “And they tell me my hearing is going.”
The women laugh, and I glance at Gran.
“What are the cupcakes for?”
“I’m having the ladies around for book club while you’re out at life-drawing class tomorrow night,” she says, taking the box from Poppy.
Guilt swirls through me as I think about the class. About modeling, while Gran thinks I’m drawing.
Her gaze moves to Violet, leaning against the railing, belly protruding in her summer dress, sweat beading along her hairline in the July heat. “Oh, look at you, dear. Come in and take a seat. All of you.”