12. Nick
NICK
I t’s raining when I step into Joe’s Coffee the following Tuesday evening, one of those summer showers that does little to cool the heat, making the air thick and sticky.
I shake off my umbrella, depositing it in the stand by the front door, unable to stop my gaze from drifting across the store.
My heart jumps when I spot Zinnia at the same table as last time, head dipped, deeply engrossed in whatever she’s reading.
I turn to the counter, hastily giving my order to the brunette barista, telling myself I’ll get it to go. I shouldn’t have come early on the off-chance Zinnia would be here. That is not appropriate professor behavior.
But in my rush to order, I forget to ask for a to-go cup. The barista motions for me to find a table, and I hover anxiously. Zinnia hasn’t seen me, and I could still leave.
Instead, my feet move with a mind of their own to the table beside her, where I lower myself stiffly into a chair, pull out the notes I’ve been working on for my research paper, and do my best to concentrate.
God, I don’t know what I’m doing here. Life has been smooth sailing since last week.
Our life-drawing class on Thursday night was fine, with Zinnia smiling pleasantly and posing without complaint.
Yesterday’s lecture was no different. She was punctual to class, returning my notes with a smile and a thank you.
No challenge in her gaze, no over familiarity.
Just two people going about their lives on parallel tracks, exactly as it should be.
Yet here I am.
“Here you go.”
I glance up as the barista brings my tea, realizing I’ve been staring vacantly at my notes for a while. “Thank you,” I say, pulling my glasses off to clean them on my sleeve, then sliding them purposefully back up my nose.
Time to focus. I’m not here for her, I’m here to get some work done. This is a pleasant enough coffee shop, and I had to come out this way for life drawing. This has nothing to do with Zinnia.
“Professor Sweetman,” a voice says beside me.
My pulse leaps, and I look across to find Zinnia gazing at me, eyes shimmering. Something about her use of my title in this setting feels wrong, and I shift uncomfortably. We’re several miles from campus. In a different borough. I don’t feel like a professor here.
Or maybe I don’t want to be reminded that’s what I am. Her professor .
I give her a tight smile, wondering for the hundredth time what I’m doing. She bites her lip, chewing for a moment as if searching for something to say.
Fuck, I should leave.
But my feet refuse to cooperate.
“This weather is something, huh?” she murmurs at last, and I frown. I don’t want to talk to her about the weather.
“When did you visit the Scrovegni Chapel?” I blurt.
Jesus Christ .
She blinks, taken aback by my abrupt subject change. “Oh. Uh, my grandmother took me when we went to Italy. It must have been ten years ago now.”
“What was your favorite part?”
Her eyes move between mine, briefly coloring with confusion. I don’t blame her. She’d tried to talk to me about this on campus, and I shut her down. Now I’m in this random coffee shop, asking too many questions. I don’t even understand it myself.
“The whole chapel was stunning. It just had this… energy. The blue of that vaulted ceiling, the huge Last Judgment scene…” Her head tilts in thought. “But the image that really stood out to me was the one with Judas.”
I nod. I know the one. The Arrest of Christ , or Kiss of Judas as it’s more commonly known, showing Judas betraying Christ in the center, surrounded by an angry mob. It’s my favorite too.
I force my gaze to my tea, reaching for it with unsteady hands. “Why?”
“I don’t know. There was a sense of chaos you could feel , you know? And I always remember the way Judas stared at Jesus in that yellow cloak, in the center.”
“The way Giotto depicted the cloak to be three-dimensional is what made his work so different from the flat, stylized drapery of earlier Byzantine art,” I point out.
“And then there’s the symbolism of the cloak itself…
” I trail off as she scrunches her nose, lips twitching with a barely restrained smile. “What?”
“Why do you do that?”
I set my tea down. “Do what?”
“Take something so… so… breathtaking and reduce it to a sterile list of art techniques.”
My brow furrows. “I don’t think—” I begin, but the mirth glittering in her eyes stops me short.
“ The way Giotto depicted the cloak to be three-dimensional… ” she mimics, putting on a stilted, robot-like voice. “You really don’t hear it?”
I stare at her in shock. Did she actually just do that? Mock me to my face? I should be angry—insulted, even—but a disbelieving laugh rushes up my throat. I wouldn’t tolerate this from anyone else, but Zinnia’s candor disarms me.
Her brows spring up in surprise, a delighted smile curling along her lips. A laugh escapes her as she gazes at me, shaking her head.
“I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, no,” I say dryly, reaching for my tea again. “Please, tell me how you really feel.”
There’s a flicker in her eyes I can’t quite read, but then she blinks, and it’s gone. “I just meant…” Her breath gusts out. “You’ve seen it, right? You’ve seen the chapel in person?”
“I have.”
“And how did you feel standing inside it?”
I take a long sip of tea, watching the raindrops trickle down the window as I consider her question.
My last visit to the chapel was two years ago, as part of a research grant trip.
It had been raining that day too, and I remember waiting in the airlock, relieved to be out of the weather.
I was jet-lagged, thinking about a train I had to catch, and not expecting much from a place I’d already seen twice.
But when I stepped into the chapel, all those thoughts evaporated.
The air was cool and still, the frescoes bigger than I remembered, the clouds outside parting to let a soft shaft of light fall through the tall windows to illuminate Giotto’s masterpiece.
I’m not a religious man, but being in a place like the Scrovegni Chapel can make one feel as though there’s definitely something else out there.
Maybe not God as Giotto depicted it, but… something.
I think of Zinnia’s description: It just had this energy . She’s right, it did have an energy of its own. A palpable, otherworldly feeling that I’ve never even tried to put into words.
I glance back to find her gazing at me. She’s not laughing anymore, expression patient and expectant, like she’d wait all day to hear me tell her how I felt.
And it makes me want to be honest in a way I never am.
“Reverent,” I murmur. “That if there was a god, I might find him in there.”
“Mm,” she hums softly in agreement, gaze traversing my face. There’s something about the deep, searching look in her eyes that makes my jacket feel too tight, and I tug at the cuff, wanting to tear the damn thing off.
Then she clears her throat, reaching for her mug again. “Or her ,” she says, and it takes me a moment to realize what she means. A grin tugs at my mouth, and I have to glance down to hide it.
“Yes,” I say, chuckling. “God could be a woman.”
When I glance up again, she’s gazing thoughtfully into her coffee.
“We’ve come a long way since the 1300s. Obviously.
” She laughs. “I wouldn’t give up modern medicine for anything.
But…” She shakes her head, lifting her gaze to mine.
“It’s kind of sad how we’ve gotten so good at explaining things that we don’t always let them move us anymore.
As if it’s safer to analyze rather than feel.
And these paintings… they were meant to be felt . ”
I stare at her, heart thudding against my ribs. Her words make me feel oddly exposed, because she’s right. Artists create to make people feel, but I’ve constructed a career—an identity —by approaching art from a careful, intellectual distance.
It wasn’t always that way , I remind myself, and a dull ache stirs in my chest as I think of my sketchbooks, stuffed under the coffee table. Out of sight, but never out of mind. Zinnia doesn’t know that, of course, but she speaks as if she does.
As if she knows who I used to be.
“When I was in that chapel,” she continues, “I felt something. It was the same when I stood in front of David , or under the Sistine ceiling. I felt big and small at the same time. I felt… alive .” She holds my gaze for a long moment, that gold shimmering against the hazel in her eyes, as if Giotto had painted them himself.
How does she do that? Speak so openly, bare herself without hesitation? I think of her in life-drawing class, the way she’s never flinched as that silky robe slides to the floor, and it makes sense. It’s just who she is.
Honest. Comfortable in her skin. Someone who isn’t afraid to feel.
“Anyway.” She issues a soft laugh as she drops her gaze to her cup. “That’s my two cents. I’m sure you’ve heard enough of my rambling.”
I blow out a long breath, removing my glasses to rub my eyes. She’s wrong, and that’s the problem. Every time I’m around her, she says something that makes me pause. Does something that makes me reconsider the way I look at the world.
That makes me want to do more than just talk to her.
“I should probably set up for class,” I say, gathering my things.
She nods, hesitating for a second as if to offer to help, then seems to decide against it.
And I head back out into the rain, not sure if I’m relieved.