13. Zinnia
ZINNIA
O n Friday evening, I make my way to Lemon Lane, a tiny side alley off Fruit Street, stopping when I find the address I’m looking for. It’s a beautiful two-story redbrick carriage house, with black window trims and a large, central door that would have once been for horses.
Gran taught me about carriage houses one summer as a kid, and we’ve made a game of finding as many as we can in the city.
I love how they’re such a tangible way to see New York’s history, and it’s always fun to stumble on a new one when I least expect it.
We’ve visited all the carriage houses in Brooklyn Heights multiple times, but the last time I saw this one, it was derelict. It’s wonderful to see it renovated.
I step closer, noticing the brass sign above the door that reads Lighthouse Architecture Studio . This is Iris’s house? Double-checking it’s the correct address, I knock on the door. A man appears, smiling.
“Hi,” I say, taken aback. “I’m looking for Iris?”
“You must be Zinnia.” He extends a hand, taking mine. He’s tall, around mid-forties, with a salt-and-pepper beard and kind gray eyes. “I’m Aidan, Iris’s fiancé.” He motions to the stairs over his shoulder. “Iris is upstairs. Go on up.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, giving myself another second to look him over. Her fiancé? He must be close to twenty years older than her.
Huh. Good for Iris.
He steps aside, heading into a room off the foyer, and I follow the wooden steps up to the top level.
Stepping into the space, I pause. I’ve never actually been inside a carriage house before, and it’s even more beautiful than I thought.
Exposed brick on the front wall, with large windows letting in the warm evening light, which bounces off the back white walls, making the space bright and airy.
It’s got an open floor plan, with the kitchen and living area in one space, and a set of metal stairs leading to a mezzanine bedroom. In a word, stunning.
“Zinnia!” Iris spots me standing in the door with my jaw on the floor, and walks across to pull me into a hug. “You made it.”
“This is where you live? Wow, it’s gorgeous .”
“Oh, thank you.” Iris presses a hand to her chest. “Aidan and I designed it.”
The sign on the door flashes through my head. “You’re an architect,” I say, impressed.
“Well, soon.” She laughs. “I haven’t graduated yet.”
“But she will,” Aidan chimes in, entering the room behind me. “Because she’s brilliant.” He pulls Iris into his side, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She sighs, leaning into him, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Then she laughs, shoving him away.
“Don’t distract me. We’ve got work to do.”
He chuckles, raising his hands in defeat as a sound comes from the door downstairs.
“That’ll be the others. I’ll leave you ladies to it.
” He drops another quick kiss on Iris’s head as he passes, then heads down the stairs, greeting Poppy and Daisy on the way.
They appear in the kitchen a moment later, smiling.
“Zinnia,” Daisy says, leaning in to hug me. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
I grin, squeezing her. “Thanks for inviting me.”
She stopped me before I left Joe’s yesterday and said they were meeting to plan Violet’s baby shower, and that I should come.
Although I’d been hesitant to get involved, I figured since I’m sticking around a little longer, it would be fun to help.
They’re all so lovely, and Poppy’s gone out of her way to keep an eye on Gran. It’s the least I could do.
Besides, it might be good to have some girlfriends to hang out with for the summer.
Iris pulls a bottle of wine from the fridge. “Everyone okay with wine? Poppy, if you prefer something else—”
“God, no.” A laugh rushes from her. “I could use a drink. I’ll pump and dump after.”
“Is Wyatt on daddy duty tonight?” Iris asks, and Poppy nods. “He didn’t refer to looking after his own kid as ‘babysitting,’ did he?” she adds, pulling wine glasses from a cabinet.
Daisy chuckles. “Wyatt? I doubt it.”
Poppy laughs too, copper locks shimmering as she shakes her head. “No way. He was so excited, it was cute.”
Daisy leans her head on Poppy’s shoulder. “It’s hot when you see them as fathers, right? Even if their kid isn’t a kid anymore.”
Poppy nods, gaze moving to Iris as she pours the wine. “What about you? Any plans for kids?”
“I’m a little preoccupied with my degree and our new business,” Iris says, handing Poppy a glass. “Besides,” she adds, grinning wickedly, “Aidan’s already the perfect daddy.”
The women chuckle as Iris hands me a glass of wine. I glance between them, asking, “So, you’re all married?”
Daisy and Poppy nod, but Iris shakes her head. “We’re not. We’re waiting until I graduate.” Of course. Aidan called himself her fiancé , not her husband. But it’s close enough.
I sip my wine as I ponder this, thinking of Violet, with her pregnant belly, and the complaint that her husband still couldn’t keep his hands off her. The women are close to my age, maybe a couple years older, but that feels young to be married, let alone having kids. Young to be so… tied down.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Zinnia?” Poppy asks, cheeks already rosy from the wine.
I shake my head. I don’t really do “boyfriends.” Sooner or later I get that itch to move on, so it’s easier not to get tangled up in labels and promises you can’t keep.
Daisy’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “You should ask out that hot older guy you’ve been chatting to at Joe’s.”
I snort a laugh. “He’s my art history professor.”
Her brows spring up. “Your professor?”
“I didn’t know at first,” I say, warmth creeping up my neck. “We met because he teaches life drawing at the community arts center. I only realized afterward that he’s a professor at NYU.”
She grins. “I can totally see that. The glasses, the elbow patches…”
“Hot,” Iris interjects, pushing a lock of long caramel-colored hair over one shoulder. “He sounds like a sexy nerd.”
“He is,” I admit. That’s exactly what Nick is: a sexy nerd.
The glasses, the tweed jacket, sure, but it’s more than that.
He’s smart, so fucking smart, a fact confirmed by reading his notes last week.
The typed pages he handed me after class, with hand-written additions in the margins in inky-blue scrawl.
It felt intimate to read his handwriting, like I was peeking into his journal.
Like I was touching a part of him as my finger stroked the ink.
And as I copied from his scribbled words, a little ache stirred inside me.
I could imagine him at his desk, or maybe at home, a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table, his hair rumpled as he ran a hand through it, pondering Masaccio.
He’s so brilliant, so insightful; those notes went far deeper than anything in the books I picked up from the Met, and that only makes him more attractive.
Somehow, the passion lacking in his lectures feels palpable in his handwriting, and I itch to get closer to that.
Maybe that’s why I said what I did at Joe’s yesterday. My face heats as I think of the way I mimicked his words, how his jaw fell open in shock. Shit, I thought he was going to snap at me again, like he did after his first lecture, but the opposite happened.
He laughed .
Honestly, I didn’t even know if he knew how.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Nick, it’s that he takes things very seriously, especially his work.
The minute those words left my mouth and his expression morphed with disbelief, I was certain he’d put me in my place.
So hearing the warm rumble of his laughter was like seeing the clouds part after rain. Beautiful. A relief.
And when he dryly joked that I should tell him how I really felt, well…
it was a struggle not to be honest. Not to tell him that I think he’s handsome and intelligent and intense in a way that’s weirdly sexy.
That all I’ve thought about since we met is how to crack open that composed exterior of his.
I never expected him to actually tell me what he felt in that chapel.
Not in any real, meaningful way. But he became so quiet when I asked, so thoughtful , and his words truly took me by surprise.
Not only because of how honest they were, but because they captured how I felt in that chapel.
He understands art as a professor, yes, but he also feels it as a man.
And God, seeing that side to him only makes me want him more.
But I’m not stupid. He’s my professor. Even if he weren’t so tightly wound—so emotionally closed off—he’d never make a move on me, not with his career on the line, and I wouldn’t want him to.
No matter how hot it would be to see him let go, I’d never let him jeopardize his career for me. He’s too good at what he does.
“I didn’t know you studied art history,” Poppy says, cutting into my thoughts.
“Oh.” I shrug. “I’m not, like, doing a degree or anything. Just a summer class.”
“What do you do when you’re not studying?” Poppy asks.
I hate this question. Everyone always asks it, as if your career path says something about who you are. As if confining yourself to one particular job or skill-set or field makes you superior, when more likely you’re just clinging to something out of fear.
“I don’t do anything specific. Mostly temp jobs.”
“I used to do a lot of temp work,” Iris says. “Then I found my passion for architecture.”
I lift a shoulder. “Some people just don’t have a passion.”
“I felt that way before I got into photography,” Daisy murmurs. “What drew you to art history?”
“It was Gran’s idea, but…” I trail off, thinking again of yesterday’s conversation with Nick.
“I kind of love it. We’ve been looking at religious art from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and even though I’m not religious they feel sacred, you know?
It’s amazing how something painted hundreds of years ago can still take your breath away today. ”
Iris gives me a wry smile. “And you say you’re not passionate.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I laugh awkwardly. “It’s not the same thing,” I say, but her smile doesn’t change.
“Will you continue in the fall?”
I take a long sip of wine, shifting my weight. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Probably not. I’m only in town until the end of summer.”
Iris’s face falls. “That sucks. How can we convince you to stick around?”
Another uncomfortable laugh. “I don’t really do… sticking around. It’s not who I am.”
Poppy frowns, drawing breath to ask more, but Daisy cuts in, as if sensing my discomfort.
“Should we talk about the baby shower? I’ve got some ideas.”
The others nod in agreement, and we settle in around Iris’s coffee table with our wine.
“Sylvia is so kind to offer her place,” Poppy says.
“That’s Gran.” I smile. “She’s always been generous. Donates to local charities, volunteers at galleries…” I trail off, remembering our trip to the Met, when her friend said she hadn’t been in for ages. When she forgot about Poppy and the others visiting.
But I don’t want to dwell on that. Gran is the only stability I’ve ever known, the only constant in my life. I can’t even think about what it would mean to lose that.
Daisy gives me a gentle smile. “How’s she doing?”
“Good,” I say firmly.
Poppy and Daisy exchange a look, and I’m grateful when they don’t say anything more.
“Now,” Iris says, pulling out a notebook and a stack of Post-it notes. “What are we thinking for the baby shower?”
“First up, I think the guys should be invited,” Daisy says. “We all hang out as a group, and it would be weird to exclude them. I’m sure Kyle will want to be there, too.”
“Agreed,” Iris says, flipping open her notebook. “And women-only showers can feel a little outdated.”
Poppy glances at me. “Do you think Sylvia would mind?”
“No.” I think of Aidan, old enough to behave himself, but I don’t know the rest of them. “Unless your husbands will bring a frat-guy vibe?”
The women exchange amused glances.
“That’s not their style,” Poppy says with a chuckle. “But I was looking forward to a girls-only day.” She thinks for a moment. “Maybe we could do a girls’ night at Marco’s soon? A sort of last hurrah before Violet doesn’t sleep for months on end?”
Iris grins. “You just want another excuse to get out of the house.”
Poppy clinks her wine glass to Iris’s. “Not going to lie, I am. But I think Vi would enjoy a night out.”
Daisy nods. “I do, too. Kyle has been coddling her a little lately. Now,” she says, returning to the topic at hand. “The baby shower.”
“When do you want to have it?” I ask, and Poppy tilts her head in thought.
“She’s due early-October, so maybe mid-September?”
I nod, unable to bring myself to say what I’m thinking, that I’ll be gone by then.
“They don’t know the sex of the baby,” Daisy points out, “but I don’t think that matters. The baby shower needs to be more than your run-of-the-mill pastel colors and games. That’s not Violet’s style. It should be something that matches her sense of humor, and also makes her feel supported.”
“Poppy suggested mocktails and a masseuse,” Iris says, “but what else?”
“We could do a cute photo corner,” Daisy suggests. “I’ll supply the camera and props.”
“Love that.” Iris nods, scribbling it down.
“I don’t know Violet well,” I say, thinking aloud, “but what about if instead of baby games, we have a card station where guests anonymously share the most unhinged parenting advice they’ve ever received, or like, their honest take on motherhood? Something funny instead of sentimental.”
“Yes,” Poppy says, grinning. “Violet would love that.”
“We could also do a guest-book,” I add. “So people can leave supportive comments too.”
“And instead of baby gifts,” Daisy chips in, “we could all bring an item to create a sort of ‘survival kit’ for her. Things like her favorite chocolate, fluffy socks, a scented candle. The kind of luxuries she probably won’t buy herself once the baby arrives.”
“That sounds amazing,” Poppy jokes. “Can I get one?”
Iris laughs, but I see her scribble on a Post-it note to make a survival kit for Poppy too, and it touches a spot deep in my chest. That she’d do that for her friend.
That they’re all here, planning this shower to cheer up Violet.
A group of besties who will be there for one another through life’s ups and downs.
Poppy jokes that the only thing getting her through right now is nipple cream, Iris pulls a face, and the women dissolve into giggles.
As I glance around the table at them, laughing and teasing one another, an unfamiliar feeling weaves through me.
Warm and welcoming, like that first moment when you slide into a hot bath.
Like you can finally breathe a deep sigh of relief.
It’s a shame I won’t get to keep that after this summer.