14. Nick
NICK
M y brother and his fiancée live in a four-story limestone Greek Revival townhouse on Cranberry Street.
I pause outside the building, taking in the sharp lines and black iron railings, the pale facade almost glowing in the evening light.
It’s only a five minute walk from the community arts center on Fruit Street, and guilt tugs at me as I ring the bell.
I’ve been coming to Brooklyn Heights for weeks now, and I didn’t know my brother was right here.
“Nick,” Marcus booms, throwing open the front door. “You made it.”
I proffer the bottle of red wine I picked up on the way over. I don’t know if that’s what Marcus likes, but I took a guess.
“Great, thanks,” he says, pulling me into an unexpected hug. Given the way he’s behaved lately, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me. “Come in. Priya’s on the terrace.”
I step into the foyer, toeing off my loafers as Marcus leads me into the open living and kitchen area.
Unlike the impressive historical exterior of the house—of the entire neighborhood—the interior gleams with all things modern.
Clean white walls instead of brick, crisp lines instead of cornices, chrome and glass replacing the original wooden staircase.
It almost reminds me of an operating theater, which suits Marcus and, from what I know of her, Priya.
“Is that Nick?” a voice calls from outside.
I follow my brother onto the terrace, an outdoor space on the second floor overlooking the courtyard, with enough room for a small dining set and a grill that fills the air with the savory aroma of sizzling food.
A woman turns from where she’s laying out cutlery, a grin breaking across her face.
She looks to be around my age, making her younger than my brother, with dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail, skin a golden brown in the evening light.
“Nick!” she says, and before I can even introduce myself, she pulls me into a hug.
I bristle unintentionally. I’m not used to being called Nick by people I hardly know, unless you count Zinnia, which is already unsettling enough. And then there’s the hugging. Is this why Marcus is so… affectionate , all of a sudden?
“Hello,” I say stiffly, and Marcus laughs, handing Priya a glass of wine when we part.
“Don’t worry about him,” he tells her. “You’ll get used to it.”
I resist the urge to frown. I’m not the person anyone needs to get used to. He is. He’s the one who’s completely changed overnight.
He holds a glass of wine out to me, and I hesitate. I’m not usually a big drinker. I’ve had more than one glass of wine lately at life-drawing class, though that was more from necessity, but I don’t want to be rude, so I take the glass with a smile. I’ll probably need it to get through tonight.
Sipping my wine, I watch my brother grill salmon, pausing to say something to Priya about vegetables as she passes.
I’ve never seen Marcus be so domestic. I didn’t even know he could cook.
It makes sense that he can, of course. He’s a grown man.
But it doesn’t sit with the image I have of him in my mind.
Priya glances at me as she sets a bowl of quinoa and roasted vegetables beside a salad on the table. “I hope you like salmon, Nick?”
I nod, but before I can answer, Marcus speaks for me.
“Nick loves fish,” he says as he shuts off the grill. “We used to go fishing in Maine all the time as kids. He caught this huge bass one summer, but was too chickenshit to gut it, so I had to do it.”
I stare at my brother, chest tightening unexpectedly. I’d forgotten about that, but he’s right. It was one of my favorite things to do as a kid. I’m surprised he remembers. He’s never been the sentimental type.
“Sounds fun.” Priya grins as we settle in at the table. “Marcus has told me so much about you. I had to meet you.” She smiles, serving salad beside the salmon on my plate. “Did you have any trouble finding our place?”
“No,” I say, thinking of the arts center two blocks away. This is such a beautiful neighborhood, and I can see why Marcus likes it. “I actually teach a class around here.”
Priya’s face lights. “How cool. Where?”
“The Brooklyn Heights Community Arts Center, on Fruit Street.”
“I know the one,” she says, eyes warm. “What’s the class?”
I glance across to find Marcus waiting expectantly, and bite back my answer. He might seem like a different person, but he’s still the same guy who found my sketchbook and laughed.
“I’m just covering for June Crosby,” I say, dodging the question as I tuck into my food. “She needed someone last minute.”
A crease forms between Marcus’s brows, as if he knows I’m deliberately deflecting, and I push away the dart of guilt, turning the conversation back to them.
“So, Marcus says you two met in an operating theater?”
A tinkly laugh comes from Priya. “That’s right. I could only see the top half of his face, but still, it was love at first sight.”
Marcus grins. “That’s because she couldn’t see how gray I am,” he says, stroking a hand over the stubble on his chin. “By the time she realized, it was too late.”
Priya laughs, nudging him with her shoulder. “You know I love the gray.”
I touch my own jaw instinctively. I’ve got more gray now than ever, and sometimes when I look in the mirror, I don’t recognize the guy staring back at me. Probably why I avoid looking at all.
Marcus gazes lovingly at his fiancée, leaning in to brush his lips to hers.
They forget my presence as they kiss, and I drop my gaze.
I’ve never seen my brother so smitten. He wasn’t lying when he said he was in love, and the thought makes me shift uncomfortably.
After a lifetime of admiring Marcus’s discipline and composure, to see him like this is jarring.
Unsettling. Something I don’t know what to do with.
I cough into my fist, reminding them they’re not alone, and they finally, reluctantly part.
“Sorry,” Priya murmurs, cheeks pink.
Marcus chuckles, shooting me an amused look as he reaches for his wine. “You know, for someone who studies art, you’re surprisingly unromantic.”
“Romanticism is post-Enlightenment,” I say, adjusting my glasses. “I deal with the Renaissance.”
My brother smirks. “Case in point.”
I frown. Before I can stop them, Zinnia’s words from Joe’s echo through my head. 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.
I’ve thought about those words a lot in the past three days, more than I care to admit.
They’ve played on a loop through my head as I put in extra miles on the treadmill, as if I could somehow outrun them.
I still can’t believe that moment in Joe’s, the way she got me to remember how I felt in that chapel, let alone admit it.
It’s the most honest conversation I’ve had in a long time, and with a student , of all people.
I keep searching for a sense of regret, some lingering embarrassment, but it doesn’t come.
Speaking to Zinnia cracked open a part of me I didn’t know was there, and despite myself, I want more.
But that’s the problem. I can’t want more. Not with a student.
I didn’t go to Joe’s before life-drawing class yesterday.
After Tuesday, I was torn between wanting to speak to Zinnia again and knowing I need to put distance between us.
On campus, it’s clear. I’m her professor, and she’s respectfully distant.
In life drawing, I’m the teacher, and she’s the model.
Even if it sometimes feels as though she undresses just for me, there’s still a roomful of people watching us.
A buffer to stop me from saying—from doing —something stupid.
But in Joe’s, those restrictions fall away. We’re simply two people sitting at nearby tables, talking. She says the most incredible, insightful things. She makes me laugh. Hell, she teases me, and I…
Shit, I like it.
I didn’t even know that was possible.
The itch to draw her has been worse than ever since Tuesday. The more time I spend talking to her, the more those luscious curves of hers linger in my head, begging to be captured on the page.
And the harder the shame hits when I catch myself.
Not only because I don’t draw anymore, but because if I was going to draw anyone like that, it sure as hell shouldn’t be my student.
Fuck.
I shove the thoughts from my mind, focusing on Priya and Marcus. We finish dinner, and Priya brings out a berry cheesecake for dessert. As we eat, I ask them about the wedding.
“It’s in the fall,” Marcus says, looking uncomfortable as he pokes at his dessert. “Just a small ceremony on the Promenade.”
I tilt my head, curious about the change in his body language, when Priya slides a gentle hand onto his arm. He glances at her and nods in answer to a silent question, and I watch as Priya leaves the table, returning a moment later with an envelope. She holds it out to me.
“Here’s your invitation,” she says, smiling warmly. “We weren’t sure…”
Marcus clears his throat, finally meeting my gaze. “We didn’t know if you’d want to come.”
I take the envelope, that tightness returning to my chest. Is he serious? I know we’re not close, but I’d never deliberately miss his wedding day, for Christ’s sake.
“Of course I want to come.”
There’s a flicker of something in Marcus’s eyes.
Relief, maybe. I think of the hurt in his voice last week when we were talking about where he lives, how he said, That’s where I’ve lived for a year now, jackass.
If you ever called, you’d know . For so long I’d assumed Marcus and I were on the same page; we knew we weren’t close and were fine with it.
But he’s changed since meeting Priya, and I’m the one who hasn’t caught up.
Priya rises, gathering the dishes. I stand too, offering to help, but she waves me away.
“I’m only going to load them into the dishwasher. You guys stay here and catch up.” Then she heads inside, leaving Marcus and me alone on the terrace.
“She seems great,” I say, and Marcus nods.
“I feel like a new man with her.”
We sip wine in the fading evening light, listening to the distant sounds of the city, until Marcus breaks the silence.
“There’s something else I wanted to ask you.”
I lift my brows in question.
“I’m having a bachelor party, and…” He pauses, as if choosing his words carefully. “It would be cool if you could be there.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. I’m not really the bachelor party type, though come to think of it, neither is he.
“It’s super low-key,” he assures me. “No strippers. You know that’s not my style.”
I scrub a hand over my beard. The truth is, I don’t know my brother at all anymore. The Marcus I thought I knew vanished the moment I sat down in that bistro last week.
And for the first time, I wonder if that might be a good thing.
“We’re just going to our local bar for craft beer and wings,” he adds.
I blow out a breath. That’s doable. And when I think of the way he looked at me a moment ago, wondering if I’d want to come to his wedding, the answer comes easily.
“Sure. I’ll be there.”
A grin breaks across his face. “Great. It’s not for a few weeks, but… great.”
As I thank Marcus and Priya at the end of the night, I’m surprised to find I feel lighter.
I might be struggling to make sense of this new Marcus, but there’s no denying they seem like a good match.
I tuck the wedding invitation into my jacket pocket and head down their front steps, belly full, head a little woozy from wine.
When I turn back to say goodbye, they’re standing on the doorstep. Marcus waves, pulling Priya against him with a grin, and there’s an unfamiliar tug behind my ribs.
On the subway ride home, I wonder what it might be like to have that.