31. Zinnia
ZINNIA
G ran hugs me tighter than ever when I tell her I’m staying in the city for a while. And when she offers to pay for my class—for an entire degree, in fact—I realize something. She never signed me up for summer school to get me out of her hair for six weeks.
She did it so I’d stick around that long.
“You don’t have to pay for class, Gran,” I tell her over breakfast on Tuesday.
I don’t know when I unofficially moved in with Nick, but we decided to spend the night before the first day of classes apart so we’d actually sleep , instead of, well, you know.
That, and it’s nice to be back at Gran’s.
I inhale the familiar scent of Earl Grey, smiling.
As much as I love it at Nick’s place, it’s not the same.
“Nonsense.” Gran waves a hand, hovering in front of the refrigerator for a beat too long. When she closes it with a puzzled look—and without retrieving anything—I rise wordlessly and grab the milk for her tea.
“It’s not nonsense,” I say, sitting down at the table again. “I should pay for myself.”
“Zinnia, my darling.” Gran gives me her signature I won’t stand for it look.
“I have all this money”—she motions vaguely around us, which I think is supposed to refer to her house—“and no one to spend it on. It brings me great joy to pay for your studies, particularly when they’re of something as fundamental as the arts. ”
I smile into my coffee. “I love you, Gran. I probably don’t say it enough.”
She lifts a hand to her chest, misty-eyed. Then she gathers herself, turning away. “That’s settled, then.”
I exhale slowly. “If it makes you happy to pay for class, fine, but I should probably get a job since I’ll be here for a while. I can’t expect you to cover all my expenses.”
Gran opens her mouth to protest again, and I shoot her the same look she gave me. A wry smile twists her mouth.
“Fine.” She sinks into a chair. “Get a job if you must, as long as it doesn’t interfere with your studies.”
I chuckle quietly to myself. You’d think I was fifteen, not twenty-five.
Gran looks at me sideways. “I bet that boyfriend of yours is pleased you’re staying.”
Guilt tunnels through me, and I lower my gaze.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say automatically.
I’ve never had a boyfriend before, except for once in ninth grade.
It was the longest we’d ever stuck around in one place, and when a cute sophomore asked me out, I figured it was safe to say yes.
Safe to let myself develop feelings, maybe even fall in love.
We left two weeks later.
After that, I didn’t bother. No point in trying to hold on to something that won’t last.
But as I turn the word boyfriend over in my mind, it feels different now. Less scary, more… exciting. When I think of calling Nick my boyfriend, warmth fills my chest, and I smile. Would he like it if I called him that?
As if reading my mind, Gran asks, “Are you taking any more classes with that lovely Dr. Sweetman?”
My smile vanishes as the guilt burrows deeper, and I drain my cup, rising from the table. “No. Professor Webber.”
“Ah, that’s a shame.” Gran takes a slow sip of tea, leaving a print of fuchsia lipstick on the rim. “But he’s still teaching the life-drawing classes you model for?”
“Yes…” I frown. “How did you know that?”
“June mentioned it.” She taps her nose, eyes twinkling. “I told you, you can’t hide anything from me, Z.”
Heat stains my cheeks, and I duck my head, reaching for my bag. “In that case, you know June is unwell?”
Grooves of worry sink into Gran’s leathery skin. “Yes. We’re all terribly worried about her. Pneumonia, they’re saying.”
An icy feeling washes over me. Shit, pneumonia? That’s not good. Not in someone June’s age.
“She told me you’ve been helping with the community arts center a little,” Gran adds. “She’s ever so grateful.”
“Of course. I love it there. I’d help more if I knew how.”
Gran sets her tea down. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, “there might be a way to kill two birds with one stone here.” I open my mouth to ask what she means, but she waves a hand again.
“Let’s talk after your life-drawing class tonight, darling.
I’ll make pot roast, and we can watch something on Netflix? Your choice.”
I smile. “Sounds good.”
She squeezes my arm, softening, and for one awful moment I think she knows. That she’s going to ask about Nick and me. Instead, she motions to the front door.
“Go on. You don’t want to be late for your first day.”
My gut ripples nervously as I step onto campus. It’s only been two and a half weeks since I was last here, but it feels like a lifetime. As I enter the Silver Center for class, a strange sensation moves through me. Warm, familiar and somehow unfamiliar at once.
Like I… like I belong here.
The feeling is so strong that I can’t help but smile, knowing I made the right choice to stick around. And as I enter the lecture hall, my mind strays to Iris’s words about passion. To Gran’s offer to pay for me to study here full-time.
To what my life could look like— really look like—if I didn’t leave the city.
The lecture hall is buzzing when I enter. It’s the same room where Nick’s classes were held, but the tiered seating is much fuller than summer school, and I manage to find a spot in the front row, anticipation fizzling in my chest.
I pull out my laptop and textbooks, excited to begin, when a familiar, confident voice beside me casually says, “Hey.”
Dammit.
Fixing a smile on my face, I glance at Cole. “Hi.” It never occurred to me he might be in this class, and I can’t say I’m delighted.
Especially not when he flashes me a wide grin, saying, “Didn’t know you’d be in here. We can be study buddies.”
“Maybe,” I say, laughing awkwardly. I have nothing against the guy, really, but Cole’s idea of studying is flirting with me in the library, while mine is, well, studying. This class matters to me, and I don’t want to miss anything because I’m too busy fighting off Cole’s advances.
He opens his mouth to say something more, but the lights dim as class begins, and I could not be more relieved.
I give him a What can you do? look, turning to the front of the room. A young woman with strawberry-blond hair stands at the podium, and I blink in surprise. This is Dr. Webber? I was expecting someone old and stuffy, not someone only a few years older than me.
She welcomes the class, goes over the course outline and expectations, and I listen in wonder. That someone close to my age is up there teaching. It makes me think… could I do something like that? Not now, not even anytime soon, but… one day?
“In this class, we’re going to explore how power shapes art,” Professor Webber says. “You’ll learn that art wasn’t only about beauty, it was about who had the power to decide what beauty meant.”
Her words remind me of Nick, of our conversation about Botticelli, and I scramble to copy them down.
“Today, we tend to think of art as an act of self-expression,” she continues, pacing in front of the podium, “but in Renaissance times, art was shaped by those who commissioned it.”
I nod along, typing quickly. We touched on this in Nick’s class, and I’ve been eager to learn more ever since.
“Every commission was a negotiation of power, reputation, and risk.”
A thrill moves through me at her words. God, this is fascinating. I want to know everything about not only the works themselves, but the forces that shaped them.
“To create was to collaborate with power,” Professor Webber tells us. “Or, to defy it.”
She brings up the first slide, and I lose myself as the class unfolds, trying to capture every word she says. It’s a shock when class wraps up, and I blink as the lights come back on, surprised by how quickly the two hours passed.
I avoid Cole as I stuff my laptop into my bag and gather my textbooks, heading straight to the podium, desperate for a quick word with Professor Webber.
“Hi,” I say, smiling as I approach. “I’m Zinnia. That was fantastic.”
It’s weird that my professor is practically my age, and I half expect her to look down her nose at me, but her face breaks into a wide smile.
“Thanks,” she says. “I’m still finding my feet here.”
“Well, I loved it. And I wanted to ask if you had any additional texts you could recommend on the topics we covered today?” I motion to the assigned textbooks in my arms. “I’ve got these, but would love some deeper reading.”
Her green eyes shimmer. “Absolutely. I love your enthusiasm. I’d recommend—” She frowns, glancing down at her pocket. “Sorry,” she says, tugging her phone out to silence it, but as she catches sight of the number on the screen, her frown deepens. “Can you give me a minute?”
“Of course,” I say, stepping back.
I glance around the empty lecture hall as I wait, thinking of Nick’s classes.
Of how strange it is to be back in this room without him.
I wonder what he’s doing now, if he’s in his office.
I’m dying to talk to him about class… maybe I could swing by after this?
We discussed being careful, especially on campus, but there’s nothing wrong with a student visiting her former professor, is there?
Professor Webber wraps up her call, and when I glance back, her face has gone a ghostly white. Concern tugs at me.
“Are you okay?”
“I have to…” She shakes her head, gathering her things with shaking hands. “I have to go. Sorry.” And with that, she rushes from the lecture hall.
Shit, that can’t be good.
With a sigh, I head out. I shouldn’t visit Nick, but that doesn’t stop my feet from taking me toward his office.
Besides, I’m buzzing from class and eager to get more texts on the topics we covered.
Nick will definitely be able to recommend some.
But as I arrive at his office and knock, I know that’s not the real reason I’m here.
“Yes?” he calls through the door, and my heart jumps. I push the door open, sticking my head in.
“Professor Sweetman,” I say in my most neutral tone, despite the fact that he’s looking especially delicious in that tweed jacket, those sexy glasses on his nose, the loose waves of his hair all mussed. “Do you have a minute?”
“Miss Sinclair…” He hesitates, glancing over my shoulder. “What are you doing here?” He gives me a pointed look, adding, “You’re not my student anymore.”
I wince. He’s right. This was a bad idea.
Wavering, I glance along the hall. A student is speaking with another professor a few doors down, and when I think about turning to leave, that feels even more suspicious. I have no choice but to lean into it.
“I know,” I say, laughing lightly as I turn back to Nick, “but I wanted to stop by after my class with Professor Webber. We covered a lot of similar topics as your class, and I wondered if you had any recommendations for further reading.”
“I suggest you ask Professor Webber,” he says evenly.
I grimace. “Well, I tried, but she had to leave. I’ll just…” I shake my head, face warm. “I’ll wait until next class. Sorry to bother you.”
But as I turn to go, Nick says, “What kind of further reading?”
“Oh, well…” I hold up my textbooks. “I have these, but I’m looking for more on the power dynamics between artists and their patrons.”
Nick’s eyes glitter. “Power dynamics?”
“Yes. Professor Webber was explaining how the relationship between patrons and artists shaped the art of the time, and I found it so interesting, because we usually think of art as self-expression by the artist, right? But it was so different back then…” I trail off, realizing I’m rambling, and give him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
I expect him to rattle off some obscure title and wave me away, but he doesn’t. Instead, something dark ignites in his gaze, and he leans back in his chair.
“Come in,” he says at last, his voice low and gravelly. “And shut the door.”