39. Zinnia
ZINNIA
G ran is not-so-quietly thrilled when I tell her I’m going to my boyfriend’s brother’s wedding on Saturday afternoon. I can’t tell if it’s because I called him my boyfriend , or because she thinks this is a sign I’m staying for good.
I’m trying not to think about that last part. As much as I can’t imagine leaving Nick—or Gran, or New York—it’s also hard to imagine never leaving. Staying in one place.
I’m not even sure I know how.
I still haven’t told Gran I’m dating Nick—or as she knows him, Dr. Sweetman.
Thankfully, she hasn’t asked any probing questions.
I couldn’t bear to lie straight to her face, but I guess what I’m doing is no better.
With each passing day, the guilt grows exponentially, and it’s getting increasingly difficult to hide this from her.
Especially when she insists we go shopping for a dress the Saturday before the wedding.
“You know I already have a dress I can wear,” I tell Gran for the third time as we head toward Saks Fifth Avenue in the town car. I can’t tell if she’s genuinely forgotten—which isn’t unusual these days—or just plain stubborn.
“Yes, my darling,” Gran says patiently, taking my hand. “But a grandmother should be allowed to treat her only granddaughter, shouldn’t she?”
I soften, squeezing her bony hand. “Yes, Gran. She should.”
Only the item that Gran chooses for me is a six-hundred-dollar cocktail dress by some designer I’ve never heard of. It’s got a strapless bustier and a bold floral print, and while it’s stunning, it’s also complete overkill for Marcus’s quiet wedding on the Promenade.
“Gran.” I hold up the price tag. “No way.”
She shakes her head. “You have to at least try it on, Z. We can’t rule it out yet.”
“We absolutely can,” I say, and she shoots me a look. I roll my eyes. “Even if I did want it, I can’t wear something strapless.” I motion to my ample chest, and Gran waves a hand.
“Don’t worry about that. We’ll find the perfect bra to support the girls.”
A laugh bursts from me. Gran might be in her eighties, but she hasn’t lost her sense of humor.
Her eyes glitter as she watches me pull myself together. “Come on. At least try it,” she says, steering me into the fitting room. “I bet it will look great.”
Of course, she’s right. I turn in front of the mirror, admiring my figure in the dress. It hugs my bust, waist, and hips perfectly, something I’m sure Nick will appreciate.
But I’m still hesitant as we approach the register. “It’s a lot of money, Gran.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” she says. “What good is my money if I can’t spend it on you?”
I watch Gran pay for the dress, along with a strapless bra that’s supposed to work wonders. “I’ll pay you back.”
“You most certainly will not,” she says firmly. “I’ve got more than enough.”
She hands me the shopping bag, and for the first time I wonder just how much money she has.
She lives in a huge house in a wealthy neighborhood and hasn’t worked since I was a kid, not in any traditional sense.
I know she volunteers at local galleries, and I’m pretty sure she donates to a lot of places—including, I recently discovered, the Brooklyn Heights Community Arts Center—but I suspect she might have more than I initially thought.
“Any money you earn is for you ,” she adds. “Which reminds me, June is on the mend.”
“Oh.” I press a hand to my chest, relieved. “That’s good. I’ve been worried about her.”
“We all have, darling,” Gran says, slipping her arm into mine as we wander toward the exit. “She won’t be up to running the evening classes again for some time though, and she asked how you felt about continuing.”
I smile, thinking about the classes I’ve been overseeing in June’s absence.
Life drawing, of course, but there’s also been watercolor, block-printing, two poetry readings, and a weekly book club.
Thankfully, I don’t have to do much; open the center, keep the wine and toilet paper stocked, and be there if anything goes wrong.
I tried to tell Gran I didn’t need June to pay me, but she waved my protest away.
“You’re helping her greatly,” Gran told me.
“She’d never dream of letting you do it for free. ”
“I’d be honored, Gran,” I tell her. “I love it there.” It had never occurred to me how much I might enjoy facilitating a space for others to create, even if I’m not an artist myself.
I guess I’m a lot like Gran in that way, a lover of the arts.
Maybe one day, if I have money of my own, a patron of the arts too.
“Good,” Gran says, “because I already told her yes.”
I laugh. “I’m glad.” I squeeze her arm. “And thank you for the dress. It was too generous.”
Gran chuckles, glancing around for the register. “I suppose we should pay for it before we leave.”
I sigh, tightening my grip on the shopping bag. “We already did, Gran.”
It’s surreal to be on the Brooklyn Heights Promenade with Nick on Sunday afternoon. Not only to be out in public with him, even if we do have to be discreet, but to be included in Marcus’s wedding, like I’m a part of the family.
Like I’m a part of Nick’s life.
I sneak a glance at him as we stand on the Promenade, waiting for Marcus and Priya to exchange their vows.
He’s looking extra fine today, in a navy-blue blazer over a crisp white dress shirt and dark jeans, his scruff groomed and tidy, sunlight glinting off his glasses.
I catch a hint of his cologne on the breeze, that clean, masculine scent that’s so familiar to me, and my heart swells behind my breastbone.
It’s an effort not to step closer, not to bury my nose in his chest and breathe him in.
He’s struggling too. I’ve noticed his eyes roving over my dress, his face intense with want. More than once I’ve caught him wrestling his gaze away with an agonized expression, and it makes me giddy.
The officiant gathers the few of us together—me and Nick, a few of the guys I recognize from the bar that night Nick was out, and a couple of women. All people, Nick assured me, who wouldn’t know we’re connected through the university, and wouldn’t care if they did.
But that doesn’t mean we can be careless. We’re still in public, where anyone could see us. I’m still his student.
And this could still cost him everything.
I sigh, pushing the thoughts away as we gather close, Marcus waiting with the officiant by the railing, the city in the distance.
I’ve always loved the Promenade. Set on a bluff along the edge of Brooklyn Heights, it looks directly over the East River to lower Manhattan.
The weather is beautiful, a little crisp with that first hint of fall in the air, the water shimmering in the sun.
It’s not too busy, only a few tourists nearby, a couple jogging past, and they all seem respectful enough to give our party space.
The photographer hovers closely, catching shots of Priya as she approaches in her wedding dress.
I watch as Marcus’s eyes mist at the sight of her, Nick’s hand brushing mine.
It sends a wave of awareness through me, every nerve ending in my body sparking to life, and I ball my hand into a fist so I don’t reach for him.
But when it comes time for Marcus and Priya to say I do , Nick’s hand slides into mine and squeezes.
My heart squeezes in response, and I glance at him, emotion stinging my throat.
I think of my friends and their partners, in the open, wishing we could have that.
Could explore the city without looking over our shoulders.
Go to dinner or a movie. Just be together, for real.
Something sad swims in his eyes as he gazes at me, and I know he’s thinking the same thing. We both want this to be more. His thumb strokes across the back of my hand, soft and gentle. Soothing. His way of saying, We’ll figure it out somehow .
I desperately want to believe him.
The ceremony wraps up, and Marcus pulls out a couple bottles of champagne, popping them quietly and pouring them into paper cups. Nick points out that there are No Open Container Laws, and Marcus waves him off with a good-natured laugh.
“It’s my wedding,” he tells his brother, unable to quell the massive grin on his face. “Live a little.”
Nick gives me a look that’s somehow both shocked and amused. “I don’t even recognize this guy anymore,” he mutters, but he’s laughing as he takes the cup from Marcus’s hand.
The photographer gets candid shots of us milling about on the Promenade, then settles in for a more formal shoot, beginning with the couple. Nick and I lean on the railing and watch, sipping from our paper cups.
“The ceremony was beautiful,” I say, and Nick nods.
“It was.” His gaze returns to me. “As are you.” His finger brushes my arm, sending goosebumps across my skin. “That dress is stunning, honey. It’s been almost impossible to keep my hands off you.”
I huff a laugh, glancing down at my décolletage. Thankfully, the strapless bra did the trick, and as I look up to find Nick’s eyes moving hungrily across my exposed skin, I can tell he appreciates it.
I drop my voice, just for him. “In an hour, you won’t have to.”
“Fuck.” His eyes darken, and he leans in to bite me on the shoulder.
His teeth graze my skin, tongue soft and warm, before he catches himself.
With a tortured groan, he draws away, attempting to pull himself together.
I can’t help but laugh. He gives me the biggest, goofiest smile, and my heart dances.
This man. The way he’s completely opened up to me. Completely let me in. He had so many walls up when we met, but now they’re gone. It wasn’t easy for him, but he let them down.
For me.
My chest is full as I gaze at him. I never knew it was possible to feel this close to someone. I’ve never had the chance, or rather, never given myself the chance. Never let myself stick around long enough to find out. Or maybe, I’ve never met anyone worth sticking around for.
But with Nick… it’s the first time I’ve ever felt like I want to stay.
The photographer motions for Nick to join Marcus for a few shots, and he reluctantly drags himself away from me. After that, he gets caught up in a conversation with some of the guys, and Marcus wanders over to speak to me, his eyes bright and shining.
“We’re so glad you could come,” he says warmly.
“Thanks for inviting me.” I glance to where Priya stands with her friends for the photographer. She seems lovely, but her wedding surprises me. “I thought Indian weddings were supposed to be huge?”
Marcus grimaces. “Oh, they are. We’re flying to Mumbai in February for Priya’s family thing.” His gaze strays to his bride, love softening his features. “This one was just for us.”
I smile. “Well, it was lovely. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He glances back at me, scrubbing a hand thoughtfully over his chin. Up close, I can’t help but notice how similar he looks to Nick with those blue eyes, an intensity to him just like his brother.
I glance away. As happy as I am for Marcus, and as much as he seems like a nice enough guy, every interaction we have is tainted by the knowledge of how deeply he hurt Nick.
“I need to thank you, actually,” he says at length. “For what you’ve done for my brother.”
“What do you mean?”
Marcus glances over at Nick, and my gaze follows. Nick’s eyes meet mine, glowing with affection, and I bite my lip before my smile grows too wide.
“I’ve never seen him like this,” Marcus says wistfully. “Never seen him so… happy. So open. That’s thanks to you.”
I look back at Marcus. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something about Nick’s sketchbook, but it’s not my place.
“You helped him realize he was closed off to life.”
I bristle, holding in the words. It’s his wedding day, I tell myself. Now is not the time.
“And you helped him realize why,” Marcus adds, and this time, I can’t help myself.
“He had a right to be closed off,” I say defensively. “What you did—”
“I know. I was an asshole. Nick and I talked it through, and I apologized.”
Despite myself, I soften. “You apologized?”
“Of course. It was the least he deserved.” Marcus winces. “I didn’t realize the damage I’d done, but Nick told me how I’d hurt him.”
Surprise washes over me. Nick told him? That’s… wow. My chest warms with pride as I think about Nick confronting his brother, how difficult it must have been to have that conversation. And to know I played a part in helping him get there… that’s everything to me.
“Hopefully you’ll hate me less now,” Marcus murmurs.
An awkward laugh slips from me. “I don’t hate you. I just… care about him. A lot.”
“You’re not the only one who’s protective of him.” Marcus’s eyes move to mine, more cautious now, assessing. “Not the only one who loves him.” He lets the words hang in the air, more of a question than a statement, and I suck in a breath as they land.
I do love him, I realize. I love everything about him.
How brilliant he is. How quietly handsome.
How self-conscious he gets sometimes—and how wild when he lets himself.
I love how passionate he is about art, and how he’s slowly let that passion into other areas of his life.
How he cared for me so tenderly during the blackout.
How he doesn’t hesitate to tell me how much he wants me, how much I mean to him.
How he wouldn’t let me give up his class, even if I should have.
How he’s risked everything just to be with me.
“No,” I whisper, voice hoarse. “You’re not the only one who loves him.”
Marcus’s features soften. He opens his mouth to speak when Nick calls him over. Giving my arm a gentle squeeze, he heads to his brother, and I watch him go, still processing this new realization. I’ve never felt like this before, and it’s both electrifying and terrifying.
But there’s no denying it. I’m in love with Nicholas Sweetman.