Page 10 of She’s Worth the Risk

Another nod from him, and this time he doesn’t look away.

“What was your favorite piece?” I ask.

“Titian’s Venus of Urbino.” He answers without hesitation, then his gaze falls to his tea, as if embarrassed. As if he’s revealed some secret part of himself he’d never meant to.

“I don’t know that one.” I study him over my cup, fascinated by the pink creeping under his beard. The tiny crack in his composure. “Why is it your favorite?”

He breaks off a piece of muffin, but doesn’t bring it to his mouth. “The balance of intimacy and restraint…” he begins, then stops himself, shifting in his seat. His brow tugs into a frown, and he glances at his watch. “I should set up for class,” he says, discarding the muffin and brushing off his hands.

“I can help,” I offer, setting my cup down.

“No.” He rises from his seat, fumbling for his papers. “Thank you,” he adds hastily, as if remembering his manners. “That’s not necessary. I’ll…” He swallows. “I’ll see you there soon.”

I watch him scurry from the coffee shop, disappointment dropping into my gut like a stone. One minute we’re talking about art, the next he’s running for his life. Did I say something wrong?

The balance of intimacy and restraint…

His words echo through my head, and curiosity has me reaching for my phone. I type the painting’s name into Google, and what appears on the screen steals my breath. A nude woman reclines on a bed, staring boldly at the viewer, as if inviting their gaze. But more than that, it’s almost the identical pose I took at life-drawing on Tuesday, when Nick could hardly bring himself to look at me.

I think back to that class, how he turned away as I pulled off my dress. How uncomfortable he seemed when someone asked for help, forcing him to study me in that reclined position. I thought I’d made things awkward, but that wasn’t it at all.

He saw me far too clearly.

Something hot and determined rises inside me as I think about class tonight. Undressing in front of Nick, posing in front of him. Because I want him to look. I want him to see me.

And I want to see what happens if he doesn’t look away.

5

NICK

My heart races as I stride along Fruit Street. Why did I tell Zinnia that? I’ve never told anyone how much I love that painting. Hell, I don’t think I’ve even admitted it to myself.

I try to make sense of our conversation as I climb the front steps to the community arts center. It was unexpected to find Zinnia sitting in that coffee shop. I’d intended to take some time before class tonight to look over student papers from last semester for gaps in their learning, places I could dive deeper in class. So finding Zinnia waving at me across Joe’s was a surprise.

Not an entirely unwelcome one, either.

I shouldn’t have sat beside her. After the way I felt so discombobulated during class on Tuesday, I knew that being near her would make it impossible to focus.

But that didn’t stop me from crossing to the neighboring table. And when she talked about Italy, my self-control wavered. Especially when she spoke about Michelangelo’s David with such perception. Such passion. It stirred something unfamiliar inside me. Something I refuse to acknowledge.

June is setting up when I enter the studio, and I greet her with a tight smile. The truth is, I was considering telling her after class this evening that I can’t run it again. I don’t know what I was thinking, agreeing to sign on long-term.

Seeing Zinnia in that coffee shop reminded me. The way it feels to be in her orbit, overly aware and self-conscious, like my body knows something I don’t. I shouldn’t lean into that sensation, shouldn’t encourage it. Not when it already feels so destabilizing.

But when she asked me what my favorite painting was, the answer was out of my mouth before I could stop it. And when she asked me why… I couldn’t find the language to explain. The painting is technically excellent—the composition, the clever use of foreground and background, the brushwork—but if I stop to ask myself why it moves me, I know that’s not it. It’s something I can’t put into words.

I shrug out of my jacket and take an easel from June’s hands, ushering her away as I place the rest around the room. It was a convenient excuse to leave and set up for class, but knowing I’ll see Zinnia again in a few minutes sends a nervous ripple through my gut. And this time, she won’t be fully clothed.

As much as I hate to admit it, she’s crossed my mind more than once since Tuesday. The way she reclined on that pedestal, so comfortable in her skin, as if she were Venus of Urbino herself. My brain memorized every curve and dip of her figure, despite trying not to look.

Yesterday, I pored over my old sketchbooks. Remembering the way it felt to put pencil to paper. To study the proportions and angles and shapes of the human body so closely. I imagined what it would be like to draw Zinnia, to capture those hills and valleys, the landscape of her.

Then I put the sketchbooks away.

I convinced myself Zinnia was nothing special. That I’d tell June I couldn’t continue, and I could get back to life as it was before Tuesday night.

But seeing her in the coffee shop, hearing her talk about art like someone who knows how it feels to see it up close, who’s moved by the same statues as me… she’s no longer just the model from class. A body to be drawn. Curves I can’t get out of my head.