Page 103 of She’s Worth the Risk

Unease ripples through me when I think about the future I want with her. Not because of my job, but because of something else I’ve been avoiding. It was easy to forget while we were sneaking around, but taking her to Marcus’s wedding makes this feel more real. It forces me to face the truth—that I still don’t know if she’s in the city permanently. All she said was, I’ve been thinking about sticking around in New York for a while, but what if she doesn’t intend to stay after the semester ends? More to the point, what if she can’t? She’s spent her life moving from place to place, never putting down roots. I’m so rooted to the spot, it’s a wonder I haven’t grown leaves.

I drain my beer, trying to push the feeling away, but it won’t go. All this time I’d thought the biggest risk with Zinnia was to my career, but what if it’s to my heart?

39

ZINNIA

Gran 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.