Page 116 of She’s Worth the Risk

“Let me be clear.” Her gaze returns to mine, sharp as ever. “If this had started while she was your student, we’d have a serious problem.”

“I understand.”

“I’m trusting your judgment here, Dr. Sweetman. Don’t make me regret it.”

“I won’t,” I say, rising from the chair. Then I slip out the door before she can reconsider.

My head spins as I step into the corridor, processing everything.

I’m not fired. I get to keep my job and, if I’m lucky, keep Zinnia.

I head back to my office, but I can’t sit still. Adrenaline flows through my veins, and if I’m honest, part of me is worried Dr. Fuller might come to her senses and march into my office to fire me.

Grabbing my bag with shaky hands, I head back out the door. I don’t teach a class today, and I’d rather work from home. Rather tidy my apartment and wait—hope—Zinnia comes home later so we can talk this through.

So we can make the future I imagine for us a reality.

But as I stride across Washington Square Park, I recall Dr. Fuller’s words.

The student would need to transfer out of your class.

I think of Zinnia in my office that first day of the semester, overflowing with joy. All the evenings we’ve lain awake in bed, talking about topics we’ve covered in class, things she’s read that she’s excited to share.

And I have to ask her to give that up.

My stomach twists uneasily as I climb the stairs in my building. Can I really ask her to do that? To sacrifice so much?

I let myself into the apartment, disappointment washing through me when I find the place empty, as if a part of me had secretly been hoping she’d be here, waiting. Wanting to see me.

She’s not.

I dump my bag on the counter, then sink onto the sofa with a heavy sigh, dropping my head into my hands. The university knows I’m seeing Zinnia. Better yet, they haven’t fired me.

But that doesn’t mean she’ll stay in the city.

And even if she does decide to stay, she has to lose something that brings her so much joy. What if she’s not prepared to give that up for me?

43

ZINNIA

It’s midday when I wake, but I’m not surprised. I hardly slept, tossing and turning as I thought about Nick, replaying the conversation with my friends in the hospital. Trying to figure out why I’m still hesitating, after everything.

I finally dozed off around dawn, falling into a dream where I was buried under a pile of suitcases, pulling me under like quicksand. Every time I struggled to break free, they pulled me deeper, until I finally gave in and let them take me.

I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes. A dull headache pulses in my temple, and as I stand, my foot catches on something.

My suitcase, sticking out at the foot of the bed.

I yank it out, irritation flaring in my veins. It’s empty since I unpacked weeks ago, but I throw it on the bed, staring at it. Waiting for that familiar itch to come, the one telling me it’s time to move on.

It doesn’t.

I sink back onto the mattress, head clouded with confusion. If anything, the thought of packing makes me uneasy. I don’t want to leave.

I want to stay.

So what is that gnawing feeling? The one still telling me something isn’t right?