Page 25 of She’s Worth the Risk

“Brooklyn Heights?”

Another laugh from Marcus, but this one sounds a little more annoyed. Or maybe it’s hurt.

“That’s where I’ve lived for a year now, jackass. If you ever called, you’d know.”

I grimace, guilt darting through me. Shit, am I really that distant from my own brother that I don’t know where he lives?

He hasn’t called you either, I remind myself. We’ve never been that close.

Until now, it seems.

“Okay,” I agree. “Sure. Dinner sounds good.” It’s only one night, and besides, I have to admit I’m a little curious about the woman who’s caused such a dramatic transformation in my older brother.

“Great. I’ll text you the details.”

We end the call, and I catch sight of the time. Shit, three minutes until class starts.

I swing by my office to grab my laptop and notes, then hurry into the lecture hall. Students are already filing into their seats, and my pulse trips in anticipation as I instinctively search the tiered seating for Zinnia. When I don’t spot those familiar dark bangs, something tightens in my chest.

I force the feeling away, smoothing my tie and cuing up the first slide. So what if she’s running late? I still have a class full of students here. I should focus on teaching them.

But as I dim the lights to begin the lecture and Zinnia still hasn’t arrived, an unsettling thought occurs to me.

Maybe she’s not coming at all.

My mind spins as I try to focus on what I’m saying, gaze straying to the door without my permission. She wouldn’t really do that, would she? Quit class?

Maybe she would, another part of me counters. When I think back to the last time we were in this room together, I couldn’t blame her. Why did I overreact like that? Why couldn’t I have just let her talk to me about the Scrovegni Chapel? She was clearly excited about it, and even now I find myself curious to know what she was going to say.

This thought catches me off-guard, and I pause, shuffling my notes as I try to make sense of it. If anything, I tell myself, it’s about doing my job well. I’m here to encourage learning, to promote student engagement, but with Zinnia I shut it down. I wasn’t being a good professor. That’s why I’m concerned about her not being here.

Satisfied with this explanation, I move on to Masaccio’s Tribute Money, drawing particular attention to his use of single-point perspective, when a sound comes from the door. I break mid-sentence to glance across the lecture hall, where I find Zinnia sneaking in, arms laden with books. Her eyes meet mine in the dim light, and she winces, almost as if in apology.

I stare at her silently as she finds her seat, apologizing to another student when she has to push past them to settle in. I should be furious. She’s late, and she’s interrupted me.

But try as I might, I can’t summon any anger. Instead, all I feel is the cool trickle of relief.

She hasn’t quit class.

Inhaling deeply, I return to the screen, unbuttoning my tweed jacket. It takes me a moment to remember where I am in my notes, but as I get back on track, the knot in my chest eases.

I’m not sure I want to examine why.

We move through Masaccio, Brunelleschi, and Donatello, but my mind wanders to Zinnia more than once, wondering why she was late. Each time, I shake the thought off, annoyed with myself. By the time class ends and she approaches the lectern, I’m torn between wanting to talk to her and wanting to retreat.

But when I see her tentative smile, guilt prickles through me. I won’t shut her down like last time. I’ll listen, engage like I would with any other student. More than anything, I want to encourage a warm and supportive learning environment.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“Uh, hi.” She hesitates, those gold-rimmed eyes meeting mine. Her floral scent wafts toward me, and I pretend not to notice. I wait for her face to break into a grin, for her to say something about how much she loved Brunelleschi’s dome in Florence, but instead she only says, “I want to apologize for my lateness, Professor Sweetman. It won’t happen again.”

I blink in surprise. That’s it?

“I was at the Met with my grandmother and lost track of time,” she continues. “I know you don’t put your lectures online, but I’ll find a way to catch up.” Her gaze drops to the books in her arms—three massive tomes on art history, all of which appear to be brand new. “Maybe these will help,” she adds with a shrug.

I should leave it there. She’s apologized for interrupting class and promised to catch up on work. That’s more than I’d get from most undergrads.

But try as I might, I can’t do it.