Page 42 of She’s Worth the Risk

We’ve gotten so good at explaining things that we don’t always let them move us anymore. As if it’s safer to analyze rather than feel.

Zinnia’s words from Joe’s come back to me, and I exhale heavily. She’s right. I live my entire life in my head, intellectualizing and analyzing, keeping a careful distance from feelings of any kind. I’d always considered that a good thing. Admirable.

But as I think back to Marcus gazing softly at Priya over dinner last week, I’m starting to second-guess myself. Seeing the man I’ve always idolized for his cool, calm emotional detachment lose himself over a woman has shaken everything I’ve known.

June asks me to wrap up class early because of the weather, and people reluctantly head out into the storm. Her brow creases in worry, one eye on the rain outside as I pack away the easels, and I tell her I’m happy to lock up. She looks relieved, pressing a key into my hand before heading out. Zinnia lingers, and I open my mouth to tell her she can leave too, but that’s not what comes out.

“Thank you for the gift,” I say, folding down an easel. “It was thoughtful.”

A smile curls along her lips, the first proper one I’ve seen from her all evening. “You’re welcome. I wasn’t sure if…” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I’m glad you like it.”

I drag the pedestal across the floor, frowning as she stacks the chairs. It’s fine, I tell myself. I’ll be gone in five minutes.

“I saw you at the library,” she murmurs. “I would have said hi, but you seemed…” she trails off again, chewing her bottom lip, and I glance away, steering the conversation in her direction. What would a professor say?

“What class did you have today?” I ask lightly.

"What?” She gives me a puzzled look. “None. I only went in to study.” Her eyes rest on me for a moment longer, realization slowly dawning. “I’m not taking any other classes,” she adds. “Only yours.”

My heart jumps at her words. I know they mean nothing, but some stupid, caveman part of my brain misinterprets them.

Only yours.

I force my gaze away, folding another easel. “Why’s that?”

“Oh. Well…” She shrugs as she stacks the chairs. “I don’t live in the city. I’m only here visiting Gran for the summer. Class was just something to do. I’ll be gone by Labor Day.”

My stomach drops. I stare at her, pulse thrumming in my temple. She’s leaving? I’d assumed she’d be there next semester, and that even if she wasn’t in my class, I’d see her at life drawing or maybe around campus. But knowing she’s leaving stirs a hot twist in my chest I don’t like. I tell myself it’s because she’s too passionate about art not to continue studying. That it would be a loss to the field.

But I don’t for a second believe it.

I clear my throat, turning back to the easel. A loud crack of thunder rattles the windowpanes, saving me from responding as she sets the last chair against the wall. The lights flicker momentarily, and Zinnia’s gaze zips to mine. Her eyes widen in fear, but as the lights settle, her expression smooths.

“Sorry,” she says, emitting a sheepish laugh. “I hate blackouts.”

I chuckle, surprised. She’s not afraid to stand naked and exposed in the middle of the room, but darkness scares her. What a fascinating woman.

“Why—” I begin, but before I can finish my words, there’s a loud boom, and the room plunges into darkness. Zinnia shrieks beside me, making me jump.

“Hey, you’re okay,” I tell her, waiting for my eyes to adjust, but from what I can tell, the entire neighborhood is out, and there’s little light to adjust to. I fumble in my pocket for my phone, remembering I left it on my desk. Shit.

Beside me, Zinnia’s breathing becomes shallow and erratic. I turn toward her, even though I can’t see a thing.

“Zinnia,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “You’re okay.”

“I’m n-not—” Her words come out stuttered and disjointed, and concern lances through me.

Fuck, she doesn’t just hate power outages, she’s on the verge of a panic attack.

I grope helplessly for something to do. Light. We need some light.

“I don’t have my phone,” I tell her, cursing myself again. “Where’s yours?”

“My bag—” She gulps in a breath. “On the sofa.”

“Okay. Why don’t I—”

“No!” she cries. Then, a second later, in a much smaller voice, “Don’t leave me.”