Page 45 of She’s Worth the Risk

I drag my gaze back to hers, breath turning shallow. Maybe I’d thought she’d laugh at me, or tell me it wasn’t a big deal. Whatever I’d expected, it wasn’t this. Her sitting with me, listening, hearing, seeing what I’m not saying.

Not turning away.

But that’s Zinnia, isn’t it? I think of her describing the chapel, the way she said, I felt something… big and small at the same time. I felt alive.

She’s not afraid to feel.

And suddenly all I can do is feel. Grief for the years I’ve lost, not drawing. Anger at Marcus for taking that from me. Pure admiration for this woman in front of me.

And desire.

So much fucking desire for her. To kiss her, undress her slowly, find out what it’s like to feel with her.

My gaze falls to her lips, full and plump and pink, wondering what she’d taste like. They part ever so slightly, inviting me in, and she leans closer, as if in confirmation. Her eyes search mine, bottomless and aching, and compelled by a force beyond my control, I lean in too.

The flicker of the lights makes us freeze. I blink, disoriented as they come back on, illuminating the room in bright, harsh light.

Shit.

We lurch apart, my pulse spiraling.

Was I about to kiss her? I’ve lost my mind.

I glance outside, noticing the storm has calmed.

We can leave.

Rising, I blow out the candles. I can’t look at Zinnia as I stiffly tug on my jacket, and she grabs her bag.

“Well… goodnight,” she says, and I nod, swallowing.

“Goodnight.” I want to tell her to get home safely, maybe even to offer to walk her, but I don’t trust myself with words right now.

Instead, I let her slip out the door into the night.

19

NICK

That night I get home and head straight to the shower. I’m not proud of it, jacking off to the thought of Zinnia again, but Ruth was right. I’m only human.

And it gives me the clarity I need.

I devote the weekend to a complete mental reset, putting in extra hours at the gym, working on my research paper, spending a long afternoon at the Met to prepare for an upcoming field trip. By the time Monday morning rolls around, I feel clearer.

We were in an unusual situation during that storm. Stranded in the community arts center alone, nothing but the flickering of candlelight and the beating of rain on the windowpanes for company. Of course the situation got weird. Blackouts are always unsettling, like a parallel universe that’s close to reality but far more eerie, where time is suspended, and the usual rules don’t apply.

That’s the only reason I can think of for why I shared the truth about Marcus and my sketchbook. Why I let Zinnia touch my arm.

Why I leaned in.

I keep thinking about what she told me, that she’ll be gone by Labor Day. At first I was taken aback—disappointed, almost—but the more I think about it, the more relieved I am. It’s what’s best for both of us.

I just need to get a hold of myself. No lingering after life-drawing class. No more visits to Joe’s, chatting over coffee. I’ll do only what’s required of me, keep my head down, and I’ll be fine. The summer semester ends in three weeks, two if you don’t count this one, then Zinnia will be out of my life—out of the city—and life can return to how it should be.

By lunchtime on Monday, I’m itching to get out of the office. I’ve been cooped up for hours working on my research paper, so some fresh air will do me good. Grabbing a sandwich from a nearby cafe, I find a bench in Washington Square Park and sit, closing my eyes, listening to the laughter and chatter from people nearby, the sound of the fountain, letting the warmth of the sun wash over me.

Everything will be fine, I tell myself, and for the first time in weeks, I believe it.