Page 9 of She’s Worth the Risk

Even now, in public—with everyone’s clothing still very firmly on—he looks uptight as hell. I watch him annotate his papers with stiff, jerky movements, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he studiously ignores me.

Well, whatever. He obviously doesn’t want to talk.

Distracting myself, I reach for Gran’s guidebook and sip my mocha, leafing through the pages. I feast on images of Florence’s Duomo and the canals of Venice, surrounded by Gran’s illegible scrawl and notes on hidden gems we had to visit, places to find a bargain, galleries we couldn’t miss.

I pause on the chapter of the Uffizi gallery, sighing dreamily at the picture of Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus—the curvaceous woman emerging from a seashell. On Tuesday night, I was lucky enough to see a few of the sketches, and while they weren’t quite Botticelli, several of them took my breath away. I hadn’t expected to like posing so much, to enjoy being seen like that. It was surprisingly thrilling, as if I was the subject of a Renaissance painting, posing for Michelangelo’s skilled paintbrush.

As I turn the page, a photograph slides out, and I pick it up. It’s my parents and me outside a house somewhere in Wyoming. Gran had insisted I take a picture of “home” with me when we went overseas, but I don’t remember this one. Then again, there were so many houses, they blur together. Something tightens under my ribs as I stare at it, a familiar restlessness. The feeling that creeps in after I’ve been somewhere a little too long.

I slide the photo back into the book and glance out the window at the rowhouses of Fruit Street. I might not remember half the places I grew up in, but this street has always felt the same, steady and unchanging. If anything, I should have taken a photo of Gran’s house with me to Italy.

My gaze drifts to Nick sitting beside me, sipping what appears to be tea. He drinks tea. Why is that kind of adorable? I glance at his left hand. No ring, but that doesn’t mean he’s single. He strikes me as the kind of guy who does the crossword silently beside his girlfriend during breakfast, who has the same quiet missionary sex every Sunday evening without much thought. But the longer I watch him awkwardly study his notes, the harder it is to picture him with a girlfriend. My guess is he’s been single for a while.

His brow furrows as he scribbles something on the papers in front of him, and I crane my neck, trying to see what they are, but I can’t make the words out from here. His eyes lift to find me peeking, and I smile sheepishly.

“Sorry, I’m being nosy.” I chew my lip as his gaze darts away again. “What are you doing?”

He sighs, setting his pen down. “Just some work,” he says, reaching for his muffin.

My lips twitch at his vague response. He’s so tightly wound it’s almost impressive. I study him, wondering why he still won’t look at me. I can’t shake the feeling I made it awkward somehow.

“Our class on Tuesday inspired me,” I say, picking up my guidebook. “Got me thinking about my trip to Italy.”

Nick’s gaze strays to the book in my hands, almost as if against his will. “You’ve been?” he asks at length, and I smile.

“Years ago. My grandmother took me one summer.”

He gives a polite nod, finally taking a bite of his muffin as his gaze slides away, and I sense my chance at conversation slipping with it.

“Have you been?” I ask.

He nods again, not offering any information, and I press on.

“You went to the galleries, I’m assuming? Surely it would be a criminal offense for an art teacher to visit Italy without seeing Botticelli or Michelangelo.”

I’m hoping for a smile, maybe even a little laugh, but his brow furrows again. “Yes,” he says at last. That’s it.

Honestly.

“It was amazing to see David in person,” I continue. “The scale of it, the detail in the marble…” I shake my head. “Like the veins in his hand. The line of his jaw. I swear, it felt like he would come to life any second.”

Something shifts in Nick’s expression. He draws breath as if he wants to say something, but lets his mouth close again. I think back to what Gran told me on that trip, wanting to impress him.

“Most artists portrayed David victorious, post-battle,” I say, cradling my mocha. “I think it’s interesting that Michelangelo chose to depict David before the battle. All that concentration, tense and coiled, ready to spring into action. Maybe that’s what makes him feel so alive.”

Nick’s lips part in surprise. His gaze moves over my face, as if searching for something, and the intensity of it creates a flutter behind my ribs.

“And of course there’s his contrapposto stance,” I add, grinning as I emphasize the word Nick taught me on Tuesday; “counterpose” in Italian. I went home that night and looked it up.

His eyes shimmer behind his glasses. I notice for the first time they’re a muted blue, soft like denim that’s been worn and washed a thousand times. The tiniest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and my gaze falls to it, following the line of his full bottom lip.

Shit. He might be uptight, but he’s also hot.

“Did you go to the Uffizi?” he asks at last, voice a little lower than before.

A thrill shoots down my spine. A question. He asked me a question.

“I did.” I sip my mocha, trying to be casual. “Have you been?”