Page 19 of She’s Worth the Risk

“Sounds good,” I reply, watching them leave.

But I’m not sure if I’ll be here when they do.

9

NICK

By the time I push through the glass doors of the Museum of Modern Art—or MoMA, as it’s more commonly known—my clothes are damp with sweat. It’s a relief to step into the cool, climate-controlled foyer, and I take a moment to breathe in the crisp air, loosening the button on my jacket.

I hadn’t planned to walk here, but after a restless morning in my office, I paced across town in the heat, mind racing. My words to Zinnia, after yesterday’s class, play on a loop in my head, followed by her shocked silence as I strode from the lecture hall. I was harsher than I’d intended, but when she approached the lectern with her bright smile and warm energy, I panicked. I snapped at her and shut her down.

But what was I supposed to do? Link arms with her and skip through the halls, gabbing about Italy?

Besides, I tell myself, as I flash my membership pass at the front desk and head for the stairs, what I said was true. We’re not friends. Before yesterday, at a push I would have called us colleagues, but now even that isn’t accurate. We’re professor and student, and there are very clear boundaries.

Boundaries I’ve already violated by thinking about Zinnia in ways I shouldn’t.

I grimace as I recall pulling up her student file yesterday after class. She’s older than most undergrads, but still younger than I thought. It was bad enough to let myself picture her the other night when I thought she was the thirty-year-old model from life-drawing class, but knowing she’s twenty-five and my student? Fuck. This is why I don’t let myself indulge desire. I need to regain some sense of control before my carefully constructed life comes crashing down around me.

I shove the thoughts away, taking the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor. There’s a Jackson Pollock painting I’m here to see as part of a research paper I’m currently working on, examining the through line from early narrative art to modern abstraction. It’s not due for months, but I figured getting out of the office—and out of my head—might help.

Being firm with Zinnia was the right thing to do. It was one thing when we were in a brownstone in Brooklyn, but it’s another thing entirely on campus. She needs to know there are lines there we cannot cross, and once I quit life-drawing class tonight, that will make it abundantly clear. We’ll only see each other in my lectures, and everyone will know their place. That’s why I had to shut her down yesterday. It was best for everyone.

But that doesn’t explain why guilt has shadowed me ever since I walked from that lecture hall.

I weave my way across the fourth floor, searching for the painting I need: Pollock’s One: Number 31. Turning the corner, I come face to face with the piece, slowing my steps. There’s no missing the massive canvas, splattered with paint in shades of black, white, teal, and brown. It takes up an entire wall, so immersive it’s like you’re standing inside the painting itself. I step closer, the tangled drops of paint making my eyes hurt.

This is why I prefer Renaissance work. It’s structured and clear. Controlled and disciplined, following strict rules of composition. Everything makes sense.

But this… this is the opposite of that. Impulse. Chaos. Feeling.

I study the marks on the canvas, looking for patterns, shapes. There has to be some sense to it, surely. Some logic, some reason.

But the longer I stare at it, the more I see a reflection of myself. A tangle of messy sensations and thoughts, my sense of order gone.

I scowl at the painting, resentment burning in my gut. It’s all fine and good for Pollock, but I need structure. Composure. Those are the principles I’ve built my career on. My life on. And somehow, Zinnia Sinclair has upended those in only a few days.

She’s turned me into a fucking Jackson Pollock painting.

And I don’t like it.

My jaw tightens, and I turn away, hardening my resolve. The sooner I quit life-drawing class, the better.

I’m late to that evening’s class, for no reason other than avoidance. I know that the minute I walk through the door, Zinnia will be smiling and effervescent—not to mention naked—and I can’t face it.

I can’t face her.

The first thing I notice when I finally force my feet up the front steps of the community arts center is June, anxiously wringing her hands. The second thing I notice is the heat in what is usually a comfortable, air-conditioned space.

“There you are, Nicholas!” A relieved smile etches its way into her weathered features. “I was worried you might have decided not to return.”

Guilt worms through me. “Not at all, June. Apologies for my tardiness.” I hesitate, reminding myself of what I have to do. “But I would like a quick word after class tonight, if that’s okay?”

“Of course.” She leans closer, wincing. “I should warn you, though, the air conditioner is on the fritz.”

I nod politely, as if I hadn’t noticed.

“I can’t get the technician out here until tomorrow, so I’m afraid it’s going to be a hot one tonight.”