Page 28 of She’s Worth the Risk

Her brows spring up in surprise, a delighted smile curling along her lips. A laugh escapes her as she gazes at me, shaking her head.

“I’m sorry. That was… I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, no,” I say dryly, reaching for my tea again. “Please, tell me how you really feel.”

There’s a flicker in her eyes I can’t quite read, but then she blinks, and it’s gone. “I just meant…” Her breath gusts out. “You’ve seen it, right? You’ve seen the chapel in person?”

“I have.”

“And how did you feel standing inside it?”

I take a long sip of tea, watching the raindrops trickle down the window as I consider her question. My last visit to the chapel was two years ago, as part of a research grant trip. It had been raining that day too, and I remember waiting in the airlock, relieved to be out of the weather. I was jet-lagged, thinking about a train I had to catch, and not expecting much from a place I’d already seen twice.

But when I stepped into the chapel, all those thoughts evaporated. The air was cool and still, the frescoes bigger than I remembered, the clouds outside parting to let a soft shaft of light fall through the tall windows to illuminate Giotto’s masterpiece. I’m not a religious man, but being in a place like the Scrovegni Chapel can make one feel as though there’s definitely something else out there. Maybe not God as Giotto depicted it, but… something.

I think of Zinnia’s description: It just had this energy. She’s right, it did have an energy of its own. A palpable, otherworldly feeling that I’ve never even tried to put into words.

I glance back to find her gazing at me. She’s not laughing anymore, expression patient and expectant, like she’d wait all day to hear me tell her how I felt.

And it makes me want to be honest in a way I never am.

“Reverent,” I murmur. “That if there was a god, I might find him in there.”

“Mm,” she hums softly in agreement, gaze traversing my face. There’s something about the deep, searching look in her eyes that makes my jacket feel too tight, and I tug at the cuff, wanting to tear the damn thing off.

Then she clears her throat, reaching for her mug again. “Or her,” she says, and it takes me a moment to realize what she means. A grin tugs at my mouth, and I have to glance down to hide it.

“Yes,” I say, chuckling. “God could be a woman.”

When I glance up again, she’s gazing thoughtfully into her coffee. “We’ve come a long way since the 1300s. Obviously.” She laughs. “I wouldn’t give up modern medicine for anything. But…” She shakes her head, lifting her gaze to mine. “It’s kind of sad how 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. And these paintings… they were meant to be felt.”

I stare at her, heart thudding against my ribs. Her words make me feel oddly exposed, because she’s right. Artists create to make people feel, but I’ve constructed a career—an identity—by approaching art from a careful, intellectual distance.

It wasn’t always that way, I remind myself, and a dull ache stirs in my chest as I think of my sketchbooks, stuffed under the coffee table. Out of sight, but never out of mind. Zinnia doesn’t know that, of course, but she speaks as if she does.

As if she knows who I used to be.

“When I was in that chapel,” she continues, “I felt something. It was the same when I stood in front of David, or under the Sistine ceiling. I felt big and small at the same time. I felt… alive.” She holds my gaze for a long moment, that gold shimmering against the hazel in her eyes, as if Giotto had painted them himself.

How does she do that? Speak so openly, bare herself without hesitation? I think of her in life-drawing class, the way she’s never flinched as that silky robe slides to the floor, and it makes sense. It’s just who she is.

Honest. Comfortable in her skin. Someone who isn’t afraid to feel.

“Anyway.” She issues a soft laugh as she drops her gaze to her cup. “That’s my two cents. I’m sure you’ve heard enough of my rambling.”

I blow out a long breath, removing my glasses to rub my eyes. She’s wrong, and that’s the problem. Every time I’m around her, she says something that makes me pause. Does something that makes me reconsider the way I look at the world.

That makes me want to do more than just talk to her.

“I should probably set up for class,” I say, gathering my things.

She nods, hesitating for a second as if to offer to help, then seems to decide against it.

And I head back out into the rain, not sure if I’m relieved.

13

ZINNIA