Page 2 of She’s Worth the Risk

I blink, setting the snowglobe aside to pick up a weighty envelope with NYU stamped in the corner, addressed to me at Gran’s house. When I glance quizzically at Gran, she motions for me to look inside. I tear open the flap to find a letter confirming my enrollment in a summer class, Renaissance Art History: Italy & Europe, with Dr. Nicholas Sweetman, Mondays and Wednesdays, 1-3 p.m.

I frown. Seriously? She signed me up for summer school?

“Gran…” I begin, but she shakes her head, handing me another paper from the desk. It’s a small flyer from the Brooklyn Heights Community Arts Center, Figure drawing from live models, all levels welcome, Tuesday and Thursday nights, 7-9 p.m.

“It’s already paid for,” Gran says, as if this might reassure me. I open my mouth to protest again, but she adds, “You didn’t think I was going to let you sit around here all summer watching me like a hawk, did you?”

I stifle a laugh. That’s exactly what I’d planned to do, but it seems kind of silly now that I’m here and Gran is fine. Still, it stings a little. I guess I’d assumed that after all the years I’ve been away, Gran would be glad for my company.

“You don’t want to spend time with me?”

“My dear girl,” Gran says, taking me by the shoulders. “Of course I do. It’s an absolute pleasure to have you here.” Her skin is cool and leathery against mine, and she gives me a squeeze, then releases. “But you’re a young woman in the big city! You’ll be bored spending every minute with me.” She softens. “It will be good for you, Zin. You love art. Remember our trip to Italy?”

I glance at the snowglobe. She’s right, I adored that trip. Our visit to the Accademia Gallery in Florence was especially memorable, seeing Michelangelo’s David statue up close.

“You couldn’t ask for a better professor,” she adds. “Dr. Sweetman is a leading expert in the field.”

“And the life-drawing classes?”

Gran lifts a bony shoulder. “Why not? They might help you find your inner artist. Besides, I can’t have you sitting around here every night, Zinnia. I have a social life of my own, you know.”

I huff a quiet laugh. That’s true. Gran’s always been sociable, juggling time volunteering at local art galleries, going to the theater, and hosting book clubs. She’s been that way ever since my grandfather died when I was a baby. I’d assumed she might have slowed down over the years, but apparently not.

“Okay,” I concede, laughing. It’s not how I’d planned to spend my summer, but then I’d assumed I would be at Gran’s bedside nursing her back to health, so none of this has turned out how I’d imagined. “If you want me out of the house, I should find a job,” I suggest. Maybe I can pick up something temporary for a few weeks.

But Gran shakes her head, looking offended. “Nonsense. You’re my guest. You know I’ll take care of you.”

“Of course, but—”

“I won’t hear a word of it, Zinnia,” she cuts in firmly. “Use this summer for you.”

I blow out a breath. There’s no use arguing with Gran once she’s made up her mind.

“Now.” She claps her hands together. “Why don’t I get dinner started? Come down when you’re ready, and you can fill me in on everything that’s happened while you’ve been away.”

“You don’t have to…” I begin, but Gran silences me with a look, though I sense this one is less about me cramping her independence and more about her wanting to feed me.

I bite back a smile. “Alright, Gran. I’ll be down soon.”

She nods, closing the door behind her as she leaves the room, and I exhale long and slow, tossing the papers onto the nightstand.

I’m back in the city. In this room. I’d forgotten how stifling it can feel up here in the summer heat, and I tug my cotton dress over my head until I’m just in my bra and panties, then flop onto the bed. The old comforter is soft and smooth from decades of washing, and I luxuriate against it, enjoying the cool cotton against my bare skin.

My gaze finds the crack in the plaster of the old attic roof, following the contour that looks like the outline of a man’s arm. The dip of a shoulder, the curve of a bicep. I looked at that crack for hours every summer over the years, memorizing it without meaning to. When I lost my virginity to Adam Jones in tenth grade behind the bleachers, I pressed my hands to his shoulders, his arms, seeking the contours I’d already known. The sex was awful, of course, but I didn’t care. I’d never felt so alive, never felt such a thrill, and I’ve chased that feeling again and again over the years, sometimes with men I barely like, sometimes with strangers, always for the same reason: the way it makes my body feel electric.

The way it makes me forget everything but that moment.

I roll onto my side, gaze landing on the NYU envelope on the nightstand. With a sigh, I pick it up to leaf through the contents. I’m still not thrilled about being pushed into summer school, but it’s only for six weeks, and at least class doesn’t start until next Monday. I stuff the envelope into the drawer of the nightstand, putting it from my mind.

The life-drawing class, however, is ongoing, and that starts tomorrow night. I scrunch my nose at the thought of sketching some random person in a stuffy Brooklyn studio. I like to look at beautiful things, but I’m no artist. Hell, given the choice, I’d prefer to be the model.

Still, maybe Gran’s right. She doesn’t need me hovering around her twenty-four-seven when she’s clearly doing just fine. This is something to pass the time, at least.

Something to get out of my head.

The scent of Gran’s pot roast drifts up the stairs, and my stomach rumbles. I grin, tug my dress back on, and skip down the stairs.

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