Page 117 of Painting Celia

“Well, not legally!”

She laughed at the distinction in spite of herself. “You’re not being serious.”

Disbelief and annoyance twisted his features, his forehead furrowing. “I’m dead serious. I’ve been asking for it this whole time.”

“And I’ve been saying I won’t say it.” He reached for her wrist, but she evaded. “Don’t get masterful,” she said. “I will be with you, but you can’t own me.”

He stared for a moment, then got up to sit on the edge of the bed.

She looked at his back, turned on her. She’d hoped desperately that he was joking or talking about painting. She’d always known he wasn’t.

“You said last night you’d help,” he muttered to the wall. “That didn’t last long.”

She sat up, staring at her folded hands on the comforter. Guilt, really? “I can’t give you that, León.”

He bent, snatching his jeans from the floor in a fierce move, swiped roughly at his face, and left the room.

She sat in shock. How had that gone downhill so quickly?

She wasn’t dumb—he obviously meant he wanted some sort of commitment, though he sure never said what kind! Were her actions not enough? Was he so insecure that he needed to hear specific words he chose?

God, he could be exhausting. He didn’t mean to be controlling or manipulative; he was just so blinded by his grandiose ideas. But the anxiety, the pressure to give in, it was too much. He had to learn that she had ideas of her own.

She got up, pulling on her robe and following. León stood at the back door, buttoning his jeans, every line of him angry. His bare shoulders tightened in the pale morning light when he saw her. His eyes were red. It broke her heart, but she had to stay strong.

“Please,” she said. “Can’t we—”

“Just let me think, okay!” He held out a hand, warding her off. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he raised pained eyes to the ceiling. She remembered one of the nicest things she’d ever heard him say.

“It’s okay, don’t be scared.”

He pinned her with an anguished stare. “It’s not okay, and I am scared! You said you’d help, Celia! I finally found my muse, and we were going to outdo Frida and Diego, move back to New York in a few years, and….” He trailed off, hearing himself.

“Incubadora is here,” she said.

He grimaced. “You said taking care of me wasn’t enough, but what do you choose instead? To take care of people you haven’t even met! What about me? What about the art we were making?”

Unfair! “You’re still painting! I pose! And you know that Incubadora is going to be my art!”

“Why are you never honest with yourself?” he railed, balling his hands into fists. “It’s just a project, the big one that will finally fulfill you, right? You’re doing the same thing as always, working instead of feeling. I’m right here, and you’re…you’re abandoning me for them.”

Celia could feel tears stinging. “It’s not just a project! It’s my purpose!”

He pointed an angry finger at her. “You’re fooling yourself, Celia Rose!”

She reeled back, the words a punch to her gut.

A bitter, wounded snarl twisted his features and he stomped past her toward the front door.

She didn’t flinch. Betrayal crackling in every limb, anger a raw flame in her chest, Celia hit her limit. If he ran out now, she would lock that door behind him, permanently.

But as she seethed, he stopped at the hallway, bare back taut, sucking in a noisy deep breath. He steeled himself and turned back to her, a silent tantrum blazing on his face.

Fierce indignation torched through her. He wasn’t going to trample her this time. “I belong to myself,” she said carefully, tightly. “Fighting me on it, that’s a deal breaker for me.”

“Deal?” He threw his hands into the air, eyes wild. “You’re the one who keeps changing the deal! First you gave me everything, and now you can barely pose.”

“That’s not true!”

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