Page 131 of Painting Celia

León was outside on the street. He’d been rushing to get to the warehouse but stopped when he saw inside the windows.

Celia.

She was wearing white and it stopped him in his tracks, arrested by the long-missed sight of her, glowing in the vast room like a beacon.

As always, he longed to paint her, to remember this moment so he could recall it later. He’d vowed to not paint her at all, not until he could be sure he could do it without the possessive feelings. But seeing her, now…he would paint her in blacks, grays, and whites. Darkness around her, but the world lit up by the woman standing, shining, in the center.

Slowly he became aware of the room around her. The buyer was there, and all of his paintings were hung for display. She hadn’t needed to do that. Celia, his radiant Celia, was gently speaking about them in turn, more relaxed than she usually was in public. She had more confidence.

He had to go inside, but he just wanted a few minutes to drink in the sight of her. He was dreading seeing her expression when she saw him. What would it be? Happiness? Anger? Or worse, nothing at all?

By the time they stopped at the blue painting, he had himself more under control. The sight of her selling his painting to this stranger made up his mind. He had to stop it.

•••

“This one was at night, floating in a pool.”

“So, it is water? There are a lot of possible interpretations. I think that’s why I like it so much. It feels honest, like the artist really felt each stroke.”

“He was describing this one to me before he even started.”

“That’s usually a good sign.”

Celia’s heart hitched at the sharp metallic click of the door latch, spinning to face it. With a whispered whoosh, the doorway swung out, its opening almost like a drawn breath, filling the room with an anticipatory silence.

León walked in.

She drank in his familiar form—a little thinner, maybe, a little more ragged. His black hair was tucked behind his ears, his jaw unshaven. He wore the same black hoodie and faded jeans, had the same way of leaning forward and stalking toward her. His serious eyes had the same riveted focus, seeking out hers and trying to read everything she was thinking and feeling.

Her heart was going to burst.

•••

León watched her come secretly alive. She’d look composed to most, but he knew her. The slight hopeful upward tilt of her eyebrows, the slow intake of breath, that minute baring of her neck in his direction. She wasn’t angry. The knot in his throat faded, only to be replaced by a pounding rush from his heart.

He saw her cheeks redden and felt a fierce heat on his own. As he closed the distance, Celia waved a hand to the buyer, still watching his approach. “León. This is Jaime Cook.”

He managed to look at the other woman briefly as he joined them at his paintings, but his eyes were drawn back to Celia’s far too quickly. His heart lurched as she reeled him in, electricity flowing through the few feet between them. His Celia!

His? The familiar cold pain stopped him. She wasn’t his. The gulf between them was real.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Ms. Cook said. “You have something special here.”

“Thanks,” he said, throat dry. He’d like to get this done so he could talk to Celia. He sneaked a quick look at her. She dropped her eyes to the ground.

“I hope you’re still working together,” the woman said. “It would be a shame to only get five paintings out of this partnership.”

“Six,” León muttered. He drew a deep breath and turned to the other woman. “One sold.”

“I’ll give you five thousand for the blue painting.”

Celia inhaled in surprise.

León felt a tug in his chest, looking at the tender, vivid blue canvas that held so much of them. “I can’t,” he said. “Maybe someday.”

Ms. Cook shrugged. “Three for the green and two for the red?”

He ran his hand through his hair, looking down the wall at his depiction of the garden goddess. This decision didn’t claw at his heart the same way.

---