Page 150 of Painting Celia

Kelsey came up behind her. “Oh ho, did he finally stop playing?”

Celia shook her head, unwilling to look away from her love. “We talked,” she said.

León’s smile drew her like a magnet, and she was walking to him before she realized. He met her halfway, sliding arms around her waist and beaming as he leaned in for a kiss. Celia felt the room melt away.

Kelsey shrieked.

Trevor turned at her squawk, then chuckled and snapped a few photos of the couple. Andrew poked his head out of the classroom, hands covered in wet clay. He grinned.

“Good god, it’s about damn time!”

•••

Celia had never been this happy in her entire life. Week after week, new joys were added.

Their loft could have become a creative clutter, but León and Celia worked together to contain the inherent messiness of inspiration. His studio space by the windows blossomed with colors and textures while her kitchen bubbled with simmering aromatics and nourishment. The two hearts of their apartment wrestled and danced in beautiful chaos. He cleaned when paint strayed outside its confines, and she accepted that art was messy. Across their bare brick walls, their story unfolded as one painting at a time was added.

Three more residents moved in, giving Hector his first roommates. Howard, a musicologist down from San Francisco, fused hip-hop with Chinese traditional melodies. Shmuel was a young local man who made multimedia installations. And Sengdaloune, a local Laotian woman, welded metal sculptures piece by tiny piece. The electrical system was put to the test by her equipment and passed. People walking by began to notice the art being created in the large windows, the welding, in particular, attracting attention. The small sales gallery in the front grew slowly, and one metal sculpture was sold.

The following week, Andrew had his first full classroom. Suddenly, small round pots took over the back of the space as they dried. The kiln on the top floor ran daily, and everyone was glad for the dumbwaiter to take the pieces up three flights.

Hector began inviting friends in for impromptu painting sessions, then asked if he could officially teach a class. He knew his style and could show anyone how to try it themselves. Celia sat in on a session so she could make something awful.

León tried to keep a straight face when he poked his head in. “You can do everything but paint,” he teased.

She swiped up a drip of spray paint with one finger and drew a stripe on his wrist. “You just don’t get my style, mi lienzo.”

His laugh distracted the whole class.

In the next month, five more residents moved in. Celia cooked dinners when she could but found the residents taking over the job on their own. They enjoyed the sense of community when cooking and eating together. Celia and León sometimes joined them, the communal table barely able to seat everyone. Conversations flew, jokes peppered with words in different languages. Food and stories were exchanged, and some nights León had to hold Celia afterward as she cried, overwhelmed by happy tears.

Two more classes started, led by residents who discovered that guiding others in the creative process sparked inspiration for their own pieces. Hector had initiated the tradition, and although Celia attempted to dissuade residents from shouldering extra responsibilities, the classes unexpectedly amplified everyone’s work.

León’s parents were invited to come visit.

Celia had one of her rare panics, trying to make everything better than perfect. She failed, but they were still impressed, being led over the warehouse from top to bottom. León was bursting with pride, his father teasing him about his luck.

Dinner simmering on the stove, Celia sat on a yellow couch next to León’s mother, sweat pricking at her palms. It was harder to make conversation when there wasn’t a task she could retreat into, but surely she could do this.

León’s mother studied Celia for a moment before speaking. “León has changed since he met you. He seems to have found his place in the world.”

Celia smiled bashfully, feeling the edges of her anxiety soften. “He changed me a lot, too.”

As if on cue, León’s laughter, accompanied by his father’s, floated from the other side of the room, and Celia felt her heart swell with affection.

“I’m glad you forgave him,” his mother continued. “Leónito can be dramatic.”

Celia chuckled at the understatement, her tense back starting to ease.

His mother smiled gently. “It was past time he learned to think of someone besides himself.”

As if on cue, León’s eyes sought Celia from across the room. His beaming face started a warm flush up her neck and into her cheeks.

“And I see that now, he does,” León’s mother continued. “Our family is always close, even when distance separates us. Now we include your place, your town, in our hearts.”

The approval unlocked something astounding deep within Celia. She had no words for it. Feeling the pull to straighten a couch pillow or go check the food, she started to rise. Then she paused and sank back. She couldn’t be so unkind as to run off after that.

“Thank you,” she said, clasping her hands to hide the faint trembling.

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