Page 70 of Painting Celia

“He just…makes me feel things.”

Thirteen

Uncounted sketches later, León finally saw movement inside Celia’s house. She emerged from her entry hall, walking loosely, dropping her purse on the couch. She’d been out socially, it looked like. The turquoise thing she was wearing…wow. Look at those curves, blue like the pool, like his painting.

He had to convince her.

She was going to skewer him, and he deserved it. He walked up to the house, to the slaughter.

She noticed him at the sliding door, illuminated by her interior lights. Her face didn’t go blank as it usually did. Instead, her eyebrows lowered, eyes narrowed, cheeks flamed red, mouth flattened to a line. León felt a mixture of pride and worry at her feeling and showing anger. And disgust. Disappointment. Hurt. Uh, not good. He was going to have to work hard to explain.

He looked a plea through the window, shocked when she came to open it rather than disappearing again.

“You stood me up,” she said flatly. “Do you have a good reason?”

“Yes and no. Yes. Please let me tell you.”

She opened up and waved him in. He was too relieved to wonder why.

She went to lean against the kitchen island in her familiar spot at the stove, but when he walked toward her, she waved him sharply to the other side. Contrite, he went where she pointed but climbed onto his knees in one of the tall stools, leaning his upper body on the island closer to her. She retreated to lean against the sink, keeping distance between them.

He drank in the sight of her. Her skin was smooth and tawny against the turquoise dress, the palette necklace’s thin chain draped over her collarbones. She stared at the floor instead of meeting his look, hair pulled back so he could clearly see her cheeks, rosy with pique all the way to her ears.

He felt irrational jealousy toward the person she’d dressed up for. It could have been him.

“You said you’d help me paint today,” she said, reaching to straighten the knobs on her stove. “It meant something to me, León.”

He hunched into his shoulders, looking up at her. She glared at the stove, refusing to meet his eyes.

“I know,” he said, uncomfortably aware that his actions had spoken louder.

“You promised,” she said quietly, throat tight.

“I ran away,” he admitted, ducking his head to try and catch her eyes. “I’m sorry, Celia. Again. I’ve been really stupid this week.”

“You’ve got that right.” She looked toward the dim hallway, maybe toward escape. “What about me is so scary that you ran away?”

“It’s not you,” he said, “it’s the painting. It scared the hell out of me this morning, and it took a while to figure out why.” He frowned, impatient for her to relent and look at him.

“You ran away from your own painting?”

“Yes.” He reached out a hand, but she pulled hers back until he withdrew. “Look, I have something big to ask you, and it’s too soon, and I don’t know how you’ll take it.”

The knobs on the stove couldn’t be straighter, but she went back to aligning them minutely, her knuckles white.

She wasn’t going to relent more than this. It was time to ask.

“Do you know what it is to be a muse?”

She finally met his eyes briefly, disgusted. “I’m not dumb.”

When she clicked a knob once more, he laid out across the island and impatiently pulled it off. He turned it over and over in his hands as her lips set into a line.

“But do you know about the relationship? It’s an artist being inspired by you, using you for their works.” He shifted again on the chair, pulling back to sit higher. “Art needs absolute transparency. Truth is hard to see in yourself, so the artist shows the truth of their muse, like holding up a mirror. It needs a lot of trust.”

Gently, he set the knob down and slid it silently to her. She didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, she leaned against the sink again and crossed her arms. The flush rising up her chest and neck told him she was only acting at being impassive.

“Trust, after today?” she asked. “You can’t seriously be asking me to be your muse.”

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