Page 120 of Painting Celia

Andrew gave him a disgusted look. “Jesus. Stupid.”

León rubbed a hand over his hot face. The small apartment was closing in like a vise. He needed to get out.

“The painting is over,” Andrew said quietly. “You know that, right? She’s not letting you back in there.”

No. She couldn’t….

The room spun in on him. He had to go, catch his breath outside. “Why did I come out here?” he shouted. “I wish I’d never met her!”

Andrew frowned. “You’re in love with her, stupid.”

“I know!” His throat tightened, nausea swirling up. “I screwed up. Bad.”

Andrew looked sourly at his friend. “You don’t say.”

•••

Celia sank onto her couch and stayed there, like a stone in water.

Over.

Tears surged within her. Clutching a pillow to her face, she smothered the storm’s voice, her sobs soaking into the fabric in a muffled flood.

It felt like hours passed before she ran out of tears. She lay like a wet rag, limp and empty. Then, sniffling, hiccupping, she wiped her face.

She’d always known something would ruin this life with León—probably something she did. And she’d been right. She’d never given him all of her trust, not the way he wanted. She wasn’t capable of it. But then, he’d never listened to her. He’d always wanted what he wanted and pushed until he talked her into it. That was over now.

Her tongue probed the small cut on her lip that had shocked her back to her senses. It still tasted of copper.

To claim he loved her, right then! Even if it were true, it wasn’t fair to drop that bomb just to win the fight. And how dare he kiss her like that? She could still feel the heat of his mouth, his hand pushing her robe away, baring her. Her skin prickled at the memory of her body betraying her. She’d wanted madly to be manhandled, to relent and submit.

Too bad for them both—she was done being trampled on.

He’d have to come to get his stuff. He had boxes and boxes of gear, so much more than he’d moved into the pool house with. She’d watch it all be carried out, final, gone for good. Her heart ached at the thought, the hollow echo of his absence in every corner of her home. Her bed would be empty, her floors free of paint.

Now she only had Incubadora, named by someone who’d probably never set foot in it. She’d ruined everything with her new backbone. What good was ‘no’ if it lost you so much?

How can you be so selfish, Celia Rose?

Because no one fights for me like I need them to. It’s up to me.

Her phone began quietly chiming as Kelsey and Trevor checked in on the group chat. Word was out. Celia said she would talk later, when she was ready.

The sun slowly set, the room’s shadows growing long and then merging into uniform darkness. She didn’t eat, turn on lights, or move from the couch.

She sat in the darkness, and she didn’t spiral.

Andrew called after sunset. She felt more ready now, and heard surprise in his voice when she picked up.

“Hey, are you doing okay?”

She swallowed, her voice a raspy shadow of itself, throat thick from wallowing in tears. “I’m surviving.” She couldn’t help asking. “Is he there, listening to this?”

“No.” His unsettling pause went a fraction too long. “Celia, he’s gonna be gone for a while.”

“Until late?”

“No, for a while. Like, a few days. Maybe weeks, I’m not sure.”

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