Page 121 of Painting Celia

“What?”

“He got a plane this afternoon. He flew back to New York.”

The chilled hole in her heart, the empty vacuum in her house, exploded to blanket the whole city. The whole continent.

“This hit him hard, Celia. Scary hard. I think he could have run there, he was so manic.”

She’d lived through this before. He’s gone, they told her.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“So you could chase him to the airport? You told him to get out. Did you not mean that?”

“I meant it.” A sharp pain twisted in her chest. It hurt. Bad. “I didn’t want it, but I meant it.”

“Maybe it’s better that he went.”

The stillness of the room seemed to hold its breath with her. She didn’t have any tears left, but for a moment, her throat was too tight to speak. “Thanks,” she whispered. She put her phone back on the table.

León had left everything behind, his biggest panicked escape yet. That stupid, dramatic artist.

She hated it, but she’d been right.

Twenty Three

León arrived empty-handed on his parents’ doorstep, and they made up the guest room. It was pure luck that no uncles or cousins were visiting. Space would have been found, regardless. León, the family’s artistic itinerant, had turned up before when sales didn’t keep up with rent.

He told his parents that Los Angeles was great, that he’d already been in one show. The painting had been going well. He’d sold one. He had six completed pieces that were some of his best work. More were in progress. Andrew said hi.

He said he was back in New York to see some friends, and they didn’t ask questions. By day he stayed out of the apartment, and nights, he spent in his room. He could hear discussions about himself if his mother didn’t have music playing.

“He’s too thin. He barely eats.”

“He brought no paints. He must plan to go back.”

“No paints? He brought no clothes! I think he’s run from something there.”

“Surely not, mi vida. Surely he’s outgrown that.”

“It’s a girl.”

“Probably, yes.”

A girl, ha! He’d lost everything he wanted in life. Muse, career, love, identity.

He spent the first week trying desperately to not think at all, walking the length of the city.

The city was wrong, different. He saw only grays in the sky and pavements and river. Thin muffled crowds, faces hidden by scarves, veered past him with winter boots echoing. Even in the parks, lingering leaves fell in isolation, drifting slowly to the cold earth one by one.

No one made eye contact as they did in Los Angeles. Sunsets were invisible behind low clouds and looming buildings. Here, a layer of sooty grime climbed up. There, a dusting of dun spread wide.

He’d fled back to the familiar, but it was all changed because he was changed.

He tried to exhaust himself on his walks. The more mind-numbing, the better. It was futile, as he thought of everything in terms of painting, and now painting meant Celia. He could ignore the gray and the cold, but too often, a stab of color reminded him of his loss.

Mannequins in store windows held clean-lined poses. Black graffiti on a white wall sat waiting to be painted over. A woman on the subway wore a coat of bronze and green.

Just walk on by, look at the next thing, don’t think.

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