Page 132 of Painting Celia

“Done.”

Ms. Cook’s chest swelled in satisfaction, and Celia’s proud little smile took his breath away.

“Fastest purchase I’ve ever made,” Ms. Cook said. “Will you keep me in mind if you do more in the series?”

León nodded mechanically, paused, then shook his head. “I will, but it’ll be a while. I’m not painting right now.”

Celia’s mouth fell open.

Her eyes dropped to his hands and widened as she realized they were clean, no streaks of color. She inhaled slowly. As her gaze lingered too long, her surprise rippled into a lovely, delicate flush that spread up her neck. Did she realize it meant he could change? Should he explain?

León realized how close he was to blurting out everything he felt, right in front of this stranger. Jesus, he’d been here for five minutes.

A knot tightened in his stomach. What would he even say? ‘Hi, I’m back, and I’ve changed.’ Ha! Why should she believe him? He needed time to show her. He had to get this right! Anxiety spiking into a sharp, sudden jolt, he forced himself to breathe. Flee, buy time, but be casual.

He shoved his hands in his front pockets, then swallowed.

“Do you have the contact details, Celia?” It was the first thing he’d said to her since walking in.

“Kelsey does,” she said, clutching her hands together.

“You can take the painting straight off the wall. There’s no packing or frame.” He watched confusion and uncertainty growing in her expression. “I’ll ask Andrew to help you deal with the others.”

Her cheeks were growing pale.

“Right, thanks,” he said to both women and turned on his heel, making the long walk back to the exit. His steps echoed in the wide silent space, and the door clanged behind him like defeat.

The chilly night seeped into him as he crossed the darkened street, away from the brilliant windows. He stopped and turned there, sure he couldn’t be seen. Pulling up his hood and burying his hands in his pockets, he shivered and stayed, watching Celia climb the ladder to take down the green painting.

He should have done that himself. He’d botched every decision tonight! How was it possible that after all his hours spent planning the right things to say, he’d barely spoken to her? Worse, within moments of seeing her, he’d envisioned her on canvas. Was he capable of control around her at all?

Inside, Celia handed down the painting. A light behind her head winked out as she moved on the ladder, the backlight igniting her hair into a halo. She was a flame lighting the room, graceful and dazzling in white. Her eyes on him tonight, her little blushes and quick breaths, gave him hope that she’d give him a chance to show he could be better.

Idiot that he was, he’d walked out, panicked and escaped again. He was really, really bad at this. He didn’t even have a way to see her again, no excuse to talk with her.

Forget having a solid plan. He just needed to see her again.

Celia looked up in genuine surprise as he opened the door and leaned in.

“I’m coming back here tomorrow.”

He ducked out, the door shut with a clarion clang, and this time he left.

Twenty Six

León rambled the empty dark streets of Boyle Heights, seeing only Celia’s face. That rush of exultation he’d felt tonight, seeing her bathed in light! He’d felt so hollow without her in New York. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—return to that emptiness.

He stopped walking. Quit that!

This all-or-nothing way of thinking was always his downfall. He couldn’t force this. She had to genuinely want him, so he had to be the kind of person she could want.

His stomach knotted. How was he supposed to manage that?

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked on, directionless.

His mother’s words echoed in his mind: help her with something she wants. That meant Incubadora. Their friends all had roles in her new world, but he had barely helped at all, back when he could paint her.

Laughter and trumpet-filled music startled him, blossoming as a bar door swung open across the street. A lively couple nearly fell out, draped over each other. “I got you, mami,” the man said, the woman giggling as her heels clicked on the sidewalk. Her tipsy, uninhibited voice clamored for dinner, a melody in Spanish as they wove their way downhill under the orange street lamps.

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