Page 142 of Painting Celia

León’s blood boiled. How dare she? She had no power over Celia anymore.

“She doesn’t belong to you,” he shouted back.

He watched until she retired around the corner, his breath puffing into mist in the chilly air, his racing heartbeat gradually calming.

Of course Celia belonged to no one but herself.

Idiota.

He screwed his eyes shut and scrubbed a hand over his face. “God dammit,” he muttered, then hastened back inside.

Celia was sitting in the chair, eyes closed and arms crossed tightly around herself as if she were cold. Kelsey was bent over her, whispering. She looked up at his entrance.

“She feels guilty.”

León briskly rounded the front desk, dropping to a knee on the cold floor in front of Celia. “She’s gone. Are you okay?”

She nodded, opening eyes to him that were shadowed but not shattered. He felt deep in his chest the slight hunch of her shoulders, a curve of containment and self-protection, weary lined from past battles.

He would give anything to be allowed to put his arms around her right now. “What do you want?” he asked instead, in a low voice just for her.

“To go upstairs.” Her brimming hazel eyes swept his concerned face, the yellow overhead lights reflecting in unshed tears. “Alone.”

León and Kelsey exchanged wary glances.

Kelsey scratched her ear. “Celia, I don’t know.”

With a tiny shuddery sigh, Celia turned a sunflower face up to Kelsey, a private smile barely touching her lovely lips. “I’m okay. I’m proud of myself.”

Kelsey placed a light hand on her shoulder with a sad smile.

León stood, straightened, shoulders squared. “She wants to be alone. Can we stay down here, Celia?”

She nodded, some of the tension melting from her shoulders.

Reina.

They watched somberly as she climbed the black iron stairs. It felt uncomfortable, but she said she was okay. They had to trust her.

•••

Hands shaking as the adrenaline wore off, Celia centered herself on her bed, the mattress embracing her troubled weight with a comforting sigh. She wrapped herself in the new blue comforter and exhaled a breath she’d been holding for many silent years.

The quiet of the half-furnished loft cradled her, her home-in-progress, the low buzz of the enveloping city a humming cocoon. She brought fistfuls of blanket up to her chin and stared, unseeing, across the room. She was alone here, safe. She could make the decisions she wanted and no one could judge her. She could feel guilt, or joy, or anything she chose.

Weak sunbeams breaking through the clouds reflected off the polished floor, brightening the warm brick around her. She’d said no! They’d all heard her! She had people who lifted her up now. She was happier! That was proof that she’d done the right thing…wasn’t it?

She wasn’t finished with her mother forever—she would never be truly finished. But she had chosen to protect herself in the loudest way she could. No! Like a toddler, No! It was selfish and she deserved to say it. For the first time since she was a cowering eight-year-old, Celia had the power to refuse.

It was done.

The wave of relief and empowerment receded as sorrow seeped in, a cold draft sneaking through unseen cracks, a callow trickle that traced the enormity of what she’d done. The walls around her, her safe place named for an incubator, began to crack under the pressure. Sunlight faded again behind the clouds, and sour guilt and sorrow rushed in its wake.

Why, Mom? Why did I have to burn our bridge?

I just want you to love me.

Tears flooded her, wet and messy. Her nose dripped, her eyelids swelled, her throat stuck as she drew a thick open-mouthed breath. Pain warred with pride, relief with rejection. Her gut cramped as a sob built. It burst from her, raw with power and bile and release.

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