Page 147 of Painting Celia

“I felt like I gave enough,” she said, and his heart stopped.

Felt? Gave? Past tense? What else did he have to offer her if his long-overdue apology was passed over?

She fixed him with a straight look. “Why did you come back like this?”

Her unexpected question was punctuated by another growl of thunder. His mind blanked, and suddenly León could only see her fingers curled around the bottle, the delicate goosebumps on her coppery forearms. He swallowed, fumbling for any thought.

“Really,” she pressed. “Why are you helping me like we’re just friends?”

His knee began bouncing as he averted his face, pretending to look at the windows. Rehearsals for this question had never gone well in his head, and this one counted.

Truth, just give her the truth. “I couldn’t think of any other way to be near you. I hoped I could show you I’m different.”

He looked back. Even in the dim light, Celia’s cheeks burned with bright red spots.

León reached for the neck of the wine bottle, and she pulled her hands away to give him space to take it. He tipped it up to his lips, partly for courage and partly to stall. Still, she sat silent.

“I know,” he said, painfully aware of what was at stake. “I promised it before. ‘I’ll do better, one more chance.’” He snorted. The audacity he’d had! “But I learned. I’m listening. You see it, right? No more ego or demands about posing.”

A light slowly dawned in her eyes.

“That’s why you’re not painting.” Her forehead creased. “You think it was about the painting?”

“It was about me getting my way,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “I know that. But the painting is part of it. I thought…Celia, I thought if I could make art, authentic art, it excused everything else. My parents’ help, your work, I would deserve it if I could really paint.”

Her face swam in his eyes, dizzying adrenaline plunging through him. Please, Celia. Please.

“León, your art never had anything to do with it,” she said softly. “The posing, the cooking, it wasn’t for the paintings. It was for you.”

He groped for his chest, fingers splayed, and drew a breath as the world regained its dark balance.

She’d looked at him with that gentleness before, across the kitchen island, in the pool. His shoulders actually twitched as he stopped himself from reaching for her. Wait. Breathe. Tranquilo.

•••

His corded forearms and tense neck didn’t frighten Celia. They were familiar signs, this coiling León did before pouncing. She watched him restrain himself but not relax.

The heat spreading through her had nothing to do with wine. He wanted her still. Could it be up to her to say yes? Was she the one to decide?

“Painting clouded everything,” he said low. “I stopped so I could see, and the picture was rotten. I was so entitled. Now I’m just, I don’t know, some guy on your crew. But a better guy, maybe.”

His chin drooped, fingers balling into fists in his lap. His breathing was shallow. Hers matched it.

“You were always a good guy, León,” she said. “That first painting lesson you gave me, I’ll never forget how kind you were that day.” She waved toward the black room. “You came back here tonight and listened to me whine about being scared. I do know that my feelings matter to you.”

“Matter?” he exploded.

She sat back in surprise as his chair squawked back and he shot to his feet. He pointed that damn finger at her.

“I’ve begged to know your feelings! I kept telling you, I want to paint everything inside you! I’ve at least been clear about that!”

She stood as well, breaths coming harder, but not wary like in the past. She knew him. This was León at peak expression, all his whipcord drama frustrated. That illicit thrill ran up her spine. Finally, truth.

“You always held back on me,” he gritted. “Always.”

“I know.” There. Some truth back.

He clutched the back of the chair, knuckles white. “Why? What did I do?”

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