Page 15 of Painting Celia

There. Space, light, amenities. A room for creation—for a real artist. Not her.

Making up pointless tasks was exhausting.

Celia sat down on the daybed, like a doll tossed there, waiting for someone to come play with it.

You don’t have to live like that.

She was losing the battle today.

She went to lie in her bed, pretending to read. She napped off and on and tried not to think.

When she heard León arrive hours later, she got up and waved at him through the sliding glass door but retreated immediately back to bed. He’d probably be relieved she wasn’t bothering him with stupid questions.

She was ridiculous, selfish, talentless…a waste of space. Why did she think she needed a talent when she had nothing to say?

She burrowed into her bed in the dark and closed her eyes, giving in to her nightmare insides. An unpredictable looming judgment pricked at her, finished sentences for her. Be mature. Be useful. Just be normal, Celia Rose!

Well, here she was, all grown up. Dad was gone forever, Mom banished hundreds of miles north. Celia could disappear too, who would notice? Even her friends didn’t know her. She had them fooled into thinking she was a regular person. If they knew she was this worthless inside, they’d leave too.

No one was better for her being here. There was nothing the world needed Celia for. Others could give away money better. Others could cook better. Others could make art.

Art might save her. Ha! The art list had been a distraction, a diversion, a delay. It had come to a ragged end, and there was no use clutching at it. She’d hoped…couldn’t there be one original thing inside her? One thing only she had? Something she could put into art and say see, I deserve to be here too.

She gave up. The evidence of failures piled around her, the slaps and welts of wooden spoons, the dirty spite with which she’d given up language.

You don’t have to live like this, Dad said. He stretched out a hand from the bridge.

There was peace in giving up the fight, lying still, and being worthless. She could lie here until she ran out of air and light. She could follow him. What else was left to try?

“Celia? You here?”

Andrew! Back to pick up León already? He’d come in the back door.

She sat up in bed and brushed her hair quickly with her fingers. He poked his head into her bedroom to see her in the rumpled bed, curtains drawn.

“Celia.” He frowned. “Are you having a bad day?”

She nodded, caught.

Andrew had seen this before. He came in and sat on the bed, enfolding her in a hug. She let him.

It lasted a long time.

He finally patted her shoulder gently. “You’re supposed to call me when this starts, remember? We made a deal.” She nodded again, like a child. “Well, I know now. Okay if I sit with you for a while?”

“Okay,” she whispered.

He kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed with her. He sat up against the headboard, arms wide. Celia leaned into his chest, her eyes burning. She’d have to go back to trying now. His strong, brown arms closed around her, and she made an effort to back out of her hopeless place.

Quit the self-pity, Celia Rose.

“You know I like you, right?” he asked. “You know you’re important?”

Sweet Andrew. He knew the antidote. What would it be like to feel like him, generous, accepting everyone at face value? Dating him had been so easy. Low stakes, casual intimacy, fondness but no love to mess things up. Who knew why he hadn’t walked away after the romance ran dry.

“You want to tell me what started it?” he asked.

She released a shuddery breath. “It’s over,” she finally said. “The art list is done.” There. She’d admitted it.

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