Page 24 of Painting Celia

Celia vowed to put herself fully in León’s hands.

She heard the sliding door open at noon and stuffed her excitement down as hard as possible so he wouldn’t know how ridiculous she was.

“I’m in here,” she called. The room seemed smaller, the walls leaning in at her. Oh lord, this was it. She wasn’t ready.

He followed her voice into the craft room. “You have a space to paint in here? Oh, good.”

She turned to respond.

Oh my.

No hoodie for once. His worn white pants and shirt were covered in smudges of every color. His hair was tied back, but locks had come loose and been thoughtlessly pushed behind an ear. He had an orange paint smudge on his temple and yellow on his neck. He looked like a real artist.

This was a mistake. She’d be wasting his time. He’d be judging her amateur attempts with professional eyes.

Those eyes were as dark and eager as ever, scanning the supplies she’d prepared, her washable clothes, her face. He’d shaved at some point, but new black stubble framed an easy, cheerful smile.

She swallowed hard instead of smiling back and saw his expression falter.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re nervous. That’s fine. We’ll use that.”

How could he tell things like that? Could everyone tell, and just not say anything?

“I’m not nervous,” she said. “And how would we use it?” She picked up a long-handled paintbrush to turn in her hands.

León chuckled. “My dad used to come into my room and yell at me when I had trouble painting. On purpose. All so I could paint about the injustice of tyrannical fathers.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It worked, though. Strong emotions are easier to paint.”

He looked past her at her apple. “I see you know some basics. We’re not doing technique today, though. We’re going to paint a story, not objects.”

She was never going to be able to do that.

At her silence, he reached out and gave the end of her paintbrush a playful tug. His hands had paint on them, too, orange and amber. Celia saw with surprise that she had red paint across her own knuckle.

She would try. She had to.

She stepped aside and let him approach her supplies.

He started filling her palette with colors in quick, practiced motions. He handed her a brush, then stepped back, letting her approach the fresh canvas board. Then, backing off, he stood a short way behind her. Maybe a little too close.

“You’re nervous. Excited.”

She took a deep breath, looking at the canvas and not at him.

“Yes,” she admitted. It was hard to say.

“It’s a good strong emotion. Which of those colors seems the most nervous to you?”

She looked at her palette, feeling a tiny bit of panic rise. What color represented nerves?

“Faster, Celia,” he barked quietly.

His near voice made her jump. She pointed at the yellow.

“Why yellow?” he asked.

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