Page 3 of Painting Celia

Celia closed her eyes, savoring the fuss and disorder. Kelsey always brought a little life into the stale house.

“I am starving, Celia,” she sang. She danced in a circle, arms wide, then closed her eyes and followed her nose into the kitchen. “Is that beef I smell?”

“It’s just ribs,” Celia said, opening the fridge. Kelsey’s preferred ginger ales were keeping cold behind the white wine.

“You made all those sides, too,” Kelsey said, crowding close behind to peek. “Potato salad? Real coleslaw! So, we’re having actual barbecue tonight? I was getting used to curry and French stuff.”

“I wanted to keep things simple.” Celia closed the door with her elbow, handing the drink off to Kelsey. “Andrew’s bringing that guy, remember.”

Simple. Ha. It had taken days to assemble this meal. She’d invented ways to fill those empty hours, toasting and hand-grinding spices, mixing vinegars for the right tang. Stupid behind-the-scenes flourishes no genuine cook would bother with. Maybe it would make the food special, though?

No one likes a show-off, Celia Rose.

Kelsey sipped the ginger ale but eyed Celia’s tightly wrung fingers. “Honey, relax,” she said. “We’ll all be here to talk to Andrew’s new guy. You can just sit back if you don’t want to join in.”

Right. Celia shook out her hands. “It’s fine,” she said. “I’m okay.”

Who would be scared of a friend of Andrew’s?

Kelsey picked up the platter of ribs to take out back. “The guys will all just talk art anyway.”

Celia shook her head. “You saw Trevor’s not coming, right? It’s just us and Andrew.”

Kelsey shrugged. “So, we’ll talk about your art list.”

The doorbell rang.

“Not my weird list, please,” Celia said as she went to answer.

She opened her front door to Andrew’s silhouette on her shady front steps, the sun on the trees behind him. Was that…cologne? He’d dressed up, and his gleaming grin widened as he saw her noticing.

“Hey, girl,” he said.

She shook her head at him with a faint smile. Charming Andrew forgot he was an ex sometimes.

A few feet behind him, overshadowed in nearly every measure, hovered this New York friend Andrew had brought.

He stood stiffly, hands shoved into the faded pockets of his loose jeans, his lived-in hoodie zipped up despite the heat. Seeing her head turn to him, he lifted his chin, his black eyes brooding and skeptical. Then, sighing, he shook his head faintly as he looked her up and down. Pulling his hands from his pockets, he ran one through unruly shoulder-length black hair and pursed his lips. The other hand he raised in a trifling wave.

Celia froze. React! Be polite!

She took too long. It grew awkward, so she just looked away.

•••

León eyed the muted woman judging him from the ornate doorway. This was who Andrew had dressed up for? This gray-clad girl?

Something about the way she wavered in the entry, hanging against the door, felt young. On closer look, though, she was a little older than him. A little shorter. Ordinary. He would never have noticed her on the street, honestly.

Her poker face was blankly skilled, though her coppery skin and tilted eyes told their own story. He watched her solemn gaze take in his half-hearted wave, then glide back to Andrew, expressionless. León almost cracked a smile—it was so silently regal. This little queen.

“Celia, this is León,” Andrew said to her, breaking the silence. He turned to León, pointing back. “That’s Celia.”

“You don’t say,” León said.

“Come in,” she said, fading back into the hall. “We’re taking the food out back.” Andrew draped an arm around her shoulder and walked with her through the plain entry, León trailing behind.

The hallway opened into a huge combined kitchen and living room, the low sun flooding through a wall of west-facing windows, painting great temporary orange triangles on the bare white interior.

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