Page 5 of Painting Celia

Celia watched their antics, grateful. Let Andrew and Kelsey provide the entertainment.

León was leaning forward, elbows on knees, head low. The firelight shone off that curtain of dark hair, hiding his face.

How had he known she was worried about showing off earlier? No one else had. If they had, they wouldn’t have teased, right?

When León rubbed the back of his neck and looked up, Celia sank back, deeper into the shadows. He tapped Andrew’s arm, his face damp and shiny in the firelight.

“Dude,” Andrew said, sitting up and leaning toward him. “You feel okay?”

León shook his head. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Andrew stood, holding out a hand to his friend and pulling him out of the low chair.

“I’ll show you. Anyone need anything from the house?” Andrew didn’t wait for an answer but began the walk up the lawn, shepherding León ahead of him.

“Bring my jacket!” Kelsey called.

Celia’s gaze followed as the two dimmed into silhouettes against the lit house, one tall and one…stooped over? León didn’t just want the restroom, did he? She rose to go after them.

She caught up as Andrew opened the patio door. In the light from the house, León looked pale and sweaty.

“Are you okay?” she asked. He shook his head, arms held low across his stomach. Celia and Andrew exchanged an alarmed look. León’s face had turned gray awfully fast.

“I get this sometimes from shellfish,” he said, “but….”

Celia’s stomach lurched. Shellfish.

“But we ate ribs,” Andrew said, watching her. Celia shook off the shock, putting a hand under León’s elbow and walking him to the bathroom herself.

“León, there was shrimp in the food tonight. Are you allergic?”

“Not allergic,” he muttered. “Later. I’ll tell you later.” He went in, kneeling on the floor, then kicking feebly at the door until it closed.

Andrew stared at Celia. “There was no shrimp at dinner!”

“There was,” she said. “Shrimp stock in the cabbage dressing.” Sounds from inside the bathroom got real. “León, do you need 911? An EpiPen or—”

“No,” came the muffled answer during a pause. “Not allergic. Go away, okay?”

Kelsey appeared at the back door, eyebrows arched high. Andrew propelled Celia toward her, a hand on her shoulder.

“What is going on?” Kelsey asked.

Andrew ushered both women outside onto the patio. “León’s sick. I guess he can’t have shellfish.”

Celia laced her fingers and tucked them under her chin, eyes wide. “There was shrimp stock in the dressing,” she repeated. “I should have told everyone.”

This is what came of showing off! People could die from allergies, and she was hiding ingredients in—

Andrew tapped her shoulder. “Don’t hog that responsibility, girl. I should have asked him.”

Kelsey pulled out her phone to ask the internet. “Is he allergic?”

“He said no,” Andrew told her, looking over her shoulder. A tense minute passed as Kelsey typed and scrolled, her face lit from below by her screen.

“If it’s just an intolerance, he should be all right,” she said. “The danger is if he gets hives or can’t breathe.”

“He was just sick to his stomach, I think,” Andrew said.

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