Page 72 of Painting Celia

She realized his breath was coming fast and shallow. Hers too.

“I don’t know why,” he said. “I just know it’s you.”

Her body answered with a slow, hot burn.

Her head needed to rule, though. She needed time to think. Telling him everything she felt for months? Was he going to be this mercurial and intense the whole time? Did he even deserve it after today? There were too many questions.

He was waiting impatiently for her assent, breath held. The compulsion she felt to just agree was daunting, but she would not be bullied into this. She would decide for herself.

“Maybe,” she finally said.

His eyes widened. “Maybe?”

“I need to think.”

He flinched, color draining from his cheeks. “You need to think?!”

He fell back a step, staring at her. His brows lowered, jaw dropping. He was shaking his head, his shoulders squaring to face her.

Careful, her body thrummed. She tensed, poised.

León’s hands raised, fingers raking through his hair, but he winced as the clip light still in his hand tangled and caught. With a frustrated cry, he turned and threw the light into the darkness of the pool house. It clattered loudly across the floor.

Celia lurched backward. “Don’t!” she gasped.

He turned pained eyes back to her and saw her cower. “You don’t understand,” he groaned. He wilted in front of her, hanging his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes and forehead.

“León,” she breathed.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He’d clearly thought she would agree. As she watched warily, he moved to the daybed and sank onto it.

“Why do you have to know right now?” she asked, fingers clasped tightly in front of her. “There’s time, right?”

He exhaled heavily, running his hands through his hair successfully this time. “I’ve been searching for this kind of inspiration my whole life,” he said. “If you won’t help, it’s over.”

She shook her head, not understanding.

“I’ll have to go home,” he continued, “find something else to do with my life.”

She sidled a step forward, still alert. “I don’t see why you’d have to give up painting.”

He raised an imploring face to her. “I’m not going to find inspiration like you again. I’ve been looking!” He pressed his hands against flushed cheeks. “My parents gave me this chance, and I’ll fail them. This means everything.”

He looked so desolate that she sat next to him gingerly. She never could see someone beaten without wanting to help, and this was…him. León.

“Your parents will still love you, right?” He wouldn’t meet her eyes, shoulders hunched, uncharacteristically still. She leaned in. “You’re more than just a painter, you’re their son. You’re kind and thoughtful. You care.”

He shook his head silently. Celia still didn’t understand his conviction but empathized with his despair. That feeling she recognized.

When she was low, Andrew’s antidote was to tell her he liked for who she was. Could she do the same? How would he react?

She braced herself and tried to find truth.

“I would like you even if you didn’t paint, León. I’m…I’m sad to see you doubt yourself.” Her throat ached from the tension, her hands trembled. The risk of putting this into words! Her whole body quailed, vulnerable. “I like you when you’re just you. You’re more than a painter to me.”

•••

León hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted to hear that—from anyone—until she said it. Painting was what made him special, excused his worst behavior. Without it, he’d just be lousy, egotistical León.

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