Page 93 of Painting Celia

“You weren’t wrong, though. You paint, and I do laundry.”

“Maybe we have different talents, but we both do what we’re good at.”

Motion outside through the glass door caught León’s eye. Kelsey. She’d clapped a hand to her forehead, eyes closed, clearly lit by the lights inside.

“No,” Celia said quietly. “Being good at laundry isn’t a talent, León.”

He pressed his lips into a tight line. “I don’t mean it like that. There’s a lot of organization in making a home. It’s comfortable here. You have skill, and it shows.”

“Millions of women can do that,” Celia said. “But tomorrow, you get to show your work to a bunch of people who will talk about emotions and honesty. No one does that for a clean house.”

What was she after here?

León reached for her chin to turn her face to his, but she resisted, shaking her loose curls so they hid her face.

“Cielito,” he fumbled. “What if I told you more often what I like about it?”

“It’s not you.” She pleated and unpleated the belt on her dress with limp fingers. “I need something else, something I’m really great at that tells people who I am.”

“Not everyone gets that, Celia.”

Outside, Kelsey dropped her head in her hands. That sliding door wasn’t completely closed! Eavesdropper.

“I can’t settle,” Celia insisted, her body shivering against his, her voice creaking. “I don’t know how to explain. It’s too big.”

“What do you want me to say here? You’re talented, your cooking alone—”

“I can feed the people with actual talent, but…León, listen, I need more! I can’t just keep a stupid house!”

“There is nothing stupid about that!” He loosened his arms, turning toward her. “My mother worked hard to make a home and support her kids, so we could go out and do more than she got to! It’s…it’s noble!”

Outside, Kelsey groaned, “Oh good god.”

León shot a glance toward the sound as Celia stiffened in his arms.

“No wonder you feel so comfortable here,” she spat.

What?

León released her and bounced to his feet. “What’s wrong with that?”

Her frustrated face, red and naked, turned up to him. Her eyes finally met his, flashing mutiny.

“I don’t want to be noble!” she cried. Her spine went painfully straight. “It’s true. The only thing you have to do is paint and fuck the model!”

“I didn’t say that!” The edge in her voice slashed through him.

She stood to face him, hands curled into fists. “I have to make art. I have to do something!”

“Celia,” he said carefully. This was going incredibly wrong. He reached for her, but she backed adroitly out of range. “You don’t have to make art to be special. You are special. You are art.” He waved his hand at the paintings stacked in the hallway. “You literally are the fucking art!”

She crossed her arms across her stomach. “It’s not mine. Something has to change.”

No. No!

“I knew you wouldn’t like it,” she said. Angry tears brimmed in her eyes.

Raising a hand to his forehead, he heaved a painful breath. “All because I made a stupid joke?”

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