Page 99 of Painting Celia

She felt nothing. She didn’t, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. “Take the paintings,” she mumbled.

“What?” He squinted at her. “Are you okay?”

She faded back into the bare entry hall, and he followed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked from behind her. “I’m here. Let’s fix it.”

The paintings sat stacked in front of them, leaning on the wall, hidden in their blank white wrapping. Ready to leave.

He overtook her with a quick step and caught her hand, halting her in the echoing hallway. “Hey. Are you feeling okay?”

Feeling? Never again. She was better off numb than living through another drowned night like that.

León’s brows drew together, and he fixed her with searching scrutiny. The longer she went without reacting, the more alarmed his inspection. Silly boy, all those feelings running naked across his face.

“The blank stare?” he asked. “Why?”

Lord, don’t make me talk. “I can’t,” she said.

“Can’t what?”

Her hand wavered toward a door—craft room, studio, one of them. “Can’t paint, swim—can’t anything.”

His head lowered, and he inched closer. Couldn’t he just let her be?

“Come here,” he said quietly. His hand tightened on hers, pulling, and she didn’t have the will to pull back. He led her to the black-spattered craft room, watching over his shoulder to see if she’d resist. She didn’t.

Her little easel was still set up. Dully, head pounding, she closed her eyes and listened to León sorting brushes and uncapping paint. She knew the sounds too well to need to watch. Then he was urging a palette into her limp fingers, moving behind her, and guiding her forward with firm hands on her shoulders.

“You can do anything,” he said.

Ah. Whine like a child, nag like a shrew, and get your third painting lesson. Easy.

He would stand at her back and give prompts like before. She was too empty to paint but too dense to walk away.

“Tranquila,” he said, squeezing her shoulders. “Breathe.”

No. She was tired of this. So tired of flailing toward the sunny surface above her. The peace of giving up, of wallowing in her depths, felt right. She was stupid and ridiculous and laughable, but at the bottom, it didn’t matter. The bottom was comfortably terrible, and she fit in. The one place she fit.

No feelings. No trying. Please.

León’s arms wrapped around her waist from behind, holding her with care, his chin slipping over her shoulder to rest there.

Celia tried not to feel, but his solid body holding her close was…. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

“Paint a line, mi cielo. You, right now.”

The brush was too heavy. She just closed her eyes. Numb. Be numb.

“Are you red?” His voice, low and soothing, rumbled into her body from his. He tightened his arms around her. “Show me,” he murmured.

Show him.

She lifted the brush. Red was easiest. One listless stroke, a stuttering line on the canvas. That was her.

“What next?” he asked.

The same thing that always came next. A horizontal line above, in black, the red smearing through it. The arch above, black. Black bars connecting them.

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