Nine
Andrew’s loving was practiced, familiar, and it felt wonderful to be touched after so long. He was generous in bed, as he always had been. His sensitive brown hands slipped around her curves as though she were clay, his velvet murmurs urged and enveloped and celebrated.
However, the beer, food, and sex had him deeply asleep after an hour. Celia lay awake, skin sweaty and muscles pleasantly sore. Her bed felt too hot, her head too full now that she had time to think back over the evening.
Opening up with Kelsey felt good. Why had she avoided it? Why had she picked friends who let her stay locked up out of respect? León may be blunt about things, but he was good for her. A catalyst. A friend. She was learning more than painting, definitely.
Being honest with herself felt good too. When Andrew hinted at staying over, he took her ‘no’ with his usual good humor. She rarely considered that she might enjoy having him stay. Tonight she’d done what she felt like doing; León would be proud that she’d let her feelings guide her. Well, it wasn’t really his business, but she could be vague and not give specifics. He’d be pleased with her progress.
Wide awake, Celia gently slipped from the bed. Andrew would sleep like a rock, but she’d get a drink of water or maybe step outside to cool off.
···
León tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Completed studies littered the daybed around him, maybe twenty charcoal sketches, attempts at replicating the organic curve that had fired his imagination. Andrew’s little sculpture had done its job.
It was the arch of the back, he’d discovered—right where her hip swelled into that curve of her waist, flowing over her ribcage and up.
He’d gotten the curve onto canvas, though. Where the painting would go next, he didn’t know. The arch itself was the crucial shape. He looked at it again, scrolling up like the stem of a wine glass flowing to the bowl, a tendril of smoke curling lazily to the ceiling. It could be anything as long as he captured the line.
He turned the statue again, viewing the front. Maybe that curve under the ribs, that shape just at the front of her hip. That one had potential too. He picked up the charcoal again.
···
Celia opened the sliding door of the house, the mild air refreshing her sweaty skin. She left the door open to let the house breathe in some of the coolness.
She’d pulled on her robe but hadn’t bothered dressing. She wouldn’t be outside long. After checking that the fire was out, she walked to the pool’s edge, looking over the city lights, sipping her glass of cold water.
She felt good, unafraid for once to think instead of keeping busy. Just standing, being, feeling better than she had in days. León was right: if one paid attention to one’s body, actual sensations accompanied feelings. She’d ignored them for so long that the warmth and lightness inside her were a surprise.
Maybe she would get into the pool and float for a little while.
She turned her head to look at the house. No lights shone other than the usual low ones in the living room. Andrew would sleep until morning. He knew her bed; he was comfortable there.
Turning the other way to view the pool house, Celia saw the lamp shining behind the shades but no shadows, no movement. León was either absorbed or asleep.
He kept himself closeted inside much more than she’d expected. Was he happy when he was inside, creating? How did he feel when he made real art? He’d said the whole point was honesty between the painter and the viewer. But how did one paint honesty? How could it be drawn, or sculpted, or sung?
León had praised what he called her emotional story, her silly childlike lines of color. How could she do it again, better? What truth did she have to tell?
The question stumped her. He’d stopped helping her right when she was beginning to understand.
She decided to get in the pool. She could think there, maybe figure it out on her own this time. She dropped her robe on a chair and walked to the pool steps, the gentle breeze on her nude body refreshing and familiar.
It was almost a shame to disturb the mirror finish of the water, but ruffling it was one of her favorite parts. A chill enveloped her body as she went deeper, but only at first. The water spread out from her body in expanding waves, rippling softly against the tiled walls. It was beautiful, standing at the center of a web of waving lights.
If she was going to figure anything out, it’d be here, now, after a night of small successes. She turned to float on her back, letting her mind clear. What was an honest thing she wanted to tell someone?
I’m here. See me. Except…that’s scary. I’m afraid to be seen. Be gentle.
These were all truths someone else must have felt before. Everyone in the world had, surely. But how could you draw that? Paint that? How did you say that without clichés?
If she could put herself into art, maybe she wouldn’t have to risk saying things to people. She could just let them look at the art and know her. She didn’t even have to be in the same room. It would be the ideal way to express herself if she could just figure out how.
Her mind drifted along with her body. The water lapped at her, both cold and warm, her back insulated and buoyed, her front chilled by the night air. The contrast raised goosebumps. She existed right now in this wandering place between the water and the stars, feeling them both. It felt lovely.
Maybe she could paint water. Floating. Existing. A leaf on water. Light on water.
She only had to illustrate the feeling of being. Easy.
···
León set down his charcoal and rubbed his eyes. The second curve battering around his head refused to go onto paper right. He needed a break.
Lights from the pool were wavering gently across the ceiling. Usually, the still pool glowed steadily, but the wind sometimes gave him this little light show as the surface ruffled. He could step out and get some air, maybe sit at the firepit in the dark and feel the breeze.
Sliding the door open, he froze, arrested. Glimmering in the pool in front of him was the curve he’d seen in his head.
Celia! Jesus. Look at her.
She floated on her back, nude, eyes closed, arms out to her sides. Her arms—they made the difference. In the statue, they were raised. Here, her shoulders were relaxed and supported by the water. That curve at her ribs rounded into a fuller, more graceful arch. It was the shape.
Her shoulders, the gentle angle where they met her neck…another curve started speaking to him. Then more of them. Her hip, her wrist…he had to paint this.
Transfixed, he didn’t leave the doorway. Instead, he drank in the fascinating shapes, the rippling aqua light washing over her, dappled touches of orange barely reaching her from the house. The water echoing her shape in organic sweeps of gossamer light and shadow. The serenity of her quiet aimless drift.
Goosebumps flooded his body as her hand lifted to gently drag fingertips through the surface of the water, rousing waves of reflected color.
It broke the spell.
She’d been pure organic shapes until she acted, and suddenly she was real. The scene had a story. Her private moment was no longer private. Any second now, she’d move, turn, flee. She floated in that instant before discovery, naively still before facing this threat of…what? Exposure? Shame?
Her vulnerability struck him in the chest. He had to paint this, tell this story.
He tried to burn the sight of her into his mind before this miracle slipped away.
···
Celia let her mind float along with her body, imagining the lines she might paint. She could be blue this time, curved. No more straight red lines, no bridge. Turquoise circles, teal scallops, aqua crescents.
Oh, the moon! She smiled to herself.
A crescent moon reflected in blue water. Celestial for Celia. Finally, an idea! Sure, it was a little dumb, but she had to start somewhere.
The breeze whispered over her, making her shiver and her nipples harden painfully. She felt relaxed and revived, but discomfort began distracting her. It was time to go inside. That warm bed with Andrew to snuggle against would feel wonderful. She’d be able to sleep now.
She turned over and slipped under the water’s surface, aiming for the shallow side of the pool. Her hair flowed back, and she came up near the stairs, gasping for a fresh breath.
As the water streamed from her face, she opened her eyes to see León frozen in the doorway, his eyes fixed on her, one hand holding the door. Her mouth flew open, but she didn’t make a sound.
For a long moment, they stared at each other in silence. The water stilled as her movement stopped, calming into quiet waves. Then she shivered involuntarily as the cold struck her again. The water beading on her shoulders felt icy in the faint breeze.
“I’m getting out of the pool,” she said softly.
···
León flinched as the real world abruptly snapped back into focus.
He ducked into the pool house and then right back out. He didn’t even know why he’d gone in. It was a little late to disappear inside.
“My robe,” she said. “On the chair. Will you get it?”
He peered toward the pool’s edge until a darker shadow on one chair became evident. Numbly, he retrieved the robe and took it to the pool stairs, holding it open for her.
She waded to him, water streaming off in chilly runnels as she emerged. Looking only at her face, he laid it around her shoulders, then moved aside. Her teeth chattered as she ascended, pulling the robe closed, not bothering to put her arms into the sleeves.
For another moment, they just stood there, looking at each other.
León’s head was still full of curves and tranquility and exposure, envisioning how to embody her moment on canvas.
He realized suddenly where they were, that she was real, chilled and bewildered in front of him. She would speak. She might be mad. He had to save what he could of what was in his head.
“Give me a minute, please,” he implored. He rushed into the pool house, leaving her standing in cold shock.
···
What was happening? What did León mean, ‘give him a minute?’
She hadn’t expected him there. Had he been watching her? Intruding on her private moment? But why?
She should go, disappear, dry off, wrap a towel around her hair, and warm up next to Andrew.
Instead, she followed León.
He was sitting on the daybed with his pad and charcoal, frantically sketching. Two loose pages were already on the floor next to him, and as she entered, he pulled off another and laid it atop them. He continued pulling the charcoal across the page in long mad strokes.
“Why—”
“Wait, please,” he begged.
Was this how real art happened? Was she finally seeing it? He didn’t look happy.
After six pages, his shoulders relaxed, his hand stilled. Finally, he turned his eyes to her as she stood in the doorway, shivering and dripping.
“I’m sorry. I saw lights from the pool, I didn’t think it might be you.” He rose to whisk a towel from the shelves nearby and hand it to her. “Your hair, it’s still dripping. You look cold.” As she wrapped it around her head, he stacked his sketches carefully on the nearest easel. She finally put her arms into the sleeves of the wet robe as he sat.
“I’m going inside,” she said. But after a moment, she moved to sit on the bed next to him.
He took a deep breath, then exhaled heavily.
“I didn’t mean to intrude. I promise I just saw a painting.” He waved a hand toward the easel. The top sketch was just shapes, but she could see a nude floating in the water, defined in graceful, strong, sweeping lines. It was good, like his caricature studies of her posing before.
“I didn’t think you’d notice me out there,” she said.
He turned his face to her, then ducked his head. He looked down at his hands, clasped together, elbows on his knees.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he repeated. “I just went to look, then…the shapes. I needed to get them down.”
She looked back at the sketches, then dropped her eyes to the rest of his pages and work scattered on the floor. Wait, one of Andrew’s small sculptures was sitting on the table directly in front of them. What? She shivered, feeling a flutter in her stomach.
Her eyes went up to the canvas right behind the sculpture. The black line was unmistakable—her body was painted on the raw linen. She felt a hum of alarm deep inside.
“What is going on here?”
“Inspiration,” he said. “I swear. I’m not being creepy. I’m not spying or thinking anything. I just got inspired by this curve here.” He turned the sculpture away and traced a finger down it. It was the same as on the canvas. “Then I saw you out there. It’s good. It’ll make a painting.”
Celia didn’t spend time with artists without learning about inspiration. She’d seen them stop mid-stride to try and capture it. He was inspired by her?
“I could have just posed, you know.”
“I think you have to now.”
She sat up straighter. “Have to?”
“Well,” he said, “if you want to see it finished.”
“No one’s asked if I do.”
“Will you, then? It’s going to be good. I can feel it.” He turned his head to stare at the sketched lines intently. “The water, you, so honest and unguarded, and that line—”
“Wait. I was out there trying to find my own inspiration.” The import finally struck her. “I was going to paint something about floating in water! You’re stealing it from me?”
He whipped his face back to hers, hair flying.
“Stealing!”
“You were teaching me, but now you’re going to use me as a subject? Do you have to take my idea for yourself?”
···
León leapt to his feet at the accusation, wounded. “You don’t own the idea! If I don’t paint it—”
She stood as well, eyes flashing. He faltered, her uncontrolled glare unexpectedly distracting.
“You’re going to make a much better one than I can,” she cried. “Why should I even bother now?”
Her face was fierce, wet ringlets trembling, lips pale with cold. But she wasn’t hiding. She was unrestrained. He couldn’t resist.
“What emotion are you feeling right now?” Her eyes widened. “Right now!”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Anger!”
“No, that’s not it. Deeper.” He saw the struggle on her face, eyes lowering as she tried to feel inside. Then she looked back up, surprise on her face.
“It’s none of your fucking business!”
She stalked out, back to the house. He followed. He had to.
“Celia, wait!” She was already at the open door. “Please.” She turned to decline but stopped when she saw his face. This was serious.
“What.”
“I’m not using you,” he pleaded, “but I can’t not paint this. It’ll be in my head until I do. I won’t be able to do anything else until I get it out.”
She turned away, but he laid a hand on the door jamb, blocking her path. She had to listen! She settled for turning her face from him, chin lowered.
“León, I’m cold.”
“Please pose.”
“León.”
“Celia, what can I do? I can make this up to you somehow. I’ll work with you after, do more lessons. We’ll get you painting too. It’ll be different. Yours will be good.”
He was pulling out every excuse he could think of. She had to agree.
···
Celia felt embarrassed for him, negotiating like a child begging for a treat. Leaning back against the door frame, she clutched her robe closed. She’d stopped dripping but was still cold. A shiver ran through her as he moved in closer, eyes on hers, willing her to agree.
“That was my time for my own thoughts,” she said. “You want to show everyone.”
“I do, but it won’t be like that,” he said. “When you see, you’ll understand. It won’t be you. It’ll be abstract, anonymous.” He bit his lip, holding his breath.
“I thought I was alone!” She heard her voice raising and lowered it to a whisper on the last word. Alone? No need to wake Andrew. This was complicated enough.
“Celia, that’s the point. You with your guard down, it’s beautiful. Please.”
He swayed closer, determined eyes still focused on hers. The pressure she felt to give in ran deep.
She wavered, and he saw. Eyes narrowing, he let his hand slip down the door frame, and she couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her.
For a moment, she thought he was reaching for her and felt more thrill than fear. The shock of it! Her heart was pounding, her skin tingling where she’d anticipated his touch. His arrogant pressure was…exciting? That couldn’t be right.
The surprising response in her body snuffed out her defense. She was already accustomed to giving in to his will, had been practicing for weeks. Why bother fighting him? He’d paint it even if she said no.
···
He saw her capitulate. Shoulders softening from defiance to resignation, eyes lowering, the subtle tilt of her head in concession. He wanted to paint that change too, capture the transition from stiff to submissive. He could paint a whole series of her.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll pose.”
She was so fully his in that moment that he raised a hand to trace her skin. He trailed her collarbone thoughtfully with a finger, seeing brush strokes in his mind. This delicate surrender limned in a pale and fragile yellow against a field of warm colors, umbers and golds. This was the second painting.
The soft light from inside the house fell across the angles of her neck, barely highlighting the warm lines and shadowed planes. His fingertip wandered to her throat, thinking of the exact color right there on her skin.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. Her breaths were coming quicker, the pulse visibly beating in the hollow of her neck. The closer he looked at her, the more he realized he’d missed. Her lines were perfect. He wanted to see more, inspect her in a low light.
His gaze traveled up to her lips.
“Celia,” he said. The revelation of her was overwhelming.
“León,” she whispered, “I can’t.”
His eyes snapped back to her face. “Can’t what?”
Their position finally dawned on him. He’d backed her up against the door frame, wet robe clutched to her, towel still wound atop her head. Her eyes looked up at him, liquid and bright, full of soft distress. He’d felt quite possessive then, touching her like he owned the lines of her. But she wasn’t his—he’d barely gotten her to agree to pose.
Painting. This was about the painting. He could draw art out of her, but she had to agree to help. This wasn’t the right way. He stepped back, lowering his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I got a little caught up.” He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to break the spell. “I’ll go. It’s just the painting.”
“Just the painting,” she repeated, shivering.
León shook his head, trying to come back to himself.
“In the morning, okay? Can you sit tomorrow?”
She nodded mutely, eyes wide. He noticed his breaths were coming faster too. He’d gotten too engrossed in seeing her. It was excitement over the series he could make.
“This will work out,” he said. “You’ll see. I can do it.”
···
She wondered who he was trying to convince. He said he was leaving but stayed. What was he waiting for? For a moment, she’d thought he was about to kiss her. Her stomach fluttered at the thought.
She remembered Andrew, her friend, his friend, lying naked in the next room. She couldn’t kiss another man with one in her bed already. That wasn’t her.
She straightened, pulling the robe even tighter over her neck. León watched her hide herself, disappointment in his face melting into resolve.
“Right. Good night.” And with that, he turned and strode from the doorway.
She watched him retreat, mouth open. So, his onslaught really was just about getting her to pose? He could have refused to leave, kissed her like he’d been so clearly considering. She would have let him. She shouldn’t, but she would have.
Indignant, she closed the door.
That man! Why was she always one step behind him? He’d spied on her, chased her, made her agree to pose, and now she was regretting him not acting even more badly?
She could never figure out what to expect from him. Sometimes kind, then sarcastic or annoyed. Tonight he’d been intense, nearly possessive. It was like he’d suddenly discovered her, though she’d been here the whole time.
Being seen. She’d thought so hard about that earlier. Tonight, he’d seen her. Was he going to act differently now? Every day he was different. Why try to guess how he’d be tomorrow?
The uncertainty was tiring. Being seen by León was intense. He seemed to strip her down to parts he could put on a canvas. Should she show him the rest, the parts that didn’t curve or reflect light? Would he want to see it?
She sighed. Feeling things was even more exhausting than hiding from them.
She went quietly into the bedroom.
Andrew was sound asleep with no idea of all the activity that night. He’d have been sorry to miss the drama, she thought with a wan smile. He stirred as she climbed back under the covers and hauled her close under his heavy warm arm.
“Happy birthday,” he murmured as he captured her again. He sleepily kissed her cheek, then neck. It felt as comforting as she’d imagined earlier. Andrew was a safe place, a warm, enthusiastic, loving friend, but just a friend. She’d never felt the urge to be seen by him, and he’d never truly put in the effort.
She’d tell Andrew tomorrow that this had definitely been the last time. No more benefits other than friendship. Whether it was with León or not, Celia wanted more.