Twelve
León’s first sight upon awakening was Celia in blue.
He’d tossed fitfully all night, submerged in half-sleep, dreaming that she swam circles around him. She was made of living paint, a teasing sprite of liquid curves and lashing waves of blue. The urge to touch her burned in him, but he dared not. His fingers would smear her deep lacings of color.
He awoke at dawn, as usual, to find his canvas shining in the morning light. Dozy and bemused, León breathed in her image—glowing Celia, revealed in luminous hues. His fleeting dreams faded as bright pride swelled. Beaming from his bed, inhabiting every brush stroke, he reveled in the painting’s story. The colors were raw, visceral and daring, that all-important curve striking upward, its path true and exquisite through the fluid blues and golds.
It was perfect. The best thing he’d ever done.
He got out of bed and walked closer, in love with the colors in early light.
Her shape floated at peace, vulnerable and authentic as one can only be when alone. It whispered echoes of the womb, relief from fear, trust in support of dark water. It was the most honest image he’d ever painted, and though she was the subject, it came from inside him. He’d felt fragile before, and it could have looked like this.
The top third of the canvas was darker with indigos. A hint of a hovering threat. That sweet faith of hers wouldn’t last because disaster lurked. But oh, how precious until then!
What a story. She was wonderful.
He looked up at the house, windows dark, sunlight climbing from behind the roof.
The litany of paintings ran through him again. Yellow, red, green, orange…he’d been seeing stories in her from the first day. Unable to look away, at times. Yes, it was attraction, but more. She was a mirror, showing him truths that he later realized were inside him, ready for his canvas.
Smiling, he basked in the painting again.
What truth was in this for him? Vulnerability, threat…wait.
A chill ran down his back.
Who was under threat here? She was the subject, but it came from inside him.
He froze as the implications sank in. Could he paint a threat to himself without knowing? Why did paintings keep getting away from him? He was failing again!
The lurking shadow in the painting was coming for him, ominous and suddenly terrifying. He looked up at the house again, its dark western windows mirroring the night’s end.
He had to get out and think, get away from this painting, from her. Escape.
He quickly dressed, grabbed his phone and wallet, and ordered a ride-share on his way out the side gate.
···
Celia awoke to white walls reflecting too much light, her bed stretching too wide for just her. Maybe that would change soon.
León had kissed her.
She hugged her arms around herself, letting herself feel the thrill. Why try to squash her excitement about last night? She felt special when he looked at her, like he genuinely saw and welcomed her. His curiosity about her thoughts and feelings was intoxicating.
Why try to smother the enthusiasm? León encouraged her to be aware of how she felt, and this felt delightful. Celia chose to feel it, hopeful about taking a chance for once. A glance at the clock showed that she had a few hours before noon when León usually came in for lessons. Well, staying busy in the morning was never a challenge.
She hummed in the shower and capered once or twice as she tidied her rooms.
León didn’t show up at noon. No text, no appearance at the back door. Maybe he was a late sleeper. She didn’t really know.
He would come. He’d promised.
She could always kill time cooking. The gang was coming tomorrow night, so she started a small pork roast braising in the dutch oven with onions and carrots. She smiled as she chopped, determined not to let anything ruin this happy mood.
An hour passed. She texted León. No response.
Feeling uneasy, she checked again that the craft room was ready. She would paint her idea of the moon in water today. Just because León had painted her floating, that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a different interpretation. A story, she reminded herself with a quick smile.
He’d kissed her. He’d promised to help today.
Celia finally went to the pool house, her buoyancy precarious. She could see his precious blue painting from where she stood, but not well. She didn’t want to trespass but finally let her gaze slide to the right, to the daybed. Empty.
He’d left.
Not everything revolves around you, Celia Rose.
So, her day would be the common crawl, the same clock dragging its same recalcitrant hands. The urge to clean hit her. Lord, not again.
She would paint on her own. No waiting around on León! She could make a hundred paintings if she wanted.
She started her own lesson in the craft room. First, Tranquila. Second, mix some paint.
She brushed on wavy turquoise and aqua lines that might look watery if one squinted. A crescent moon floating in the middle, not white, because she knew better. She understood its reflection should look broken up, hitting different waves, but the mechanics defeated her. A knot built in her chest, refusing to loosen.
Was it an opalescent moon floating on water? Celestial Celia existing? Not remotely. It was a ridiculous painting, the worst cliché she’d ever seen. She’d never be able to figure this out on her own.
A heavy sigh escaped her. Another painting to stuff into a cupboard. Celia regarded her room with its white cabinets and sensible lighting, her art list supplies tucked away in organized baskets behind tall doors. She hid the clutter of her attempts to find a talent, a voice, all proving she had nothing unique to offer.
You’re nothing special, Celia Rose.
Stop thinking like that!
Maybe she should just clean the whole room again, throw out everything. She eyed her practice paintings, stacked on the table next to her, the top one featuring her stupid bridge of black lines. A dull ache formed behind her eyes as she confronted the familiar image.
Apparently that was her only story.
Her dad, looking back from the top of a bridge, holding out a hand.
She stared at the simple arch of the bridge, feeling it mock her crescent moon. The same shape, but so much harder to paint as if it were reflected in a broken surface. No wonder she painted the dumb bridge so often; it was easier.
Why hadn’t León been here to help her? His betrayal wrapped around her, cold and constricting.
Why was she always so alone? What was wrong with her? All her life, she’d faced this. Her mother would never stoop to helping her, of course. And Dad had been gone.
The bridge had been easier.
“Oh,” she whispered, a raw realization dawning.
Dad could have kept trying, could have protected her from Mom’s fists and insults, could have stayed so she didn’t have this death hanging over her all her life. A worse betrayal settled in her stomach like a stone.
Her dad, looking back from the top of a bridge, handing something to her.
Shock numbed her, new understanding freezing her in place. She’d never seen it this way before. He…he’d handed her his terrible, black burden. Here, you carry this now.
Oh, how could he? It was so unfair!
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, the injustice of it all burning as sharply as saltwater on cut skin. Then her heart thudded wildly, her control finally exhausted.
Fuck all of them for failing her! León included!
She’d show them painting!
The small tube of black paint couldn’t match her boiling fury. She had more—quarts of glossy black from some pointless project. Muscles tense, her movements jerky with urgency, she knocked over baskets pulling a can from the cupboard.
The lid wouldn’t come off, but the spoon in her tea would work. As she pried and mixed, she glared at the empty white wall in front of her.
Fuck this bare blank world, too!
The room shrank as her rage expanded to fill every corner, and she hurled a spoonful of anger into the space before her. Long slashes of black appeared across furniture and wooden floor, wall and ceiling. Breathing got harder, rage burning her face. Who was quiet and responsible now?
Her breath became ragged, her skin prickling with the heat of unleashed anger. Exhilaration sang in her bones as she threw wide slashes straight from the can, ignoring the spoon entirely. She barked a laugh, hair swinging into her face. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to see. The paint could land where it wanted.
She shouted with each swing. Screamed.
The paint ran out, and she stood still, panting.
How’s that for expressing emotions, León?
The thought pulled the plug on her anger, and her control snapped back into place. Even this she hadn’t completely done for herself. A hollow feeling settled in her stomach, the echo of her actions ringing loud in the sudden silence.
Drained, she left the spatters to dry where they landed. At least life triumphed on one wall. At least one couldn’t paint clichés when one wasn’t even aiming.
What a useless display, Celia Rose.
The aftermath of her outburst left her chilled. Closing the door on the mess, she mechanically washed her hands in the kitchen. Stoic, she pulled the meat from the oven. She cleaned the painted apology off the back doors.
She was pathetic. Good lord, she’d thrown a tantrum.
You’re impressing nobody, Celia—
Oh, shut up, Mom!
There must be something better to do than clean, right? Something smarter than her usual response? Andrew, he would talk with her, make her feel better.
But he might tell León she’d called. León would think she was looking for him. As if! She hoped she never saw that liar again!
Kelsey?
She’d been so encouraging when Celia had opened up, however ineptly.
“I’m at work, hon,” Kelsey said when she called. “But the shop is super dead today. Come down. I’ll pretend to sell you clothes, and we can chat.”
···
León had asked to be dropped off downtown, homing to the urban center that would feel familiar. It didn’t, though. LA buildings were blocks long, the reflected heat arid, sidewalks deserted amid streams of anonymous cars. A tropical ghost town.
Whatever. He walked as he used to in New York.
His best painting was an accident. Celia had shown him something he didn’t know he felt and hadn’t recognized even as he painted.
This image of vulnerability and threat came from inside him, and if he was painting blindly, he had to confront himself. He couldn’t keep finishing work without knowing why it did or didn’t speak.
What was the threat?
Long stretches of pavement passed under his feet, fenced parking lots herding him down straight streets.
He missed New York. LA was alien, the streets punctuated with palm trees so tall that their feather-duster tops receded as afterthoughts. Up at Celia’s was worse, isolated from even her neighbors, a long drive away from anything. He missed his parents and sisters, cousins and friends and crowds. Was that what was throwing him off?
No, he’d had the same trouble there at the end. He was the problem.
What was he afraid of?
He was afraid of not being able to paint. Well, what if he couldn’t? What else would he do? Who would he be?
He’d be nothing. Painting was his whole identity. Without it, he’d be absolutely nothing.
The sharp pang in his heart told him he’d found the threat.
It made no sense. He’d just done outstanding work and should feel encouraged. He could show himself, his parents, and the world that he could succeed at this.
Dad had worked two jobs to pay for his art school. His parents had sacrificed their days and their own hopes, all to improve their children’s opportunities. He had to prove it had been worth it.
He couldn’t sacrifice too. He couldn’t compromise. He couldn’t let anything distract him.
He reached a wide intersection, a confluence of estranged air-conditioned cars with tinted windows closed. A bodega beckoned halfway down the block to his right, but he stubbornly chose to cross the street.
Was Celia a distraction or a mirror? God forbid, a muse? León tucked a sweaty lock of hair behind his ear. That woman.
Why her?
She inspired him, no question. He itched to paint her again right now—he had urgent colorful plans. What was it about her? Did they share even one thing in common?
A wide concrete gully yawned under León’s straight sidewalk, now a bridge. A laughable trickle of water braided down the middle. They called this a river? It was no Hudson.
Celia kept painting bridges, but not well. She’d have to move on to the next item on her art list. She wouldn’t like that.
They had that in common, actually. Looming failure.
He winced.
She didn’t even have art to turn to. No wonder she was so wan, drifting quietly through life.
They didn’t have any choice here. He had to create well, and here she was to show him the paintings inside him. She wanted a purpose, and here he was, helping her make the art she couldn’t. They had to keep going, paint and pose, or come to nothing.
She’d shown him that in the blue painting. They were both vulnerable.
A vibrant mural on a building ahead came into view. They did that right here, the colors reaching up three stories.
He surrendered to the obvious conclusion. Celia was his destination. Dammit, call her what she was. His muse. He’d have to delve much deeper into her truths and humbly admit how they applied to him. He just had to convince her, which wouldn’t be easy after running away.
Jesus, she must be furious.
He tried to think of the right words as he took a ride-share back to her place.
He knew he should have answered her text. He’d fumbled that, just like he’d fumbled the kiss last night. She’d seen before he did that they needed to get closer.
How could he top the last apology?
She wasn’t at her place when he got back. It surprised him, but what choice did he have except to wait? He sat on the daybed with a sketchpad and charcoal. Maybe he could get in some studies until she returned. He looked up at the empty interior of the house more than he looked at the paper.
···
Kelsey jumped up, excited, as Celia entered the empty clothing store on Melrose. The decor was fashionably monochrome and world-wearied, the scent expensive. Celia fit right in.
“Yay!” Kelsey said. “It’s been so dead today. I pulled some clothes for you to try.”
“I don’t really want to buy anything, Kelsey.”
“Just look at them. You might.”
Well, it was something to do.
Celia followed as Kelsey picked up an armful of knits and started for the dressing rooms. They may as well talk there. The location didn’t matter.
“Now,” Kelsey said, still excited. “I have thought of you every time I see this dress. Of course, the rest would all look good on you, but please, at least try on this one.”
She held up a thin knit dress, soft and luxe. The color was a deep turquoise which instantly put Celia off. She preferred neutrals. She just didn’t have the energy to tell Kelsey no.
Slipping into the stall, Celia let the heavy curtain fall behind her. Maybe it’d be easier to admit to her friend what happened today if she didn’t have to see her reactions. She began removing her blouse as Kelsey hovered outside.
“All right, spill,” Kelsey said. “I can see you’re upset. What happened?”
Celia pushed her skirt to the floor, avoiding looking at herself in the mirror. If Kelsey could see she was upset, what was her face doing? She’d tried to look blank.
“I spent the day waiting around for a man who didn’t want to be there,” she finally said.
“Charlie did that to me once, and I didn’t talk to him for two weeks. Who was it?” Kelsey’s yellow shoes appeared at the bottom of the curtain. “It was León, wasn’t it.”
“León.” Celia snorted. “It sounds silly to even say it. Why would I wait for that selfish, pushy, arrogant, lying….” She couldn’t think of words that were bad enough.
“So, what’d he do?”
The blue dress was so soft Celia considered hugging it like a comforting blanket.
“He said he’d help me paint today, but he just disappeared. I sat around like an idiot for hours.”
“Maybe he had to go somewhere.”
“He didn’t text or call.” Celia gathered the hem of the dress to put it on.
“Huh. Did you text him?”
“He left me on read.” She pulled the dress over her head and wiggled it into place.
“The bastard.”
Celia looked in the mirror finally, tightening the wide belt at the waist. The dress looked okay. But her face, oh no. She looked old. The disappointment had drawn lines on her. Her eyes filled with tears, thankfully blurring the image.
Kelsey must have heard a sniffle. “Oh, honey, oh no.” Her shoes danced impatiently outside. “What did he actually do?”
Celia cleared her throat, struggling for control. “He kissed me.”
“I knew it!”
“But then he sent me away and disappeared after he promised to be there. I can’t believe I waited around like a fool. I don’t even like him.” The tears were coming harder now, her voice thick.
Kelsey’s hand appeared on the edge of the curtain.
“Celia?”
Celia reached up and pulled the curtain back, grimacing through the tears as she met her friend’s eyes. She’d never cried in front of her. She felt so exposed. But Kelsey stepped in and enfolded her in a hug.
“Aw, honey,” she soothed as Celia began crying in earnest. “He doesn’t deserve you.”
“I do like him,” Celia hiccupped. “I thought he’d come.”
Kelsey stroked her shoulder. “It’s not foolish to wait for someone to show up when they say they will. That’s what adults do. He’s wrong for not showing up.”
Celia was slowly bringing herself back under control. Being hugged helped—it felt good. Kelsey was being so nice.
“He’ll come back and be sorry, and I’ll let him explain,” Celia said, low. “He’s always getting his way. He overwhelms me. Yesterday he sat at my door for hours until I let him apologize.”
Kelsey reared back to search her friend’s tear-stained face.
“He what?!”
Celia exhaled heavily. “He brought flowers. He painted an apology on the back doors. I wouldn’t talk to him, but he wore me down.”
“Wait, you’ve been having drama like that, and I’m just now hearing about it?” Kelsey bounced, provoked.
“He painted me. And he kissed me in the pool in the dark, and he was jealous of Andrew.”
Kelsey’s mouth fell open. “Andrew, why?”
“He spent the night. On my birthday.”
“Andrew is involved too?! Good god, Celia! You can’t leave me out of things like this!”
Celia smiled weakly through the tears. “He said he had to get out of the pool because I was too tempting.”
Kelsey let Celia go and fanned herself. “Okay. I would have waited around too.”
“But this morning, he just left and never came back.”
“He really is a bastard,” Kelsey said with a frown. “I didn’t realize. The coward.”
“What do I do?”
Kelsey finally noticed the dress. It was well-made, graciously hugging Celia’s curves, the wide neckline draping delicately just off her shoulders.
“You are going to wear this dress and show him what he missed.” She reached up to adjust Celia’s black bra straps so they didn’t show. “Make him regret it, Celia.”
Celia shook her head, unsure.
“Look,” Kelsey said, “what do you honestly want?”
Celia wiped at her face, considering. “I wanted art,” she sniffed. “I wasn’t looking for this.”
Kelsey waited as Celia struggled.
“He just…makes me feel things.”