Eighteen
She was not getting better.
Kelsey stayed for a few hours, Celia finishing all the wine as they talked about the baby. It had seemed like a fine idea until she was alone, trying to fall asleep.
To keep the room from whirling, she stared at the full moon hovering over her skylight. A giant eye watching her. It cast a leaden light over her wide, cold bed.
No texts. No whisper of the back door sliding open. León hadn’t come back.
You drove him away, Celia Rose.
Her stomach ached, empty.
The lows tonight had been too low, the highs too high. She was meant for baby steps, not fights and confessions.
Don’t be so dramatic, Celia Rose.
Fleeing the bar in tears, standing on the wall in the chilly wind. Realizing that everything had changed in her life but herself. Her voice failing her when she needed it.
You’re always feeling sorry for yourself, Celia Rose.
León’s gentleness when she came in. Kelsey hugging her, saying Celia had a new family. The baby!
Don’t look so pleased with yourself, Celia Rose.
León shouting. The door slamming behind him. The proof that asking to be heard meant abandonment.
You’re the reason he’s gone, Celia Rose!
She couldn’t shut out the voice. Its familiar dismissals were better than being truly alone.
···
Tossing on Andrew’s sagging couch, León cursed himself for leaving. Why had he run? If he’d stayed, talked with her…he should have explained better or gone over to hold her. She’d been so upset the last time he ran, and now he’d done it again.
She said she wanted a change. What change? She liked what they had. He knew it! He saw it when he touched her skin, and that reserve of hers melted away. He felt it when she went all soft-eyed over something he’d painted with her.
He could see her looking up at him tonight with those grave eyes, hear the things she’d been about to tell him. She wasn’t going to pose anymore, she’d say. She wasn’t going to let him stay.
He’d stopped that! It bought him time to change her mind. He’d apologize for leaving. He’d explain. He’d find out what this change of hers was and get it for her.
She belonged to him. He’d fix this.
···
Celia awoke to a pale dawn. Her head was muzzy and thumping, a dull fog shrouding the room. Her sinking thoughts had outlived the moon, the circling insults draining her back to the bottom. She’d spent black hours in familiar recrimination. The sleeping pill she’d finally scrounged up must have done its job, but she opened her eyes now to the same rock bottom.
Why swim at all when she always found herself sunk to this well-known depth? It never, ever, ever stopped happening.
That thumping came again. No, knocking. The front door.
They’d come for León’s paintings. They had to be delivered today. She had to let them in.
Celia dragged on her robe and shuffled through the hall. Take them away. What did it matter now?
She opened the door.
León stood there, anxiously hopeful in the crisp pale morning. His weary eyes, ringed with bruise-like shadows, widened. His hand fluttered up, then slowly fell away.
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.
She set the brush down.
“What did you paint?” he asked.
She took another brush and made a blue line at the bottom.
“Is it water under a bridge?”
She shook her head weakly. The pool.
There wasn’t more to paint. She existed, the bridge existed, the pool existed. Conflict in the picture but no story. No resolution. She never progressed.
He gently nuzzled his unshaven cheek against hers, the rasp of stubble rough and familiar.
“I know it’s scary,” he said. “Honesty is hard. I struggle with it too. But it’s just you and the canvas. You can tell it what you’re thinking.”
Thinking? She was done thinking.
You’re such a quitter, Celia Rose.
“Can I be in the painting with you?” he asked.
She still had blue paint in the brush, so she painted a line for him. Tight up against her washed-out line.
“Am I blue like the water?”
She nodded.
“How?”
How? They’d first kissed with the pool’s waves ringing them, lay together for the first time in its reflected light. It was her safe place, the water supporting her when she floated. Didn’t he know?
A tiny painful spark fluttered inside her. The bridge loomed, but the pool underneath might catch her.
How was León like the—oh.
Oh.
She painted another blue line horizontally above the pool. Kelsey. Another line, Andrew. The third, Trevor, threatened to engulf the tops of her line and León’s, the level of the water now nearly reaching the bridge. The fall wouldn’t be bad, the landing survivable.
“The water is rising,” he said. “You’re telling a story, Celia Rose. Keep going.”
No, she was done painting. Her art list had utterly failed, but what if she didn’t need it?
It hurt to care, to feel a crack in her steely numbness. It terrified her, thinking about trying, hoping, one more time. She’d failed so many times before, isolated and helpless.
León squeezed his arms around her, solid. She wasn’t alone right now.
She didn’t have to be good at painting to see it right in front of her. Even if she fell again, it wasn’t the end. The water was there, the support. Opening up to people didn’t require talent, just courage.
Could she find courage?
“I’m done,” she said. Setting down the tools, she turned into his arms, resting her head against his chest.
“Okay,” he murmured softly. “Did it help? Will you tell me what you painted?”
Falling. Floating.
She shook her head against him.
“Why did the water rise? Are we going to drown?”
Him and his questions.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “But painting helps, right? I should have seen you needed to do it too. I’ll do better.”
“It’s not about you,” she murmured against his chest. She felt him chuckle under his breath.
“You keep saying that, but you put me in your painting.”
So she had. Oh, how familiar he was. The soft thump of his heartbeat against her ear, the scent of his skin, the steely harbor of his arms. León wasn’t easy to push away.
A flood of gratitude and comfort washed through her. She could feel it flow from her chest outward, filling her skin. Bubbling light sluiced through the numbness, leaving her floating and weak. No matter. León would shore her up.
“Reinita,” he said, “tell me what will help.”
Falling in love felt nothing like she’d expected.
“I want to tell you,” she whispered. “About the bridge, about everything.”
She felt his chest swell against her.
···
There was no more painting that day nor the next. Celia had spilled out her story, fidgeting in a desperate little ball as León cradled her on the couch. He calmly collected each new layer and texture, filling in her picture. The flood of colors dammed inside her broke like a wave, hundreds of paintings there for him.
As her story stilled, he’d vowed to help her find this outlet she wanted. Anything to put some warmth back in her eyes.
At midday, his paintings were picked up.
After sunset, they swam quietly in the dark.
By morning, she was more herself.
When the next afternoon shone its great temporary orange triangles on her walls, it was León’s turn to feel vulnerable. His colors already lived outside him, and they’d be on display tonight.
They drove to the exhibition gala at dusk, walking into the lofty gallery, lights infusing artworks on warm brick walls and low white plinths.
León tucked Celia’s hand firmly under his arm. She’d resisted coming tonight, not adamantly, but enough to make them late. Her eyes were still a little sad and somber, but she hadn’t put on her public mask. Good girl.
A muted throng glided through the converted warehouse, soft words being exchanged as couples flowed from one spotlighted artwork to another. He breathed it in. These people cared about art. They felt it.
He squeezed Celia’s arm with his and looked down at her. His quiet little muse. He’d show her the entire creative world.
Celia silently gestured to the far corner of the front room, where the blue painting glowed. His heart hung on that wall. A small knot of people stood nearby. Did they like it? Would they understand?
León bounced just a tiny bit.
Andrew rounded an interior corner, his face lighting up when he clocked them near the door. He threaded his way through the crowd.
“Hey!” he said. “I didn’t know if you were coming.”
“And miss my LA debut? Please.”
“Celia, girl,” Andrew took her free hand in his, “I’m so sorry.”
León nodded. Good, she was owed an apology from this quarter too.
“Are you better?” Andrew continued, uncharacteristically anxious. “I want to explain.”
The group near the blue painting was moving away, but two more couples were approaching. León watched wistfully. What were they saying about it?
“Go look,” Celia said to him quietly. “I’ll catch up.”
“Really?”
Her faint, fond smile said yes. Resisting the urge to sprint, he left her in Andrew’s hands.
···
With that eager gleam in his eyes, there was no way León would have lasted long. Celia regretted each step he took, but wouldn’t cling. Andrew squeezed her hand, frowning fretfully as she turned back to him.
“I’m so ashamed, Celia.”
“I shouldn’t have run off,” she demurred, disquiet filtering through her. She and Andrew had always been at ease together, but he looked agitated.
“No, this one is on me,” he said with a decisive shake of his head. “I was teasing León, egging him on. I’m so sorry.” His shoulders were actually slumping.
León had explained. “I know it’s an old joke you had.” She looked across the room but couldn’t spot him through the crowd.
Andrew’s mouth twisted, and he let go of her hand. “A sexist joke. You’re not just a model.”
“I’m no artist,” she said.
“You are,” he protested. “Your art is seeing what people need and making it happen, so naturally that we don’t even notice.”
She felt her cheeks heating. “That’s not art!” Good lord, did she have to go through this with everyone?
“It’s a talent,” he insisted, leaning in. His eyes on hers were different, direct and keen, almost like León’s. “I had time to think about this. We talk about our work all the time, and I realized how it must feel for you not to be a part of it. My joking excluded you.”
She stared. Being seen by Andrew was unexpected.
“I forgot how being excluded felt,” he continued. “I was always too bi for my gay friends, too black for my white friends, I didn’t quite qualify for any one group. I decided a long time ago to stop honoring the rules. Everyone is in my group, just as they are.” His pained frown deepened. “I messed that up, Celia.”
It was too strange, seeing him so earnest. What was the antidote to Andrew’s concern? “You’re good at spotting when someone needs to step up,” she said. “Yourself included.”
He looked more relieved than she’d expected. “You don’t have to flatter me while I apologize.”
Andrew, rejecting flattery? This was serious.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sighing as he wrapped her in a firm hug. Wow. She made a change and everyone else had to change too?
As he let her go, she saw him gazing past her shoulder and turned to see Kelsey waiting patiently.
“My turn,” she said.
Celia paused. “Wait,” she said. Oh, hell. “Do you take turns hanging out with me in public? Because of my anxiety?”
Andrew’s face went blank. “Um.”
“Did you never notice that?” Kelsey asked.
Celia shook her head, unsure if she should be annoyed or touched.
“Trevor’s here, by his pictures,” Kelsey said. “Come look, say hi.”
Celia cast another searching glance to León’s corner, still not seeing his dark head. He would want her there. But Kelsey took her elbow, and so she went along. Trevor first, quickly.
The vast front room had open archways along the back wall, inviting lights burning within each. Trevor awaited in the nearest antechamber, his photographs mounted on a softly-lit plaster wall. He sat, sipping a glass of red wine, on one of the little plinths that doubled as stools. He brightened as the women approached.
“Hey, you’re out! Feeling better? Andrew’s been in a state.”
“León sent a text,” Celia said. “He told everyone we’re good.”
“Yeah, but it’s better to see in person.”
Kelsey placed herself between the two of them, her expectant air palpable. “I have some news,” she said, “but first, I wanted you two to talk. Trevor, you should tell Celia about your parents.”
A chill struck Celia. Would she have to tell her story again so soon? And in this crowd? Seeing people’s faces when the worst came out was awful enough, but in public?
“Really?” Trevor said. “Celia, you always avoid talking about parents.”
She braced herself. “I’m changing things.”
“It’s not a fun story.” He took off his glasses and polished them absently on his shirt. “There was this boy, you see.”
Celia stood quietly, watching his gaze soften, his face growing a little dreamy.
“Jacob,” he said like a sigh. “He was older than me. Beautiful. Golden curls. We would skip classes and steal an hour or two in an empty house while our parents were at work. Lying in bed just looking at each other, sometimes.”
His blue eyes were so far away.
“In class,” he said, “in public, we never even made eye contact. I thought those hours were a secret just for us, and letting others know would break the spell. I thought it was love.”
Oh no.
“We were caught—of course we were. He denied everything. Said he wasn’t gay, just wasn’t allowed to touch Mormon girls, and succumbed to what was available. He’d sinned for pleasure, but he wasn’t that way.”
Oh, poor Trevor.
“I fought, I proclaimed. I was in love. And the wrath came down on me, not him.”
Celia held her breath.
“I spent two months living with an Elder who tried to berate it out of me.” His face fell. “My parents were punished, I saw them suffer too. But they didn’t stop it. They wanted me cured. For my sake, I’d like to think, but really…they wanted their church back more.”
Trevor didn’t look dreamy now. He looked hurt.
“I caved. I wanted my life back too. I tried to hide it until the prayers fixed me.”
His eyes hardened, a muscle jumping in his jaw.
“And when I was eighteen, my dad took me aside and said it was time to move out. I thought I must have slipped up somehow, but he said he’d always known I was gay. He’d done his duty but knew I wouldn’t change, and now it was time to go be gay somewhere else.”
“Oh, Trevor, no.”
“I moved here to LA, met others like me, and made my own way. My parents didn’t want to know me, were never proud, and one day I just let them go too.”
Kelsey shook her head, her face echoing the disgust she’d shown when she heard about Celia’s mom.
“You don’t talk to them? Ever?” Celia asked. “Does that help?”
“Yeah. I protect myself better than they did. I’m sticking with people who lift me up.”
Celia swallowed hard, her throat tight. “I never knew, Trevor.”
“See, saying things out loud can change things,” Kelsey said. “You might find out other people understand.”
Trevor stood to give Celia a hug. “You don’t have to talk about your family, not here. But you can when you want.”
Kelsey waited until he released her, then turned to Trevor. “Okay, now my news.”