Twenty Six
León rambled the empty dark streets of Boyle Heights, seeing only Celia’s face. That rush of exultation he’d felt tonight, seeing her bathed in light! He’d felt so hollow without her in New York. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—return to that emptiness.
He stopped walking. Quit that!
This all-or-nothing way of thinking was always his downfall. He couldn’t force this. She had to genuinely want him, so he had to be the kind of person she could want.
His stomach knotted. How was he supposed to manage that?
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he walked on, directionless.
His mother’s words echoed in his mind: help her with something she wants. That meant Incubadora. Their friends all had roles in her new world, but he had barely helped at all, back when he could paint her.
Laughter and trumpet-filled music startled him, blossoming as a bar door swung open across the street. A lively couple nearly fell out, draped over each other. “I got you, mami,” the man said, the woman giggling as her heels clicked on the sidewalk. Her tipsy, uninhibited voice clamored for dinner, a melody in Spanish as they wove their way downhill under the orange street lamps.
León scuffed his feet as he walked on, rejecting idea after idea. The next corner opened into a deserted public square with an ornate bandstand, papel picado strung from it and fluttering in the chilly breeze. Mom-and-pop storefronts boasted vibrant murals and window signs in Spanish. It reminded León of home, though here the murals celebrated Mexico, not Puerto Rico or the Dominican Republic. He didn’t know where he was, but he recognized the art.
As León passed a narrow alley, a hissing of spray paint rose. It abruptly stopped as a young man crouching between the buildings looked up, startled, his tagging interrupted. León nodded and walked past, the smell of aerosol enamel trailing behind him. His pulse quickened with the urge to paint, but he quashed it with a sharp pang. He had to help Celia, not himself.
Help her with what she wants. Easy to say, but what help could he offer? It was hopeless. She already had everything, her new building in her new neighborhood—wait.
He stopped walking again, breath hanging in the air.
Her neighborhood, he understood it. He understood its art. Maybe he could go out and meet her neighbors, get them interested in Incubadora, as a sort of liaison. Maybe he could find artists to live there!
A buoyant wave of hope lifted him and he spun in the street, then loped back to that corner bar. He was overdue for a little warmth.
···
Stepping into Incubadora the next morning, León felt the changed energy wash over him. Hammering rang out from the back alcoves, workers navigating the grand room with ladders and tools. The contrast to last night’s deserted silence was striking.
A short, well-padded Latina stood behind the front desk, a phone to her ear and papers arrayed in front of her. Did Celia have staff already? The place wasn’t even open. The woman covered the phone with a hand and leveled a questioning glance at him.
“I’m here to see Celia,” he said.
Crisply, the woman flagged down a passing crewman. “Para la jefa.”
“Sí, Dolores.” The crewman, walkie-talkie in hand, relayed, “Necesitamos la jefa, jefe.” Dolores shot León an assessing look as he rubbed sweaty palms on his jeans.
León averted his gaze, looking past the swarm of activity, then landing on the far brick wall where his paintings still hung. The glaring gap where the green and red canvases used to be felt like a blow. Mixed feelings surged in him—pride, loss, longing. Her figure, revealed in colorful facets, tightened his throat. His Celia, his muse! He ached to go back to those times, to make more paintings to fill the gaps.
No painting! Not until he could see her and not think the word “his.”
He clenched his hands, trying to anchor himself in the present cacophony of construction. This place was transforming, and, maybe, so was he.
A feminine voice bounced down the stairs. Celia! León sucked in a quiet breath as he saw her unmistakable ankles on the top step, descending. He’d know any part of her, anywhere. Another step revealed jeans, a new look for her. Then a T-shirt in—wow! Yellow! Colors, huh?
His eyes skipped over the tall man walking next to her until she turned her face to him and spoke. Suddenly the man sprang into focus; lean, muscular, dark-haired. He put a hand under her elbow, steadying her until she looked back at the stairs.
Huh.
The pair approached. Watching Celia walk into the light from the dimmer recesses was like seeing the sun rise. The vision of her slowly grew brighter, the yellow more vibrant, every part of her beautifully illuminating as she approached him. She shone, her light refilling him. He held his breath, not trusting himself to speak.
“León.” She cleared her throat, and her eyes flickered to the man beside her. “This is Carlos.”
The man reached out a dark hand, so León grudgingly accepted a firm handshake, making brief eye contact.
“If this is another delivery, I can tell you where to go.”
Huh.
“It’s not,” Celia said. “León and I…I know him.”
“Oh! Well, then, what is your priority today? How about that bed in your loft?”
León clenched his jaw.
Poised, Celia nodded at the man. Either she knew him well, or her social anxiety was better.
“I’ll get someone to finish putting it together.” he said. “Nice to meet you, León.” And back he swaggered up the stairs.
Wow, fuck Carlos.
Celia’s deep breath brought his attention back to her. Her hair was longer, he realized. Her tan had faded. Trivial details, changes made without him to witness, pierced him one by one. She had the freshness of a new butterfly, a dappled fawn. Her lips were perfect, the small cut long healed. Her coppery neck had no mark. There was no trace of him left on her.
She didn’t say anything, just giving him that somber waiting look of hers. There was a strength in her gaze that was also new. But her shoulders were too far back, her spine too straight. Her eyes flickered to his clean hands. She was nervous too.
He’d planned things to say, knowing he’d screw it up otherwise. “Celia.” He cleared his throat, the words coming out rougher than he’d intended. “I was thinking. I want to help here, like Andrew and the rest.”
Hazel eyes widening in their old way, Celia raised a hand to fidget with her necklace. It was a plain silver chain, no palette pendant. That was new too.
He swallowed. Jesus, let this work. “I could be a sort of ambassador for Incubadora to the neighborhood. I know the culture, the language. I could get people interested, or maybe find residents for you.”
Her eyes flickered with interest. She saw it, it could work! Then she hesitated, biting her lip.
“Why?” she asked.
That wasn’t a no!
León played the one card he had. “There are artists here who need help.”
A phone rang sharply, cutting through the moment. Fifteen feet away, Dolores answered, then held the phone out toward them. “Celia?”
Celia glanced between León and the phone, pulling harder on her necklace. León saw it biting a red line into her tender skin. Then she let it go and the mark faded.
“Okay,” she said to him, softly.
León took a step back, relief welling fiercely. She was going to give him a chance! Celia turned her face again toward Dolores and the call, and he decided to quit while he was ahead.
“I’ll be back,” he said, and beat a hasty retreat to the mild morning outside. He’d opened a door. Now it was up to Celia to decide how far she’d let him in.
···
Celia moved mechanically, accepting the phone with unfeeling fingers, her mind feverishly replaying the last five minutes.
León hadn’t brought up their fight. Was he going to pretend it never happened? If he wouldn’t mention it, she sure wouldn’t!
“It’s the caterer,” Dolores said. “She wants the grand opening date.”
Celia took the receiver and heard the caterer’s voice, a distant buzz. León’s sudden offer to help swirled in her like a brewing storm. She eyed the door he’d exited, his presence lingering in the room like a shadow. What was his game?
The caterer repeated a question, snapping Celia back to the present. Opening day? “December twenty first,” she answered.
Dolores’ brows arched in surprise as Celia ended the call. “So soon? There’s still so much work left undone.”
Celia raised her chin, tamping down the butterflies. “I’ll risk it.”
···
León got started immediately, going into each storefront in the block, talking about this new community art place opening soon. He didn’t tell them he knew the owner, but talked about Incubadora as though he was interested.
The full name, Incubadora de Artistas, often got chuckles and jokes about chickens and eggs. Well, it was too late to change it now. Celia had chosen it and what Celia wanted, Celia was going to get.
No one seemed concerned about trouble from a group of poor artists living nearby. Most cared more about whether there would be things for the community, like free art classes for kids. León filed every hope away to suggest later.
It was tiring, but he covered two long blocks on the first day.
As the week progressed, León quickly developed a pattern. First thing, every morning, he stopped in to see Celia.
She was perpetually the center of choreographed action, directing young men as they brought in beds or took away ladders. Getting fifteen minutes of her attention each day was a feat, but it kept him going.
León focused on his new role, showing her he was helping. He didn’t even consider painting her as the beating heart of the room, a steady rosy soul in a swirling flock of sparks. A lithe golden flame burning in a chaotic thunderstorm. A sunbeam of white pirouetting through a tangled green forest canopy. A pearl—okay, quit. He wasn’t thinking of painting.
He brought her the suggestions and concerns he’d heard. Bringing up their fight would have ruined the fragile peace, so he never did. Miraculously, neither did she.
At night, on Andrew’s couch, León would lay awake, overthinking every detail of their interactions. By day, he engaged with her neighbors, gathering goodwill and answering questions.
“Is it free there, like a museum?”
“Those artists will need a local bar. Point them my way, I’m closest.”
“They better not take up all the parking.”
At the church, Father Garcia said, “I know of a young artist. I’ll send him your way.”
···
Heads down at the front desk, Celia startled as León bounced through the door. He was followed by a young Hispanic man, slight and shy, his eyes darting around at the noisy construction. She spied paint on the young man’s hands and felt excitement bloom. An artist!
León eagerly introduced Hector, his voice laced with that old fervor as he described the intricate murals Hector had shown him. Father Garcia had personally recommended him, a young artist full of potential but held back by limited resources. Hector blushed at the accolades.
Dolores joined them to ask Hector the necessary questions, the conversation alternating between Spanish and English for reasons only Celia wasn’t privy to. She managed to follow enough that León’s zeal became clear. Hector was a good fit! He admitted he’d need his grandmother’s approval before moving out of her home but pledged to speak with her.
“Come and fill out the application,” Dolores told him. “I will help.” She raised her eyebrows as she turned away, shooting an excited glance at Celia. This could be their first resident!
León moved to follow, but Celia stopped him with a light hand on his arm. He jumped as though burned, those big dark eyes locking on her face.
She almost forgot what she was going to say.
“Thank you,” she murmured, then cleared her throat. “Could you help convince his grandmother? He’ll know other artists, and he could spread the word about Incubadora. He could be the ambassador we need.”
Pain flickered in his eyes. “I sort of thought I was the ambassador.”
Her heart sank. What a thing to have said!
Jaw set, he moved stiffly to the front desk, and she watched him walk away. Two weeks, and he hadn’t said anything personal once. Not even a knowing glance. He was like a stranger now, not a lover who had prodded her about art and honesty and need. They must truly be over.
···
León, dropping money on a ride-share, headed to Incubadora in the early morning to meet Hector. It was too cold and too early to suffer on what they called public transit around here.
He entered to look for Hector, scanning the room for Celia as always, and finally saw her in the back corner, scrubbing on her hands and knees. The smell of solvent drifted to him. She was getting paint off the floor.
He flashed instantly back to the studio room in her house, seeing the bend of her bare knee as she wiped up a drip of paint. He could feel a brush in his fingers, smell the wet colors on a canvas in front of him, and savor Celia, delightful Celia, real and glowing and warm in front of him.
He could go help her. She shouldn’t have to do that herself, she had other work. She was too good to clean up stupid paint.
He looked away forcefully, closing his eyes.
A tap on his shoulder startled him, and he turned to see Hector, face morose.
“Abuela contestó. No.”
His grandmother wouldn’t let him come? What a world this could be if the women would just let them paint.
León squared his shoulders. “Can I talk to her? Will she come here?”
“She might come,” Hector said. “But what can you say? I’ve explained already.” His thin frame was slumped, seeing opportunity slip away.
León pursed his lips. “What would help get her to agree?”
“She thinks art is okay, but having a job is more important.”
“Making art is a job. Two weeks ago I sold paintings for five thousand dollars.”
Hector’s eyes bulged. “For real? But you’ve been doing this for years. I just started.”
León patted him roughly on the back. “Dang, I’m not old! And that’s why you need this place. Imagine if your job was just painting!”
“I want to! But she said no.”
Celia wanted Hector, and she was getting Hector! “Then we’ve got to convince her! Show her how important this is!”
Wait. Ah, shit. Help her with what she wants, lolo.
León laid a hand more gently on Hector’s shoulder and leveled a look at him. “You’re going to figure out what she wants and help her get it,” he said. Hector blinked helplessly. “Show her you can both be happy with the decision. Like, we’ll explain the different jobs you can get as a skilled artist.”
Hector’s brow furrowed in reluctance. “But she also doesn’t like that you…well, you’re not from here. We don’t know you.”
“Only time can fix that one,” León admitted. “But, see, that means she’s protective of her community. Art is good for communities! What if we showed her that your murals can help it?”
“How?”
“Improve it! Make something prettier. Tell a story about your community for everyone.”
“I don’t have a good place to make a mural right now.”
“I’ll find you one.”
Hector was wavering, hope struggling to dawn on his face. “I don’t have enough paint either.”
“I’ll get you that too. Show me where you buy it.”
···
Celia had seen León in discussion and felt a pang as they exited. No morning talk, apparently. Maybe they’d be back soon.
She rose, bringing her cleaning rags to the front desk where Dolores was preparing to move her papers upstairs to the newly finished offices. Celia wiped her fingers with the cloth, absently watching the front door. Dolores picked up her box, then paused.
“You know that long-haired boy likes you, right?”
Celia tried hard to stop a smile. If only.
“He does,” Dolores insisted. “I’ve seen him looking at you when you don’t see.”
“He hides it well, then,” Celia answered.
She turned back to her tasks, calling her movers to confirm they would pack and deliver her home goods this weekend. The news predicted stormy weather, but Celia was bent on spending at least one night in her new home before opening. If the movers had to haul boxes in the rain, she’d just tip more.
···
Hector and León returned armed with spray paints and tips and masks, and León took Hector to the alley at the building’s side, looking for a surface no one would mind being decorated.
“It was illegal to paint a mural on your building until like ten years ago,” Hector said.
“Seriously?”
“People painted anyway. My cousin let me help him on one.”
“Did you tag, too?”
Hector looked around before answering. “A little. But street art gets painted over. I like to make something permanent.”
León eyed the fence in the alley. It probably didn’t belong to Celia. He certainly wasn’t going to offer the side of her building! However, twenty feet down the alley sat the solution.
A dumpster.
If Celia didn’t like it, he’d haul the thing away himself. And what proof for Hector’s grandmother! Art beautifying her community!
Hector offered León a pair of latex gloves, but he shook his head.
“This one’s all you, mano. Do your stuff, then we’ll get the women here to see.”
Hector began spraying on preliminary shapes, large scallops and circles. León pulled up a box near the alley fence and sat to enjoy the show. It wasn’t his style, it wasn’t his work, but it was still paint.
···
Kelsey came in to finalize the social media calendar. She’d given notice at La Creche last week, newly installed as Incubadora’s official promotions manager. The salary was competitive, a considerable bump up from retail stylist. Celia was just glad Kelsey had accepted without feeling weird about it.
They lined up colored sticky notes across the front desk, debating which posts should go out before others. The first would go live tonight, promoting the grand opening.
Celia leaned on the counter, but Kelsey sat to discuss the posts from memory, leaning back in the office chair, feet up on a box. Her belly was roundly noticeable as she approached five months pregnant.
“Why didn’t—” Celia started.
The front door whipped open as León bounded in, and her heart skipped a beat. Would that reaction never stop?
Kelsey didn’t even look up at the sound. “I can’t believe you didn’t know,” she said, eyes closed. “They’ve been off fishing for two weeks. Didn’t you notice how quiet the group chat was?”
León broke in, impatient. “Celia, can you come out and look at something?”
···
León held his breath as he watched her reaction, heart thumping hard.
Celia’s dumpster had been transformed, lively and vibrant. She stood solemnly, reading the story on it. At the bottom writhed a mass of dark green vines. Out of it, a bridge rose, soaring on recurring white arches like wings, flying to the top right where colorful flowers bloomed. The freehand wasn’t precise, obviously made swiftly with few paint colors. But the swirls and arcs were graceful, the colors harmonious.
“A white bridge,” she said.
León sucked in a breath, his stomach sinking. Damn. How had he forgotten her thing about bridges? But she didn’t get that lost look in her eyes; instead she turned a glowing smile on Hector.
“It’s beautiful.”
Hector stood taller, his slim shoulders straightening eagerly. “It’s the new bridge, sixth street.”
“Ya llegué, Hector.”
All turned to see Hector’s grandmother at the mouth of the alley, round in her bundled coat and a flowered plastic hood over her hair. Her grandson tripped to her side, their conversation quiet. Hector gestured in earnest, forearms colorful with overspray, his grandmother slowly shaking her head.
Celia watched wistfully, the lines of her body slowly drawing tighter. León felt his own body tense in response, his palms sweating. She wanted this. Let it happen. Let him see her happy again.
Hector led his grandmother closer, describing the swirls of color with hands and voice. She stopped some feet from the transformed dumpster.
“Pretty,” she said, then looked at Celia. “What Hector says, it’s true?”
Celia clasped her hands at her chest, eyes hopeful. “We have space here, a place to live. Free. So he can make more art like this.”
León bounced on the balls of his feet. “Hector has talent! This could be the start of his career.”
“There are teachers here,” Hector added. “And León made thousands of dollars selling paintings.”
“Imagine these streets, alive with Hector’s murals,” León said.
Hector’s grandmother looked at each of them in turn, then slowly nodded. “Vale. Okay,” she said. The intake of breath from all of them was audible. “But he comes back for dinner on Sundays.”
Hector whooped and hugged her, but León glanced immediately at Celia. Look at her—the light in her eyes, the lift of her chin, that true glow he’d only seen a few times. His heart swelled as her quiet joy filled him up.
Incubadorahad its first resident artist.