Twenty Nine
Thunder grumbled through the night sky, and up in her quiet loft, Celia smiled.
Golden lamplight pooled against red brick, little amber halos warming places that mattered. The watery blue silk comforter on her bed, way off in the corner, shimmered under a single pendant’s warm sunset hues. In the room’s center, yellow couches faced off across a low glass table set with glowing punched-tin lanterns. Her artichoke-green dining chairs basked in rows under the modern copper chandelier.
It didn’t all match, but she had picked furniture that spoke to her. This was her place.
When she’d needed healing yesterday, a safe place on her first day of official estrangement, she’d had her loft. Her Incubadora. Her new life.
Tomorrow was her grand opening, and that would be a first day too.
Lightning strafed the windows like fireworks.
The weather reports had been correct, and Celia’s movers had indeed hauled everything in the wet and cold. They finished before the heavens opened, torrential rains snarling traffic and giving Celia another reason to appreciate her new sanctuary. No commute!
She ignored the unfamiliar creakings and tappings, the lashing of water down the big windows. Tonight, she could spend a few hours on her own, unpacking. It was a special treat she’d been looking forward to all day.
She turned on music and pulled a dining chair into the empty space she had yet to address. No closer to being filled with the equipment of a certain painter, it had been the obvious place to stack her well-labeled moving boxes.
Sitting to open the first one, she pulled out the bottle of red wine she’d been looking forward to. Was this what Christmas mornings were supposed to feel like?
No, Christmas Eve. Tomorrow’s opening was the main festivity. The work was done, everything was prepared. She wasn’t nervous. She was excited.
Then the power crackled off, snuffing out the lights and music and low hum of the heater. In an instant, she was sitting alone in a blackened warehouse.
The streetlights were out too. She had candles and flashlights, but they were still packed in boxes that now looked exactly the same. She had a space heater but no power. She’d unpacked her pantry when the boxes first arrived, but it was just ingredients like flour and vinegar, nothing useful against the dark.
Oh lord, the catered food! The fridges on the second floor were full of appetizers. If the power didn’t come back, it might not be safe to serve tomorrow.
She hadn’t been less prepared for something in decades. It was unsettling to be plunged into inadequacy.
She used her phone to prowl around tall stacks of boxes, looking for a label indicating something useful, but being hemmed in felt creepy, like she couldn’t see something coming at her. The bright light on close cardboard ruined her night vision and threw tall, wavering shadows on the walls.
She gave up and felt for her chair, deciding to reach out on the group chat. Normalcy would help.
Andrew and Trevor immediately offered to drive over, but with this traffic, it would take them hours to get there from Trevor’s Los Feliz apartment. Kelsey was even further away in West Hollywood. León, however, was still near, his ride-share from her neighborhood stuck in outbound traffic like everyone else. He called instantly.
“Hey, I’ll come back. What do you need?”
It was a relief to hear the offer, but Celia balked. Alone with León in her dark loft? She was already too vulnerable.
“No, I’m okay. The power will probably come right back on, and I’m worrying over nothing.”
“Are you safe? Does your security system work with no power?”
She had to think. “I haven’t had time to get super familiar with it, but it has to, right? Otherwise, people could just disable them by cutting power.”
He chuckled. “Good point. I could come worry with you, you know.”
“No. Thank you..”
“Call if you change your mind, then.” And he ended the call.
Celia was briefly surprised, expecting more cajoling. She’d said no, and he’d listened. Huh.
She looked into the blackness of her cooling loft, hearing the rattle of wind-driven rain on the large windows. The power might not be back on within the hour. Los Angeles’ infrastructure wasn’t always the best at handling heavy rainstorms.
León would come back if she asked. He was getting further away by the minute, and the longer she waited, the longer it would take. Not that she wanted him here.
The random hiss of palm trees in the wind kept startling her. And what kept tapping on the black windows? That staircase was so exposed, yawning down into all that empty space.
She made it ten minutes before texting him.
In twenty minutes, he was at the front door. She opened it by the glare of her phone, starkly lighting the water streaming off him. He juggled slick plastic bags from a convenience store, handing her an emptier one.
“Candles,” he explained. “And a lot of ice. I thought it might help the refrigerators.”
She wanted to give him a wondering glance but concentrated on lighting the stairs. “How did you know I was worried about them?”
“You mentioned the food here this morning. Figured you’d be thinking about it.”
She heard him shift the bags again. They must be cold in his arms. “Sorry about hauling it up so many flights.”
He chuckled behind her. “New York is nothing but stairs. I’ve lived in walk-ups higher than this.”
They stopped on the second floor to put ice as quickly as possible into each refrigerator. They were new and still plenty cold inside. It relieved her, knowing that if ice remained when the power came back on, likely the food was still safe.
They climbed the last flight together. Time slowed, and her skin prickled with goosebumps.
She whisked ahead at the top landing, ducking into the pantry, her phone’s light swinging unexpectedly along the walls. León was stripping off his soaked jacket when she emerged with crumpled newspaper and a few cans of food.
“Here,” she said. “It’s all I have to dry off with.” She caught a glimpse of amused black eyes and dripping hair before turning to the stovetop with the cans.
“You’re not going to try to heat those, are you?”
The rustle of newspaper scrubbing over his head was loud in the darkness.
“No,” she said. “I don’t have any saucers for candles.”
Oh hell. No matches, and her stove was gas.
León, however, pulled a lighter from the bag. It took a few tries as it’d gotten damp, but soon a small forest of candles was stuck to cans of coconut milk and black beans and set out on the dining table.
Celia was less nervous now that he was here. A friend, here to help. But still, her body tensed. They had been getting along, sort of! She couldn’t stand a fight with him, not tonight, not with tomorrow looming.
She sat at the long table, candlelight reflecting off its glass top and glowing softly through it onto the floor. León sat at the end, leaving a corner between them.
A loud sheet of rain drummed against the inky black windows, and León looked up at the sound. Celia sneaked an extended glance at him. His skin shone golden in the candlelight, his alert eyes as inky as the windows, tendrils of wet hair stuck to his neck. That sight had always done things to her, and she shivered.
He looked back to her sooner than she’d expected, the force of his eyes on hers like a little kick, that impish twist of his lips giving her a hollow feeling in her stomach. Who was she kidding? They weren’t friends.
Through the glass table, she could see his hands resting between his knees, fingers intertwined but fidgety. For a second, she felt his fingertips trailing over her bare skin, with that faint rasp of paint traces so uniquely León. Two minutes sitting with him, and she was already like this? She jumped up, his surprised eyes following her.
“There’s not a lot of options,” she said, “but I’m sure there’s something I could cook for us.” She walked to the kitchen island as though to start looking.
“If anyone could pull something together, it’s you,” he said.
She closed her eyes. If he was going to pull that fake friendly bullshit tonight, she’d scream.
His voice was too casual. “What are you going to do about tomorrow? Is there a contingency plan for no power?”
She gripped the counter out of his sight, tension burning in her, starting to feel angry but not at León. Here she went again, her old mental floundering. When would she know what she wanted? Was casual better than his old forceful, possessive intensity? Was she hoping for comfort or closure?
“Celia?”
What am I feeling, dammit?
She looked at him over her shoulder, seeing his brows lower in concern. The sight set blood rushing through her. This was León. She was sick of pretending he was just a friend like Andrew. She wanted seduction and distance and comfort all at the same time. She wanted to yell until he turned honest again.
He started to rise from his chair, but she waved him back, and he sat placidly on command. The diplomacy was getting old.
Provocation it would be.
“I only have this handy,” she said, grabbing the bottle of wine off the counter. In vino veritas, right? Caution was about to be thrown to the winds. She walked back to the table and set the wine before him.
“Red so it doesn’t have to be chilled, twist top so it doesn’t need a corkscrew. I don’t have any glasses unpacked, though.” His eyes, looking up at her, had turned deadly serious. “It’ll warm us, at least.” She unscrewed the cap, knuckles white, and set it between them with more clatter on the table than she’d intended.
Never breaking eye contact, he reached for the bottle and took a long swallow, then passed it to her as she sat.
Something was finally going to happen, good or bad.