Color Me Pretty

by C. M. Stunich

  “You may not be able to,” Emmett says, eyes flickering over to my face and every now and again. “They're going to believe what they want to believe. We may have to just try and move past them and let bygones be bygones.”

  “I love that you say bygones,” I tell him, letting my family troubles slide away. “And dope and stellar and … most especially we.” Emmett's lips turn up in a grin, and he reaches over for just a brief moment to take my hand and press a kiss to my knuckles. “But I don't know if they're ever going to speak to me again.” I don't say that they blame Emmett, that they find him disgusting. He already knows that.

  “They will,” he promises, and then his face gets kind of weird, and a little chill niggles its way into my belly. I sit up straight and look at him, waiting patiently for something terrible to come crashing down around my head. “Claire,” he breathes, and I feel so sick, I want to throw up. Emmett's voice is full of fear. He thinks that whatever it is he's going to tell me will frighten me, too. My first thought, of course, is new girlfriend followed closely by old girlfriend, but I force myself away from these thoughts. That kiss in the lobby … that wasn't faked. It's impossible to pretend with something like that. I touch a finger to my lips for further reassurance. “I want to ask you something, but I also want you to know that if you need to, you can say no.”

  I stay silent and continue to stare. I can't even imagine where this is going.

  “You've been through a lot, and I hate to spring this on you, but I … ” Emmett wets his lips and raises his left hand to adjust the brown beanie he's got on.

  “Just spit it out,” I tell him. My stomach is rumbling, and I know that I have to eat soon. I have to or my body will get used to resisting and it will be too, too easy to just go back to doing what I've been doing. Emmett won't make me, so I have to make myself. That's what I've always had to do. After all, it's impossible to help someone who won't help herself.

  “My father is coming into town,” Emmett blurts, and then groans, deep and low, like he can't even believe he just said that. I think of his scars and why he has them. I only got the most condensed version of the story, but all of that pain, that's from Emmett's father. Like the slice of cake I had a conversation with, Emmett needs to confront his source and have a nice, long talk. I don't know that then. All I think is that this is all a coincidence. Later, I realize that in his desperation, in that brief time period where he thought I might actually be dead, Emmett saw his pain simmering beneath the surface. He's okay on the outside, but deep down, he has one last bit of healing to take care of. This, this is it. If he's going to help me, really help me, he has to make sure he's free and clear first. That's his motivation. “He wants to go to dinner tomorrow night. Would you … like to go?”

  Hell to the fuck no, is kind of what I want to say, but I can't. I have to go. Somehow, I sense that maybe today, now, Emmett might need me as much as I need him. He feels guilty for it; it's written all over his face, but there it is and there's nothing he can do about it.

  “The timing is shit, and I don't even really want to go, but he says he's getting married again, and I … ”

  “I'll go,” I say. “But only if I get a wig first.” I pause. “And one of my gowns. Some recon might be in order.” Emmett nods, and he smiles, and at first, he looks relieved, but then I see a bit of sweat on his forehead. It scares me a little if I'm honest with myself because normally Emmett just … is, and he exists on a plane where no pain can reach him. This is showing me that yeah, he's still human, and hey, we all have periods in our lives where things aren't perfect, but we can get through it. We have to. Life isn't a single race where everything is won or lost; it's a series of trials where we gather together our various accomplishments until our last breath. It's then and only then that we get to look back and decide if we've earned a medal.

  Emmett Sinclair intends to take first place.

  Me, I'm still figuring things out.

  “I have no idea how I'm going to get my stuff back. If I have to, though, I'll sneak in and take it.” I shrug and Emmet smiles.

  “I don't know if that's necessary,” he tells me. He refuses to elaborate as we wind our way home. When I get there, when I open the purple door and step inside the living room, I find a mountain of blue fabric and a sewing machine.

  I get acquainted with my new machine while Emmett cooks me dinner.

  It's like I never left.

  He cooks fish, even weighs out our portions, steams some veggies, brings me cups of tea when I ask. The sounds and smells from the kitchen terrify me at the same time they thrill me. That anger I felt before is gone, replaced with a sense of urgency, like if I can't fix my life now, when am I going to fix it? I sit there and I let Emmett play some weird hippie music on the stereo, and I smile. I smile so much that my face hurts.

  “You're fucking precious,” I tell him when he comes into the living room and rests his chin on my head. My nasty, balding head. I resist the urge to pull away. As if he senses this, Emmett touches his hands to either side of my skull and presses a kiss against the fuzzy, orange-red bits that are sprouting up across my scalp.

  “And you're fucking beautiful.”

  I try my best not to bark out a harsh laugh and instead, change the subject.

  “I've been trying to thread this needle for over an hour.” Emmett chuckles and moves over to kneel next to me, so that he can see what's going on in this wild mess I've made of his coffee table. Across from me, the fire crackles gently, promising that the rain outside will fade eventually, and one day it will be sunny again. For now, it says, you can use my warmth. I equate this analogy to me and Emmett.

  “A half an hour,” he says which is probably true. Time runs differently when you're frustrated. I watch with simple fascination as Emmett reaches over and takes the blue thread from me, winding it around the machine and through the needle with little effort. When he's finished, he looks over at me with a soft smile. “I took home ec in high school.”

  “Of course you did,” I tell him as he rises to his feet and returns to the kitchen to check on our food. I, on the other hand, do my best not to think about it or the anticipation will kill me. Sure, last night I ate a slice of chocolate cake, but so what? I'm not about to throw myself on the plate like a starving wolf. Baby steps. I have to keep taking baby steps. “But I,” I begin as I hold up the massive lump of fabric. I wonder if Emmett saw my drawing, knew to pick blue from those first, crazy sketches. I decide not to ask. A little mystery is always nice. “Did not. There's no way in hell I can get anything sewn in time for tomorrow night.”

  “Nah, not even if you were good at it.” When I turn around to glare at him, he winks at me. “I didn't know what to get, so I grabbed a few things. Check the closet.” When he sees my hesitation, he adds, “My closet.” He knows I'm not ready to go back into my bedroom, not yet. I don't want to see the empty mess my parents left, feel the old pain swirling around across the wood floors. Somehow, I've convinced myself that if I go anywhere I've been before, anywhere I experienced unstable emotions or deplorable melancholia, that I'll relapse. It's kind of stupid, but that's the way it is.

  I stand up and stretch, enjoying the fact that I'm now dressed solely in one of Emmett's flannel shirts and a pair of panties. I feel sexier this way. Even though the shirt is baggy, it doesn't feel frumpy. It's like I'm hiding behind this fabric not because I'm ashamed of my body, but rather so I can tease Emmett's. That thought makes me smile as I raise my arms above my head and the hem of the shirt rides up my thighs.

  The illusion shatters when I glance down and see those two, pale twigs holding me precariously above the ground. I snap my eyes closed and drop my arms, wrapping them around my chest as I catch my breath. Luckily, Emmett doesn't see any of this.

  “I think this fish is just about done,” he says to me, back turned, eyes focused on the foil wrapped pan he's just pulled from the oven. I shake my head to snap myself out of my funk and force my bare feet across the wood floors a
nd into Emmett's room. I don't turn the light on and instead, lean my shoulder against the door frame as I gaze at the organized mess before me. Dirty clothes are piled on one side of the bed, clean clothes on the other. The bedding is wrinkled, but it's made, and the whole place smells fresh and clean – Emmett's signature smell. This room holds only good memories for me. The memory of Emmett's scalding flesh pressed tightly against mine, the rhythm of his hips.

  I take a deep breath and move forward.

  Inside the closet, it's dark, but if I shift sideways, a bit of gray light leaks in from the window and illuminates a colorful array of dresses hung right in front, sandwiched between men's shirts on either side.

  Tears come to my eyes then, but only because I wasn't expecting this.

  Five designer gowns hang before me, dressed in plastic, outfitted with tags.

  None of them are mine, I know, because I have my entire collection committed to memory. These are all new, brand new.

  “I hope I got the right brands,” Emmett says as I reach out brush my fingers down the plastic. When he comes up behind me and takes me in his arms, my entire body goes numb with shame. I don't deserve this kind of treatment. I've never been that nice of a person. Kindness is wasted on me. Vaguely, I remember Kylie's words. Punishment. My anorexia is a punishment.

  I choke on my own voice as Emmett turns me around and takes my face between his hands. He holds me there for awhile, looking into my eyes while I look away. Time slows briefly.

  “I don't deserve any of this,” I whisper, and seemingly in response to my words, the rain outside doubles down and slams the roof of the house with thick, heavy drops. They match the ones trailing down my cheeks.

  “You deserve more,” Emmett tells me, but I'm already protesting.

  “I got you fired.”

  “You got me the job.”

  “You don't have any money.”

  “I have lots of it.”

  I stare at him, and he stares back at me.

  “Liar,” I whisper, and he smiles. I really like the way he looks in the darkness, like he's glowing from the inside or something. I swear, I can see every feature of his face as if its limned in moonlight.

  “Okay, well, maybe. Just a little. I have a lot of credit I guess I should say.”

  “I think I love you,” I tell him, and I mean it. Truly. And it's not about the dresses, not really. It's about the idea of the dresses, the symbolism of them. Emmett's eyebrows go up and his mouth parts, but I don't let him speak. Instead, I seal my words with a kiss, running my tongue along his teeth, tasting him, drinking him in.

  It only takes a second for him to return the favor, squeezing me tight, so tight that I feel like I'm going to break. But I don't. I can't break while Emmett's holding me; it's impossible. He's just too strong to let me fall. I'm so glad that I gave him the time of day when I was standing in that stupid line at the mall. All those other girls are missing out, even the ones that made the cut. Emmett Sinclair is much better than a modeling gig.

  As soon as this thought escapes me, I gasp, and I try to pull away, but Emmett doesn't let me and my revelation settles hot and heavy around me while his hands find my back and my arms encircle his neck. I don't want to admit it to anyone, least of all myself, but those few days of eating and that damn feeding tube have given me back some of my strength. I'm not passing out anymore or getting dizzy. Yes, I'm still tired, and no, I'm not ready to run a marathon, but I'm certainly up for this. I'd always be up for this.

  I step back and pull Emmett by the hand, bringing him to the edge of the bed where I lay down and welcome him into my arms, enjoying the feeling of hot, warm, weight above me. His shirt comes off right away and my fingers don't waste even a second before they find his muscles and start to trace the crevasses between them, the hills and valleys of his belly. He doesn't know it, but I revel in his health, in the solid feel of him.

  Our gentle kisses become more frenzied as he unbuttons his jeans and kicks off the designer shoes he bought just for me, just to please me. I'm more than happy to participate until he gets ready to take my shirt off. My underwear, sure, get those away from me, so we can keep going, so we can melt into each other's arms and find solace in a place that's just outside of this world. But my shirt? No. I can't.

  I tell Emmett this, and he sits back, one knee propped on the bed, pants open, sweat pouring down the sides of his face. He worries at his lip and slides one hand up to his hair. The beanie comes off and goes flying – into the dirty clothes pile, of course.

  “It's okay, Claire,” he tells me, and that phrase makes goose bumps spring up all across my pale skin. Now that I know what he means by it, that simple phrase has transformed into something much more complex, something capable of bringing down my walls and destroying my pain. All I have to do is let it. It's okay. I understand you. I'm just like you, and I overcame it. You are not alone, and it is going to be okay. It's going to be alright.

  I touch my fingers to Emmett's white scars, the ones that are nearly invisible in this light, and I close my eyes, take a deep breath.

  He lifts my arms above my head and slides his hands under my shirt, scalding my flesh as he goes, burning me deep, scarring me forever. But it's a good thing, this ardent heat. I only wish I had the strength to do the same to him.

  I let Emmett undress me, but I don't look at him, not even as he steps back and drops his jeans to the floor. I have just enough willpower to keep my breathing solid and my heart thumping. After this, he's going to ask me to eat, I know he is, and I'm going to have to. The difficulty of that should make this easy. All I have to do is let him see me as I am.

  My eyes flicker open as Emmett drops his mouth to mine and kisses the hell out of me. He doesn't give me time to worry or be self-conscious, only to be. Just to be.

  He slides his warm body into mine and joins us together, bringing me to the edge over and over, until I've got tears pouring down my face, until my nails are digging into his flesh and drawing blood. All of the pain I have inside is nothing against this rush of pleasure, this cleansing of fire. Tangled bodies and greedy mouths, hands that can't stop touching, feeling, because they know that the person you are is only half visible, that underneath, there's someone else altogether. Emmett touches my soul, and I let him.

  “I'm glad you're still here, Claire,” he says and these are the only words either of us speak because they're too powerful to be followed up, too true to be answered. Inside, I know that I am, too, that I'm glad I didn't die that night lying on a bathroom floor with an empty heart and bloody arms. Emmett saved me then, and he'll save me now, take me as far as he can. I have to make sure that when I get there, I'm ready to walk the rest of the way on my own two feet.

  We switch places, so that I'm on top and Emmett is beneath me, trapped between my knees, one hand on my ass, the other in my hair. I ride him until the pleasure becomes painful and breaks, like waves against the shore, bringing us closer together, drawing a scream from my throat and a groan from his.

  Afterward, Emmett disappears and comes back with a plate, padding naked across the floor and slipping into the bed next to me. He doesn't say anything, but he does hand me the fork and watches as I bring a bite to my lips, just one single bite. Emmett isn't an orderly, isn't there to pass judgment or make me do things. He lets me do what I need to do and then holds me while I cry. And I cry. And I cry. When I'm finished, I'm pretty sure that there's nothing left to cry about.

  Guess we'll see about that.

  The next morning when I wake up, Emmett is gone and there's a note on the counter. Job interview, it says, and I smile. Emmett Sinclair doesn't waste any time. He lives each day like it's his last, like he should cram in as much living as humanly possible. I kind of love that about him. I, on the other hand, am not that way, not anymore. I actually end up sitting naked in the chair in the living room, wearing only the twin bandages on my wrists, staring at the sewing machine while I try to rearrange the thoughts in my head. They've been focuse
d for so long on modeling that I don't know what to do with them now. Do I go to college in the fall? If so, what do I study? Should I take up photography? Design?

  As I work my way through possible scenarios, I get the sense that life, if done right, is more questions than answers, more possibility than certainty. That scares the crap out of me.

  I scoot forward and pick up the fabric, dragging it away from the table and laying it out on the floor. There's an awful lot of it, like enough to cover a king sized bed. I stand over it, wondering if I should get dressed. Part of me is desperate to, so I don't accidentally catch sight of my withering body. The other half of me thinks I should stay this way, get used to being in this foreign skin. I am not fat. I am skinny. Too skinny. I swallow hard and glance over my shoulder at the kitchen. Somehow, I know that I should be proud of myself, that for an anorexic, I'm making quick progress, but I actually feel like a miserable failure. If I hadn't made so many mistakes in the first place, I wouldn't be here. How can I be proud of climbing out of a hole I, myself, dug?

  I sigh and settle on a glass of iced tea. It's not food, no, and it doesn't have any calories, but it's the best I can do right now. I drink the whole thing and set it on the counter, pausing as the doorbell sounds and echoes around the quiet house.

  That scares the crap out of me.

  One, quick peep through the curtains, and I spot my sister's car in the driveway.

  Fuck.

  I could pretend that nobody's here, sure, but she won't stop coming; she'll never stop coming.

  I storm into Emmett's room and grab one of his shirts and a pair of boxers. When I finally do open the door, Marlena seems surprised to see me there.

  Her hair is down today and gently curled around her face, making her blue eyes pop from her pale face. She's got on a form fitting black dress and a string of pearls. Pretty inappropriate for early afternoon. I wonder where it is she's going. A cocktail party? That's what it looks like, though I doubt it. I bet she wore that ensemble to work. I close my eyes and try to stop passing judgment on my sister. I'm mad at her, still hate her, but I've got to stop doing this. Bringing down others will not lift me up.