Color Me Pretty

by C. M. Stunich

  “I think you're selling yourself short,” I tell him, wishing I was half as stable as he is. Emmett Sinclair is like a rock at the edge of the shore, and I am the waves that crash over and around it, desperate to be a part of something different but unable to make the change. Yup. That's me. “If you weren't as strong as you are, you'd have walked away from me already. And I wouldn't have blamed you.”

  “Claire Simone,” he says, and at first he tries to play around with me, to make it a joke, but he can't and his face gets all serious. “It would be a lot harder to walk away from you than you think. Now who's selling herself short?”

  “But my friends,” I begin. “My family … ” My argument's over before it even started. I want to scream out a list of names, call upon all the people that have abandoned me, but none of them have, not a single one. See, that's the pain talking, just that little, round circle of pain.

  “Leanne and Jenn came to the hospital, you know? Did your family tell you that?” I look up at Emmett and watch his face. He brushes hair from my eyes, and smiles down at me. I don't have to answer that question; he knows. My family didn't bother to mention that, even though it would've meant a lot to me. They think they care about me, but right now, they're all using that love and affection for the betterment of themselves. As soon as they get it, as soon as they realize that it's not all about good intentions and selfish need, we'll make up. We have to. I want a happily ever after. I deserve one. I think. “You should call them tomorrow and have them come over.”

  “I want to go to the tree house,” I tell Emmett. “But maybe the day after?”

  “The day after is perfect,” he says and that's that.

  We get in the car and drive to the restaurant together. On the radio, Never Too Late by Three Days Grace plays, giving me chills up and down my arms. The music's powerful enough and hits so close to home that I have to change the channel before I start bawling. It's kind of pathetic really. I end up pausing on a country music station and listening to a song I don't really like.

  I can't show Emmett, but the closer we get to the restaurant, the more afraid I get. My pulse quickens and my head starts to spin. But I'm going to do this for him. He's done more than enough for me; I owe him this. I pause on that thought and rewind it. No, I don't owe Emmett anything. He's doing what he's doing because he … cares about me. So I should do the same. If I do this because of a debt then I'm simply remitting payment, and that's not it at all.

  I fold my hands together in my lap and worry simultaneously about whether my upper arms are too fat or too skinny. It's disconcerting to say the least.

  The restaurant that Emmett takes us to is on the north side of town, situated in a historic building jammed between a shoe shop and a clothing boutique. I've never been over here before, but the designer clothes in the windows clue me in to the fact that this is a pretty swanky area.

  A valet takes the car and Emmett holds out his arm for me, letting me wrap my fingers around him for strength as I push my feet forward and try not to trip on my new gown. That would just be the icing on the cake for me. Claire Simone does not trip on her clothes. That's modeling 101 for sure.

  The front doors are opened for us by a man in a suit, ushering us into a coat room where I'm forced to give up my shawl. I part with it reluctantly and feel suddenly like my shoulders are the talk of the entire building, that everyone is staring. They're not really, but that's how it feels. God, I think as I pinch the bit of skin next to my armpit. Look at that fucking chicken wing. I must look pitiful trying to play dress up. This is In-between Claire's thought. New Claire thinks about how horribly skinny she is and how she should've worn something with straps. I ignore In-between Claire and force New Claire to shut the hell up. Fat is fairly difficult to work with – it takes exercise and dieting. Skinny, on the other hand, just has to freaking eat. If I'm worried about it, I should just stuff a steak down my throat.

  The thought makes me physically ill.

  I bring up my new mantra and repeat it over and over and over again in my head. It helps. A little.

  Live for them. Live for him. Live for me.

  I squeeze Emmett's arm hard, letting him guide me around tables and past plate after plate after plate of food. My mind spins with numbers and aggressive thoughts. Look at that woman, already fat as hell, with a freaking rack of lamb in front of her. Doesn't she know that even that amount has 250 calories, 180 of them from fat? Is she freaking delusional?

  I keep a smile on my face and try to convince both Emmett and myself that nothing is wrong. My legs are shaking and my armpits are slick with sweat, but no, I'm perfectly fine. Really. Just peachy.

  Emmett stops suddenly and just stares, focusing his eyes on a single table in the back left corner. There's a small booth there with a high backed seat, red as sin. The people sitting in it are plain enough, unremarkable. There's a man with a balding head and a halo of white hair talking with a woman who's probably younger, but not by a lot. They seem happy, normal. Then I glance over at Emmett and see a sheen of sweat on his forehead. His eyes are locked onto this couple, frozen and unblinking. It takes him a few minutes to snap out of it.

  “You alright?” I ask him, wishing I had the strength to hold him the same way he holds me. But I can't. All I can do is follow him around and stay in control of myself, do my best not to make things worse. We make our way over to the table, slowly, purposely dragging our feet along the dark, burgundy carpeting. Emmett isn't ready. He's preparing himself, but he's not ready.

  When we finally do reach the edge of the table and pause there, he's back to normal, smiling and steady, strong, impenetrable. I see right through it. If Emmett has an Achilles' heel, this is it.

  “Emmett,” his father says, rising from the table and holding out his hand for a shake. Emmett takes it, but instead, leans in close and gives the man a hug. It surprises them both, I think, but there it is. It's awkward, but it works. I keep smiling. There's no warmth in it, but at least it's better than an all out grimace. The smells here are intense and they're making me sick. This is ten times worse than the dining room at Crescent Springs because these sights, these smells are actually enticing. I want this stuff and that makes it all worse. I thought it would be easier, but I was wrong. Feeling like I'm eating out of duty, out of responsibility, simply to keep myself alive and functioning is one thing. Eating just to eat? Even the thought makes me crazy. I start to curse that piece of cake. Blaming it makes me feel better.

  “Ted,” Emmett responds, using his father's first name instead of his title, a subtle but obvious decision. The woman watches this exchange with pale, blue eyes that twinkle a bit when she focuses them on Ted. Whatever it was he's done in the past, I would guess he's stopped doing it now. But then again, what do I know? This chick could have Stockholm Syndrome or something. “I'd like to introduce you to my girlfriend, Claire Simone.” Emmett doesn't hesitate when he gives me that illustrious title. Girlfriend. It makes my skin tingle and sends a little thrill down my spine. Is that what I am? Is it official? My smile changes, becomes more genuine.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Sinclair,” I say, extending my hand. The old man smiles and it twists the skin on his face just enough that I know this isn't an expression he's used often in his life. He has frown lines for days, but no smile lines. Is it this woman that's changed things for him or something else? It's hard to say. I assume clues will come out during dinner. They usually do. When people are around food, they hardly think with clear heads.

  “Miss Simone,” Ted says, pressing a dry kiss to my knuckles and holding out his hand to indicate his lady friend. “Allow me to introduce you to my fiancée, Liza Cantrell.” I remove my fingers from Ted's grip and present them to Liza. She shakes my hand with a weak grip – bad sign. She doesn't stand up nor does she shake with Emmett. Hmm. “Please, sit down.” Ted scoots closer to Liza and Emmett climbs in after him, holding out his hand for me to take. As I do, I make sure to look into his eyes, to capture his gaze with mine and le
t him know that no matter what, I'm here. I might not be able to carry him through, but I also won't abandon him. He gets this, I think, and he smiles bright.

  A waiter approaches before there's a chance to really start any dialogue and pours us all a glass of Chardonnay without checking ID. I'm not one to complain and Emmett says nothing, so I drink up. I think I'm going to need this to get through the evening. Seventy-five calories. I push the number aside.

  Menus are placed before us and my heart leaps into my throat.

  Oh. My. Fucking. God. I don't think I can do this.

  I take another sip of my wine.

  “So, Claire,” Liza begins, taking charge of what may turn out to be an incredibly awkward conversation. My hands tighten around the menu, stiff as iron, but I manage to look Liza in the face and keep a smile on my lips. At first, this woman seemed okay, but now … I'm not so sure. She may be a little seedy for my tastes. I pry one of my hands off the sheet of cream paper and wrap it around the stem of my wine glass. “What is it you do for a living?” I have no clue what to say, so I just sit there and stare. Fortunately, Emmett comes to my rescue.

  “Claire's a model,” he says, and immediately, I see judgments being passed. Oh, look how skinny she is. She must be anorexic. I wonder if she ever eats? It's there, all there, written across Liza's pale face, her rounded cheeks, her surgically enhanced jawline. I remain calm on the outside but inside, I simmer. People have always assumed that I was anorexic because of the whole modeling thing. Sometimes I wonder if their judgments had any influence on the fact that I actually became one. Another sip of wine goes down the hatch.

  “Oh? That's interesting,” Liza says, icy blonde hair arranged softly around her face. It drips like icicles onto her shoulders and compliments the royal blue color of her dress. She might be a few decades older than me, but she's prettier. That's your insecurity talking, Claire, I tell myself, but I don't listen, not really. “Who have you modeled for?”

  “Claire's just starting out,” Emmett interjects, and I think he's actually regretting bringing that up. I don't blame him. That's all I've been defining myself by, modeling. I don't even know who to be without it. That's something I'm going to have to figure out soon if I'm going to make it through this. Do I continue to strive for that ideal, even though it's detrimental to my health and the person I ultimately want to be? That's a hard decision to make. I thought I would die for my dream, and I was right: I almost did. The question is, was it worth it? Emmett changes the subject and gives my thigh a squeeze under the table. “So, Ted, what brings you to town? It's been, what, four years? Five? I haven't heard from you since I left Connecticut.” Emmett's voice sounds pleasant, but his words are a double-edged sword. Why didn't you come find me sooner, Dad? Don't you care about me? Why did you do those terrible things?

  Ted smiles, but he uses the waiter as an excuse, training his eyes on the man's face and telling him that yes, we are indeed ready to order. The man starts with Liza and begins to move his way towards me. I look down at the page and suddenly, I can no longer read the English language. Everything just blurs together into this tangled mess of black symbols and cream paper. Sweat pours down my nose, drips from the tip and hits the page. Nobody notices, but Emmett.

  “It'll be okay,” he whispers into my ear, pushing aside the ruby red waves of the wig. “Just order something with a weird name or the most expensive thing on the menu. It doesn't even have to be about the food, just pick something you can't pronounce. You don't have to eat it if you don't want to.” Emmett pauses and presses a kiss to my neck. Meanwhile, the waiter gets over to him and waits patiently. I guess in a swanky place like this, he has no choice. Rich people do a lot of stupid things. I bet he's seen worse. Still, I don't particularly like being stared at, so I take Emmett's advice and blurt out an order before he even gets a chance to say his.

  “I'll take the roasted duck with the broccoli rabe,” I say, even though I have no clue what the hell broccoli rabe even is. What I do know is that duck has over 500 freaking calories per breast. Great. Good choice, Claire. I slam my menu down on the table like I've just completed a marathon. Emmett kisses my cheek and orders his own food.

  I hardly notice any of it. For the next thirty minutes, I sit still as a statue and think only about the food and the calories and how I'm going to feel obligated to eat because of Liza. She keeps staring at me, judging me for being too skinny. While the rest of the restaurant judges you for being too fat. I blink, nice and slow, try to get my emotions under control. The blue in my fingernails might be starting to fade and I might not be blacking out anymore, but this double doubt thing has got to stop. I can't do this anymore; it really is going to kill me.

  So I touch the lace gloves on my wrists and thank Emmett a million times over for thinking of buying them. The scars aren't so bad, not really, but they're pretty obvious, dark against my pale skin. And the stitches don't help much either. I look like a Tim Burton creation or something, like I'm the Corpse Bride's distant relative. Besides, it's not really a topic I want to get into, and I can pretty much guarantee that Liza is the type to pry. I keep my wrists flat on the table, just in case. Something about her reminds me of Marlena, like she's scavenging for information.

  Emmett's father doesn't acknowledge his son's previous question and starts going off about his car rental business and how well things are going, etc., etc. Emmett pretends to be interested, but he's not. His eyes are distant, and I notice that his hands are worrying at the sleeves of his shirt, like he's trying to touch his scars, to remember that they're there, so he knows that this pretty, little dinner is all an illusion.

  I lean my head against his shoulder for support.

  Ted doesn't seem to care that there are other people at the table and pretty much talks nonstop until the food arrives. He doesn't see that his son wants, needs, to have a discussion with him. He just says what he wants to say, everyone else be damned. I watch Liza during this exchange, trying to figure out if she seems damaged, if it looks like she's afraid of Ted. Doesn't seem like it, but who knows?

  My eyes fall to my plate, to the steaming piles of calories and fat. Emmett notices and leans in again.

  “You know how hungry I get,” he whispers, trying to make me feel better, putting me before everything else, even himself. “I can always help you polish that off.” I smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes. When I pick up my fork, I notice that my hand is shaking uncontrollably, and I'm forced to stick it under the table to hide the motion.

  Only Emmett notices.

  “So,” Ted says, not bothering to pick up any of his silverware. He keeps his wine glass in his hand and stares at his son. They look nothing alike. And I don't just mean that they don't have the same nose or the same chin or whatever. I mean they don't even feel the same. When I look in their eyes, there's nothing there that looks compatible. “I have something to tell you.” He clears his throat and looks over at Liza who smiles mirthlessly. At first I thought it was because she was cruel, but as I continue to stare at her, I decide that it's because she's sad. This isn't a happy woman that sits before me.

  I look back down at my plate. I want to say that I can't do this, but that's not true. It's not that I can't. If I don't eat right now, it's because I won't. I stab one of the green vegetables with my fork, digging in with all the fierceness inside of me, all of that repressed anger and guilt. Take that, broccoli rabe, whatever it is that you are. I stuff the bite into my mouth and chew as quickly as I can.

  My body, literally, eats this up.

  And then I'm snatching up my knife and slicing into the tender flesh of the duck, bleeding sweet juice across my plate, awakening some ravenous carnivore inside of me. It's not the rapacious monster, though I think that at first, this is just a primal side of me long denied its basic needs. I'm going to pay for my starvation. Emmett watches me fall on my food like a freaking pig, and he just smiles about it. He's so happy to see me making progress that he barely hears what his father says. I do, tho
ugh, and my entire body goes cold.

  “I thought this would be better done in person,” Ted says, finally setting his wine down and picking up his fork. The man's ordered a filet mignon with cauliflower puree, but I can't even imagine him eating it. He doesn't. He just sits there with his fork poised and his brown eyes on his son. He doesn't even wait for Emmett to turn and look at him. “Your mother passed away last week. I thought you should know.” Ted pokes his fork into his meat and then sets it back down. He retrieves his glass, but doesn't drink the liquid. If I'm not mistaken, he looks … pleased. Is he happy about this?

  Emmett is still looking at me, but his face doesn't change. Not outwardly. He keeps his smile, but his eyes dim, just a little at first, then a lot. He turns back to his father and takes a deep breath.

  “Oh?”

  “Unfortunately, it seems like she lost the battle with cancer.” The word unfortunately does not roll off of Ted's lips. It feels forced. “I'm sorry to bring this up, but I decided it would be better if I told you than you found out later. I know you weren't close, but I had always hoped she would seek you out and try to make up for lost time.” Ted smiles; Emmett smiles. Neither of them mean it.

  The table goes silent, and my frenzy goes into overdrive. I slam that whole plate and then I devour a roll from the basket in the center of the table, two, three … Liza watches me apathetically. Shit. I'm losing control now. I'm not just eating; I'm bingeing. In front of everyone.

  I feel sick.

  I grab the wine glass, down the rest of it and stand up. My head is spinning, and I can't think straight. Emmett needs me, but I need him, and I don't know what to do. I think, sometimes, that my condition stems from the fact that I don't know how to process emotion – rejection, love, anger, anticipation, hate, need, whatever. Right now, that's one hundred percent how I feel.