Color Me Pretty

by C. M. Stunich

  The Winged Ones is the most bizarre restaurant I have ever seen.

  The signs leading up to the roof, the ones drawn in colored pencil (by an admittedly talented artist) point up towards the landing and the hostess station where a girl with a pair of faux wings on her back shows us to a table near the railing. Below us, the city stretches out, cold and gray, before disappearing into the brown-green of the forest and the mountains. Behind us, the rooftop is covered, and I mean covered, in greenery, so much so that it's nearly impossible to see the other tables. I've never seen anything like it.

  The waitress comes by, wearing a pair of black wings this time, and drops off a pair of menus printed on recycled paper. Immediately, my mind goes to Emmett and I smile.

  “I can't wait to fall in love,” Kylie says, squeezing her menu tight and keeping her eyes downcast. Whoever this guy, this Dex was, he really hurt her, and I already hate him for it. But at least she's willing to try again. I'm so proud of her I have a hard time speaking. My pain recognizes hers, and I know how hard it'll be, but I also know that whoever falls in love with Kylie is a very lucky person indeed. “That's why I've decided to stick around, give it a shot.” She scans her menu, makes a decision and sets it on the end of the table. Me, I just sit there and stare at the words. They get tangled together and cease to mean anything. Sweat begins to bead on my forehead, and I have to force my lungs to pull in oxygen. If it wasn't so damn peaceful up here, I'd probably just give up. If I eat, will I lose control again and purge? I have no idea. It hasn't happened since the dinner with Ted, but that doesn't mean it can't. “That, and because of Madelyn.”

  “Older sister or younger?” I ask because I can't even imagine picking out a sandwich from this list. I set my menu on top of Kylie's and decide that whatever it is she's chosen, that's what I'm getting, too.

  “Older,” she says, and I smile sadly. It's nice to know we're both the little sister, that we have something that impactful in common, but definitely depressing to know that she's lost it. I think of Marlena and how much I hate her, but also how devastated I'd be if she were dead. “I wasn't really all that helpful when she was going through rehab and stuff. I mostly just … I tried to force her, I guess. My parents made her do things she didn't want to do, and I followed suite. I didn't think, and I just acted.” Kylie shrugs like it's no big deal, but I can tell that it is. Dex is not fully responsible for the circle of pain inside of her. There's at least a little bit of Madelyn in there somewhere. “And I got frustrated with her, you know? I said a lot of horrible things. I told her I hated her.” Kylie looks up at me as the wind picks up and blows the scent of pollen and car exhaust over to us. “And then she was gone and I was left with all of this regret.” Kylie touches her hand to her chest while her honeyed curls blow around her face, framing that sadness and making it seem like I'm staring into a mirror. One pained face looking into another.

  The waitress comes and Kylie orders a prime rib dip and a Coke. I say I want the same, and I try my best not to crunch the numbers, choosing instead to focus on my friend's story. I know she's trying to help me, trying to show me that there's no time like the present or something like that. But she doesn't know Marlena, and she doesn't know how hurt I am by her lack of trying. I hated the confrontation we had, sure, but I'm kind of pissed there wasn't another. Am I the first project she's ever given up on?

  “Claire, I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but I just want you to know that you've got an out and an out is always better than a too-deep-in. Get out, make up, move on. Do it before you're slashing you're carotid artery and trying to bleed out on the floor.”

  I stare at Kylie and I listen to the sound of the traffic below and the rustle of the foliage nearby.

  When the food comes, I eat it, and I don't throw it back up.

  Before Kylie leaves to go back home, she takes me to

  the grocery store. At my behest. Yeah. Something has just come over me. I don't know what it is exactly, but when Emmett came up the stairs to check in on us, and I saw his face and he saw my empty plate, well it just struck me.

  I drag Kylie around the store and tell myself that nobody is staring because they aren't. They really aren't, and it's not because people as a whole are good or blessed or anything of the sort. It's because they have better things to do than stare at Claire fucking Simone. This actually comes as a shock to me.

  I start in the meat department because I know this is my biggest hurdle, and that if I get through this, there's a chance I'll actually enjoy the rest of my time here. I don't think about the last time, when I blacked out and ended up lying on the linoleum floor. I'm past that. I have to move past that. If I let the bad memories in, they'll consume me. The rapacious monster will gobble them up along with my progress.

  Kylie says nothing, just follows me around, pushing the cart, smiling at me like I'm an inspiration. It's a little weird, but I don't tell her that. If she wants to look up to me, good for her. I'd rather be an inspiration than a failure.

  I scan the cold, plastic packages and tune out the subconscious chatter in the back of my brain that's listing calorie counts. I have no idea how long it'll take to turn that off, but I hope it's sometime soon because the sound is deafening.

  I decide on organic, free-range chicken breasts – a safe choice but a choice nonetheless. I toss the meat into the cart and continue on, building a recipe from memory: fajitas. I know it only because my mother makes it on a regular basis. It's her 'spiciest' dish, and while she swears it's one hundred percent authentic, I beg to differ. I think she just learned it on the cooking channel, but it tastes good, and I think I can actually pull it off, so it wins out.

  I grab all the basics because I can't remember what we have in the fridge. Emmett's been doing all the shopping. I've gone with him a few times and sat in the car, but that's about the extent of it. And I haven't cooked, not since I got back from the hospital. There's something so intimate about preparing a meal for someone though, and today, I can't resist. If the urge is there, why resist it? I tell myself the whole time that I don't have to eat any of it.

  I grab colorful spices and brightly colored peppers, onions and avocado, sour cream. It's only when we hit the checkout that I realize I haven't brought any money with me. Shit. Without my even asking, Kylie offers.

  “Let this be on me,” she says as she tosses items onto the belt. “Think of it as a fund for love.” She smiles, and I smile, and for once in my Goddamn life, I do not argue. “Just remember, when you finally finish that fabulous dress, you owe me a copy.”

  Kylie and I finish at the grocery store and she drops me off with a cheery goodbye and a piece of paper with her number and her email address. I give her mine, too, and we promise to meet up soon. I don't tell her because I'm afraid it'll freak her out, but Kylie is going to be an important part of my healing process. I just know it.

  I take the items into the kitchen and spread them across the counter, thankful at the moment that my hair is short and there's no need to pull it back. I don't change out of my clothes and instead decide to just slip on one of Emmett's extra Super Smoothie aprons. I glance at the clock and figure I have about an hour and a half before he gets back. If I hurry, I can have everything done in time.

  For a moment, just one, I glance down and fear cuts through me, but I push past it and roll up my sleeves. Once I get started, I can't stop. I think it's the act of creation that gets me. Putting together a meal is much the same as making a dress or drawing a picture or writing a poem. At first there's nothing, but with a little work and some imagination, a tangible creation appears. I eat this up, slicing the chicken breasts in half and tossing them in some marinade. I cover the bowl with foil and push it aside, grabbing the colorful peppers and sliding them over to the cutting board. My knife breaks into the bright red, the green, the yellow until I've got perfect strips ready and waiting for me.

  I don't think while I do any of this; it just happens. It happens because I'm good with food whether I w
ant to admit it or not. This whole time I've been resisting food, fighting against it, blaming it for my problems when all along, we had this potential to get along perfectly. It's a little strange, but it makes me smile.

  I decide to put some music on to liven up the house, to mix sound with scent and sight and the sensation of the knife against my knuckles, the feeling of it pushing through the peppers and out the other side. I don't think once about putting it to my wrists. Hot Couture by Manila Luzon comes on, and I start to bounce, jumping up and down and spinning in circles, just generally making a complete ass out of myself. But it feels good, oh so fucking good.

  Wine comes out; I pour myself a glass. I forget that I'm eighteen and on the road to nowhere, an anorexic, a failure, a girl with no future, and I just exist. I live in the present and I don't care that I'm splashing grease on a couture gown or that I smear my makeup when I run my wrist across my forehead to catch the sweat.

  The kitchen heats up, and I welcome the warmth, basking in it. I absorb it like a lizard in the sun, sipping wine and swinging the knife around in the air like a baton. I don't know it yet, but I'm having another breakthrough. See, this recovery thing, it comes in stages. We don't just get to wave a magic wand and grab onto a happily ever after, but if we don't fight, if we follow the path our hearts know is right, eventually we can make our way there. I'm on the path and I'm moving forward. It'll take time, but it'll happen.

  Oil goes in the pan and the chicken follows. I barely register what I'm doing, and I just do it. Food ceases to exist to spite me, and then just is. Just like me. I turn in a circle and let my head fall back, spinning and spinning until I'm dizzy, until it's time to turn the meat over.

  I'm so wrapped up in the music that I don't hear Emmett come in, don't see him lean against the wall and watch me with a sappy smile on his face. I switch the chicken out for the vegetables, tossing them in with an Olé! which is the most ridiculous thing in the world to do, but which I do happily, sloshing wine down the side of my glass.

  I've only just set it down and turned off the stove when Emmett announces his presence, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. His stubbly cheek presses against the back of my neck and his warm breath tickles my skin. I shiver and grasp the edge of the counter to stay upright. A blush heats my cheeks, but I don't turn, so I figure he can't see it.

  “You're so fucking beautiful,” he tells me, and I have no idea how to respond to that. My usual thoughts would center around how untrue that was, how hideous I really was, but today, I just let the compliment hit and settle deep down inside of me. “Baby, I always knew you were going to be okay, but now I know you're going to thrive.”

  “Why?” That word, a whisper. I keep my fingers curled around the counter and breathe in the hot, sharp scents of cumin, lime, and chile powder. When Emmett reaches under my dress and slides his hands up my legs, I groan deep in my throat and bend low over the counter, but he stops himself and pulls back, waiting for me to turn around before holding out his hand.

  “Dance with me,” he says, brown eyes twinkling, face tired but happy. I think Emmett would slave away for me, if only so he could come home and see me smile. I don't want that for him, but it's a sweet thought. I reach out and curl my fingers in his, letting him spin me around and deposit me back in his arms, so we can press our foreheads together and slow dance to a song that isn't really slow at all.

  I close my eyes and rest my cheek against Emmett's shoulder, wondering what he's thinking right now.

  “Claire,” he whispers to me after awhile. We don't stop dancing.

  “Yes?”

  “I think I want to hold you forever.” I consider protesting, telling him that a month is not a long enough time period to make a decision like that, but I know that that would be a lie. Sometimes, you just know. Love at first sight really does exist for some people. I know that because it does for us.

  “I think I'd like that,” I say as I lift my face up and touch his lips with my fingers, sliding them back, cupping his face. Emmett reaches up and takes my scarred wrists in his hands, turns his head a bit so he can press kisses to them. I get jealous of my own arms and end up having to steal his mouth back, swirling wine and smoothie and love and all sorts of other strange emotions around in there.

  We kiss and behind my eyes, fireworks go off. I swear to it.

  Down below, a belly rumbles fiercely. I have no idea if it's mine or Emmett's, but it's enough to get us to pull apart and take a look at the food I've prepared. Now that I'm looking at it with a (slightly) clearer head, it seems like a lot.

  “Wow,” Emmett tells me as he examines the skillet and the medley of vegetables within. “You made this from scratch?” I nod. “From memory?”

  “My mom makes it a lot,” I tell him, wondering how much of my wild idiocy he saw before he stepped in. And then I start to cry. But it's okay. This time, don't feel sorry for me because I'm alright. I'm getting better, and I'm starting to remember what it's like to be happy. Emmett doesn't hesitate to take me in his arms again, and I'm glad I don't have to worry about him running away. There are not a lot of people who would take on a new girlfriend who had even half as many problems as I do. “I miss her,” I whisper, and he squeezes me tighter, so tight I can't breathe. I think he blames himself a little, but I don't. My family did the one thing they shouldn't do and passed judgment on him before they even knew him. They did the same to me. Still, it hurts, and much as I don't want to admit it, I miss the country twang of my family home, and the elk head, and the pink walls of my bedroom. I went from spoiled teenager to independent adult pretty quick. I don't know if I've ever realized that.

  “Claire,” Emmett begins, and his voice gets pretty serious. I interrupt him before he can speak, just so he knows how I'm feeling.

  “I want to eat tonight,” I whisper, and I think I hear him laugh. It's hard to say with the music pulsing in the background. The wine makes my head swirl and the smells of the kitchen make my belly rumble. I look up at Emmett and see that whatever is going to happen now, it's going to be big.

  “Claire, after I graduate this year, I'm going to go out and find a job, and I'm going to start a life.” He says this, but it doesn't freak me out because I know what's coming and I already know that I want to say yes. “And I want you to be a part of it. Would you?” Emmett stops and scratches at the back of his head, moving his hand around to tug at the fabric of his beanie. He pulls it over his eyes and peaks out at me from behind it. “I think I just screwed that up. Can we start over later?”

  “Do you have a ring?” I ask him, more as a joke than anything else. I figured this was just sort of spur of the moment.

  “Actually,” he says, pulling off his hat, tossing it aside. His chestnut hair sticks up every which way. “I do.” And then Emmett drags me into the bedroom and pulls a box out from the top drawer of his dresser. When he hands it to me, I can tell it's older than sin.

  “Whose is this?” I ask, not realizing that I haven't spoken my answer aloud yet. Emmett looks at the box as I open it and reveal a small diamond, pretty and perfect, pale and winking in a shaft of moonlight from outside the window.

  “It was my mother's,” he says, and he doesn't elaborate.

  “When did you get it?” I ask, noticing suddenly that Emmett has beads of sweat trailing down the sides of his face.

  “I've always had it,” he says with a smile. “I was just saving it until I found you.”

  “You're ridiculous,” I tell him as he comes to me and kisses my forehead with gentle lips.

  “Is that a yes?” he asks nervously. As I could ever say no to you.

  “It's an absolutely.”

  When I wake up the next morning and find a freaking ring on my finger, I almost have a heart attack. First, I try to talk myself out of it because I'm too young and I haven't really explored life as a single person and blah, blah, blah, but then I think of Emmett and I realize that I don't give a crap. I love him. And I think I told him abou
t a million times last night when we made love. Good for me. At least it's out there. I rub my hands down my face and try to wipe the stupid grin off my lips. I was buzzed as shit last night, but I ended up making the best decision of my life. And I ate a whole plate of food. At least 500 calories worth, probably more. I feel better than ever when I rise to my feet.

  Then I remember that Emmett is at work and I have nobody to talk to about this. I'm not fucking old school or anything, but let's just be frank. When a girl gets engaged to be married, she kind of wants to talk to people about it. Like her mother. Or her sister. Or her best friends from third grade. Instead, I call Kylie, but she doesn't answer and it goes straight to voice mail.

  I walk into the living room, buck naked and end up with a plate of last night's chicken in one hand and a fork in the other. I eat it without even realizing that I'm doing it, just because I'm hungry, just because that's what people do. It isn't until afterwards that it hits me and my stomach gets tight.

  I do not throw up; I do not obsess over it.

  Instead, I sit down and I sew like a girl possessed.

  I have to pause every now and then to look things up online, to figure out how to make a certain shape work or connect a sleeve to a bodice, but I figure it out, and as the day stretches on, my garment starts to come together, to actually form into something memorable. In the middle of all of this, I get the urge to hit pen to paper and end up finishing the poem I started at the clinic.

  [Search and find me with your/Warm/heat/strong/lips/ and become a part of me/Until you leave a brand new whole where love lives and pretty breathes.

  All of this because I finally love you enough –/ will always love you enough because I finally/See how much that I believe in you.