Color Me Pretty

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 and 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