Color Me Pretty

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 let 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