Color Me Pretty

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