Color Me Pretty

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, though, 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.
    “Excuse me,” I say as I hold back tears and grab at the fabric of my dress, rushing between tables where I swear I can hear people laughing. Look at the fat-skinny bitch. Pathetic. If there's one thing humans were born to do, it's