Color Me Pretty

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