Color Me Pretty

to meet up soon. I don't tell her because I'm afraid it'll freak her out, but Kylie is going to be an important part of my healing process. I just know it.
    I take the items into the kitchen and spread them across the counter, thankful at the moment that my hair is short and there's no need to pull it back. I don't change out of my clothes and instead decide to just slip on one of Emmett's extra Super Smoothie aprons. I glance at the clock and figure I have about an hour and a half before he gets back. If I hurry, I can have everything done in time.
    For a moment, just one, I glance down and fear cuts through me, but I push past it and roll up my sleeves. Once I get started, I can't stop. I think it's the act of creation that gets me. Putting together a meal is much the same as making a dress or drawing a picture or writing a poem. At first there's nothing, but with a little work and some imagination, a tangible creation appears. I eat this up, slicing the chicken breasts in half and tossing them in some marinade. I cover the bowl with foil and push it aside, grabbing the colorful peppers and sliding them over to the cutting board. My knife breaks into the bright red, the green, the yellow until I've got perfect strips ready and waiting for me.
    I don't think while I do any of this; it just happens. It happens because I'm good with food whether I want to admit it or not. This whole time I've been resisting food, fighting against it, blaming it for my problems when all along, we had this potential to get along perfectly. It's a little strange, but it makes me smile.
    I decide to put some music on to liven up the house, to mix sound with scent and sight and the sensation of the knife against my knuckles, the feeling of it pushing through the peppers and out the other side. I don't think once about putting it to my wrists. Hot Couture by Manila Luzon comes on, and I start to bounce, jumping up and down and spinning in circles, just generally making a complete ass out of myself. But it feels good, oh so fucking good.
    Wine comes out; I pour myself a glass. I forget that I'm eighteen and on the road to nowhere, an anorexic, a failure, a girl with no future, and I just exist. I live in the present and I don't care that I'm splashing grease on a couture gown or that I smear my makeup when I run my wrist across my forehead to catch the sweat.
    The kitchen heats up, and I welcome the warmth, basking in it. I absorb it like a lizard in the sun, sipping wine and swinging the knife around in the air like a baton. I don't know it yet, but I'm having another breakthrough. See, this recovery thing, it comes in stages. We don't just get to wave a magic wand and grab onto a happily ever after, but if we don't fight, if we follow the path our hearts know is right, eventually we can make our way there. I'm on the path and I'm moving forward. It'll take time, but it'll happen.
    Oil goes in the pan and the chicken follows. I barely register what I'm doing, and I just do it. Food ceases to exist to spite me, and then just is. Just like me. I turn in a circle and let my head fall back, spinning and spinning until I'm dizzy, until it's time to turn the meat over.
    I'm so wrapped up in the music that I don't hear Emmett come in, don't see him lean against the wall and watch me with a sappy smile on his face. I switch the chicken out for the vegetables, tossing them in with an Olé! which is the most ridiculous thing in the world to do, but which I do happily, sloshing wine down the side of my glass.
    I've only just set it down and turned off the stove when Emmett announces his presence, coming up behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. His stubbly cheek presses against the back of my neck and his warm breath tickles my skin. I shiver and grasp the edge of the counter to stay upright. A blush heats my cheeks, but I don't turn, so I figure he can't see it.
    “You're so fucking beautiful,” he tells me, and I have no idea how to respond to that. My usual thoughts would center around how untrue that was, how hideous I really was, but today, I just let the compliment hit and settle deep down inside of me. “Baby, I always knew you were going to be okay, but now I know you're going to thrive.”
    “Why?” That word, a whisper. I keep my fingers curled around the counter and breathe in the hot, sharp scents of cumin, lime, and chile powder. When Emmett reaches under my dress and slides his hands up my legs, I groan deep in my throat