Paint Me Beautiful

this position, practically God sent. I was starting to think that I was never going to be able to find someone qualified. This helps me out a lot. If I had to start from scratch with an inexperienced candidate, it'd be months before they were ready to – ”
    “ Get the fuck out.”
    “ You're overreacting, Claire. This isn't a big deal. Relax.” Not to her maybe, but to me, it is. Emmett Sinclair is a dangerous temptation, and he's going to be in my house, eating my mother's food, and I'm going to have to make up excuses I don't want to make, push food around my plate, pray that I don't get found out. It's a huge fucking deal to me.
    “ You can be really selfish sometimes,” I say. Marlena looks at me, but doesn't respond. She's going to keep making decisions for me, keep butting into my life whether I like it or not. She's doing it because she loves me, and while I understand that, I don't sympathize with her. If you love something truly, you're supposed to let it go. She's putting a cage around me. “Get. Out.”
    “ He'll be here at six,” she says blandly and slams my bedroom door behind her.
    I watch her go and inside of me, something squirms. It's the pain, the repressed anger, that I feel sometimes. I don't know why it's there or what it wants, only that I have it, and I don't know why. My life has been easy, too easy maybe, and there's nothing for me to be upset about. Maybe something bad happened to me in a past life? Maybe I was just born with a tortured soul? I don't know.
    I flop into my computer chair and lift the lid on my laptop. Right now, I think it's best if I distract myself with work. Anything I can do to expedite this process is necessary. I want to travel to Italy, France, walk the runways in London, New York; I want a place of my own and a life of my own. I don't want people telling me what to do and butting into my business and questioning me. I don't want Emmett Sinclair. Now that, that is a lie, Claire Simone. I sigh and cross my arms over my keyboard, dropping my forehead to my forearms. That's the problem, really. I'm interested in Emmett Sinclair. He's getting into my head, and I haven't even had a real conversation with him yet. I wonder if my interest is purely lust, just a trick my body is playing on my mind. Our kisses were … intoxicating. If I sleep with him, will that banish him from my thoughts or tangle me up in him? Here I am trying to avoid the guy and my sister not only hires him but invites him over for dinner. How awkward is this going to be? When Big Bob realizes this is the same guy that I hopped into a two-seater with, he's going to flip.
    I sit up and wonder if I really am overreacting. I imagine my mom sitting on one end of the table and my dad on the other. I imagine Emmett Sinclair sitting across from me and Marlena next to him. There will be plates of steaming food, trays of baked goods. There is no doubt in my mind that mom will outdo herself; she lives for dinner guests. I'll have to pile food on my plate, food that I can't eat. I rub my hands down my face. I wish I could just skip out on dinner, but then Emmett will think that I'm avoiding him … I pause and repeat the thought. If I skip dinner, Emmett will think I'm avoiding him. That's what I want, right? To get rid of him? I slam the butts of my hands against the side of the desk and watch my lamp shake precariously. Damn you, Marlena, for putting me in this position.
    I stand up suddenly and grab my keys and my water bottle. I have a very specific destination in mind, and I hope I'm still welcome there.
    “ Where are you off to, honey? I'd like you home early to help me set the table.”
    “ Marlena can do it,” I say as I move down the stairs at a brisk jog and wonder how many calories I've just burned. I pause when I reach the bottom because my dad has just come in through the garage door and is staring at me with a weird expression. It's like he doesn't even recognize me. I don't like it, not one little bit. I turn away and keep going.
    “ You'll be here, and you'll help your mother.”
    “ Or?” I ask, still in mid-stride. If I slow down again, they might trap me here.
    “ Or I'm taking your car away,” my dad says. His tone is very matter-of-fact. I pause near the front door.
    “ I'm not in high school anymore,” I say without looking at him. I can feel his eyes boring into my spine, testing me, gauging my resistance.
    “ No, you're not,” he says. “And that's the problem. You