Paint Me Beautiful

frustrated with me. I think it's just best for everybody right now if we don't make eye contact.
    “ Marlena hired the guy in the red two-seater,” I say bluntly. Neither of my parents speak. “She tracked him down, hired him, and invited him over for dinner.”
    “ Oh,” my mother whistles as she closes the oven and turns around, looking past me at my father. He grunts, and I hear his paper rustling again. “What a small world we all live in.” Mom smiles and turns away, switching on the faucet and rinsing a head of lettuce.
    “ It's not a coincidence, Mom,” I say, but she isn't listening anymore. Neither of my parents are. Marlena is like a Goddess in their eyes; she can do no wrong. I, on the other hand, am their wispy demon daughter, a useless throw away child that bleeds their hard-earned money and fancies about at casting calls. They pretend to be supportive, but really, they're just sick and tired of it. “I'm moving out,” I say, but they don't take me seriously. My mom laughs like it's a joke, and my father snorts.
    “ With what money?” he says. I wrinkle up my face, but I say nothing. One day, they'll get up and I'll be gone, just gone. I'll be on a plane to Paris, and the closest they'll ever get to me again will be through the pages of a magazine. It's an immature thought, I know, but I can't resist having it. It's like some sort of fantasy playing through my head right now.
    I grab the stack of white and blue plates my mother has set out and arrange them with careful perfection, lining up the silverware and making sure the napkins beneath are folded tight. I twisted the water glasses and even switch out one that I think looks too grimy. These acts have nothing to do with Emmett; I just like things the way I like them, and that's it.
    “ How do I look?” Marlena asks, clomping down the stairs in taupe wedges that blend in with her skin and make her look like she has hooves. She's wearing a royal blue dress that falls below the knee, giving her a matronly look that bothers me immensely. It's hard to be so passionate about fashion and modeling and then be surrounded by people who could care less what they wear and how they look. It makes me feel like they're being sloppy, and that bugs the hell out of me. People should care about how they look. The way you dress and present yourself shows how much attention you pay to details, how much effort you put into your life. I can't stand lazy and half-assed. I take a deep breath because I know I'm being mean and try to direct my thoughts elsewhere. Eventually, I find that they've got nowhere to run and end up sulking in my seat by the time Emmett arrives.
    I don't get up to greet him.
    “ Come on in,” Marlena chirps as I glance up and become ensnared in bright brown eyes that smile along with a set of curvy lips.
    “ Hi, Claire,” he says softly.
    “ Hi, Emmett,” I respond back. I'm staring, I know, but I can't help myself. Emmett Sinclair is dressed sinfully in a black button up that's left undone at the top to flash a bit of chest. He's paired it with dark washed jeans and black loafers. His hair is combed and gelled into submission, but a tiny wisp sticks up in the back and curls just so to the side. In short, he's perfection incarnate. I swallow hard and try to remember that I need to fill my lungs with air every once in awhile.
    He walks right up to me and holds out a small bouquet of yellow alstroemeria. It takes me a whole minute to realize they're for me.
    “ Just a little something,” Emmett says before he turns his attention to my mom and holds out his hand for a shake. She hugs him instead because that's just the way she is. No matter who Marlena had hired, if she had invited them over to dinner like this, my mom would be hospitable to a fault. She says it runs in the blood of every good Southern woman, but I don't feel it. Maybe it's because my dad is an East Coaster? “Nice to meet you Mrs. Simone,” he says politely, and then his eyes swing over to my dad like they've been drawn there by some unseen force.
    “ You don't know how to come up to a man's door and ask to see his daughter?” he says, and I jump in before Big Bob can get mean. I mean, I should let him scare Emmett off, I really should.
    Instead I say, “I was the one who asked him not to come in, Dad. Can you please pretend for one moment that I'm eighteen years of age and capable of making certain decisions for myself?”
    “ How old are you, son?” he