Paint Me Beautiful

asks, voice gruff, eyes burrowing deep into Emmett's soul. Emmett stares straight back with a look of pleasant confidence in his face and smiles.
    “ Twenty-two,” he tells my father without a hitch in his voice. He's the first boy I've ever seen stand up to Mr. Simone, whether sixteen or thirty, mine or Marlena's. Doesn't matter. The six foot four tower of hard muscles that is my father is always intimidating. Except to Emmett. I have a feeling that while he isn't aggressive or domineering, he doesn't scare or give in easy. It makes me like him even more. Damn it.
    “ Bob,” my mother warns as she plucks the flowers from my hand and whisks them away. “Better get these into a vase,” she says with a wink in my direction. I ignore her and try not to cringe when she reappears with a plate of crackers, cheese, and salami. I sip my water as Marlena offers Emmett a chair.
    He sits down straight across from me, just like I imagined he would, and just smiles. He doesn't seem phased to be here or surprised. He just is. Emmett just is. That's a hard place to get to, but an easy place to be. It's like Nirvana or something, Heaven on earth. I envy and respect him, but I can't emulate him, not yet. To get there, one has to be confident in one's self and satisfied with one's life. I am neither of those things which is why I'm willing to sacrifice anything to get what I want. Once I have, I'll be able to do it, too.
    “ My partners and I are absolutely thrilled to have you on board,” Marlena begins, but Emmett isn't looking at her. He's still looking at me, and under the table, our toes touch ever so slightly. I think about pulling mine back, but I don't. Emmett reaches for a piece of cheese, and I almost copy him. Almost.
    I stare into Emmett's eyes and the sounds of my family fall away. It's incredible, like magic, a deep connection that transcends simple conversation. There's something about him that calls to me, and I can tell from his facial expression that he is absolutely, one hundred percent interested in me. I don't know why, not in that moment, because I don't value myself yet, and so I can't possibly understand the glimmer of light he sees in me. He can help me find it, but it's going to be a tough journey. It's going to hurt. I'm going to cry. I'm going to bleed. Will there be a happily ever after for me? I sure hope so.
    Finally, after what seems like forever, he breaks eye contact with me, and a chill travels up my spine and into my arms, making me drop my water bottle onto my plate. It cracks right in half and the sound echoes around the room, travels up the pine ceilings twenty feet above our heads, and makes me cringe.
    “ Careful, Claire,” my mother says as she scoops up the broken china and replaces it in less time than it let it takes me to blink. She tilts her head and points at my water bottle with one red fingernail. “That's cute, honey,” she says as I slide my gaze back over to Emmett and see that he's giving my sister a respectful amount of attention. As if he senses me looking at him again, he flicks his eyes over to me and winks, just once. I blink and he's looking at Marlena again. “I'm glad you're trying to hydrate more,” my mother continues while I try to tune her out. “You've been looking a little pale lately.”
    “ Gee, Mom, thanks,” I say, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in my sleeveless dress. Are they noticing my arms, my shoulders? Do they think I'm too thin? I almost snort at this thought because obviously, I'm not or I'd have booked something by now. Unfortunately for me though, my family buys into that whole Curvy is Beautiful thing. They complain about actresses on TV and models in magazines, about their false ideals of beauty. I disagree, but I don't say anything, not aloud anyway. I mean, if the women in the movies, on the magazines, weren't more beautiful than the rest of us, why should they be plastered across the silver screen, pasted onto billboards, worshipped? There has to be something about an idol that sets them apart. Maybe it's a good personality, a worthy cause, or maybe it's their looks? What's wrong with that? Everything? Nothing? I don't really care.
    “ I'm not trying to criticize you, Claire,” she says as she tosses the broken plate in the trash and washes her hands like it was contaminated or something. When she butters a biscuit and smears it with strawberry jam, I know I'm in trouble. That was my favorite snack as a kid. “Eat something,