Paint Me Beautiful

there's no harm in that. Maybe there's even an aerobics class or something?
    “ Okay,” I tell him. “Okay, I can do that.”
    “ And Claire?”
    “ Yeah?”
    “ Even when you think there's only one road to your destination, you can always find a scenic detour.” And then he hangs up, and I'm left with an even bigger question mark over the picture of Emmett Sinclair that's inside my head.
    I set my phone down and get dressed in yet another set of workout clothes. It's surprising how many sets I have, most of them brand new since I've never really been much of a fitness guru. I imagine that my lack of exercise is part of the equation that ended up leaving me a fat mess, but I try to think past that, try to make up for it by killing myself with a new workout routine. I only make it ten minutes before I have to stop and take a break. In my mind, I have to take a break because I'm overweight, too heavy to force myself through it. In reality, I'm starving to death. Literally. I'm dying to be beautiful, and I don't even know it. Emmett does though. He does, and he wants to help me, but even he doesn't quite realize that the only way he can help me is if I want to help myself first.
    I start up the routine again and can only make it through a single set of crunches before I'm rolling onto my side, wheezing and clutching my aching tummy. It causes me to double over and curl into a fetal position, but only because my muscles are sore and not because of food. I'm not hungry, not anymore. It's sort of amazing that I've broken my body's bad habit in just a few days. I tell it when I eat and not the other way around. I like that.
    Ten minutes and a whole water bottle later, I get up and try again. This time, I manage to make it to the end of the video and feel so damn proud that I reward myself by lying down on my bed to rest my eyes.
    When I open them, the sky is dark again and I'm shivering with cold.
    I stand up quick, too quick maybe, and stumble over to my phone to check the time. It's eight o'clock, and I've got several missed calls and texts from Emmett, one of which is the schedule for the learning center. I scan through the times as fast I can, desperately hoping that there's still something we can go to. The thought of disappointing Emmett takes that circle of pain inside me and tightens it around my neck like a noose. I should've stayed away from him, but now it's too late; I'm trapped. My heart soars with joy when I see the end of the list and find that there's actually one class that starts later than all the others at nine-thirty.
    My sigh of relief then turns into a groan of depression when I see the title of the class.
    Cooking for Beginners – A Healthy Eating Seminar
    Goddamn it.
    I sit down on the floor for a moment and put the phone to my forehead.
    If I go to this class, I don't have to eat anything. I can just make the stuff and talk to Emmett. If you think of it like a chemistry class, it's not so bad. Just pretend you're mixing chemicals, that if you eat or drink whatever is in that bowl, it will kill you. It's that or call Emmett and apologize again. Your choice.
    My phone buzzes against my forehead, and I answer it right away.
    “ You said you liked food,” I say by way of greeting. “Guess we're going to be learning to cook tonight.” There's a bit of silence, and then Emmett chuckles.
    “ Thought you were standing me up again,” he says, and I shake my head, only to realize that he can't possibly see me.
    “ See you in a half hour?” I ask.
    “ I'm already in your driveway,” he tells me and right away, I'm on my feet and flinging open my closet door. “I'm on my way in.”
    “ Stay away from my dad,” I warn him, but it's already too late; he's hung up.
    I whip the sheet off of the mirror with one hand and grab at a dress with the other. I end up with a Roberto Cavalli in my hand, a beautiful, one shoulder gown that is totally inappropriate for a cooking class. I start to put it back when I hear Big Bob's booming voice down the stairs. I strip out of my workout clothes, drag the dress over my head and slip my feet into a pair of black sandals. I don't have time to do my hair, so I just grab my ponytail holder and shake it out, fluffing it with my fingers and forgetting to even look in the mirror. It's an amazing accomplishment for me, but I don't realize it. All I know is that I have to get into that living room before my dad shoots Emmett Sinclair.
    “ You ought to know what's