Paint Me Beautiful

outsiders, the ones who try to be beautiful but never are. After all, when's the last time you heard somebody say, Oh, wow, look how fat you've gotten over the summer! and mean it as a compliment.
    You might think I've hit rock bottom, but I'm not even close. I have a ways to go before I get there.
    “ Oh, Claire,” Emmett says as he kneels down next to me and brushes damp tendrils of hair away from my forehead. “You're all wet.” He puts his hands on either side of my face and kisses me. I feel his heat, his energy, his desire for me, but I don't respond to it. I can't right now. Guess I used up all of my emotions this morning because now, I'm feeling numb again. Numb. Numb. Numb. It's the last thing I wanted to feel, but I decide, as I stand up at Emmett's urging, that it's better than depressed. I think that only because I have no fucking clue how depressed I actually am underneath. At least Emmett gets it. “Tonight, if I cook dinner for you, will you please eat it?” he whispers to me as he gives the blanket back to Lianna's assistant and takes my hand. I don't answer him aloud, but I do nod.
    “ I'm so sorry, Claire,” Lianna says as I pass by her. I look at her and I try to project how much I hate her through my eyes because at that moment, I really do despise her. Later, I'll think back on her as a role model, as someone who saw something good in me and gave me a second chance that I blew. Right now, the term 'dream thief' comes to mind. “One day, you'll do great things,” she says by way of goodbye as she opens the door and lets Emmett and I out into the pouring rain.
    Without a single word passing between us, Emmett who has no coat on for whatever reason, takes off his shirt and throws it around my shoulders, sliding his arm around my waist and pulling me against his hot chest. When he tugs me out into the storm, I follow, focusing on the street and the sounds of the bustling city and wondering how the fuck I am going to get through this. Even the rivulets of moisture running down Emmett's chest and sliding between the lines of abs on his belly can't distract me.
    My mind is in turmoil, reeling from the shock of what's just happened, trying to make sense of things. When we finally do hit the car and climb in, the first thing I do is pull down the sun visor and glance in the mirror.
    My mascara is leaking down my cheeks like black tears, ghastly but not nearly as disturbing as the bright, red lipstick that's smudged across my jaw, messy to the point of being comical, like a fucking circus clown or something. The foundation I've been using since I turned sixteen doesn't match the color of my skin anymore. In fact, it's so off that it looks like I tried to give myself a home tan and failed miserably at it. My red roots show at the edge of my hairline giving me the world's most unflattering two-toned do ever.
    No wonder Lianna and her crew were horrified.
    “ I look like a ghost,” I whisper as I look over at Emmett who's leaning against the car door, head in his hand, panting like he's run a million miles. “Or a corpse. What's the matter with me, Emmett? I don't go out looking like this. This isn't me. I don't feel like me.” He pauses for a moment and then looks over at me slowly, brown eyes blinking back droplets of water that stain his cheeks with moisture and make it look like he's been crying. He seems like he could if he let himself, like he's as upset about my rejection as I am. What he's really distressed about is not my appearance because as bad as things are, he knows that it looks worse than it is, that Lianna and her crew were reacting just as much to the wet dress and the runny makeup as they were the extreme weight loss. He's distressed because I still don't see it, even after a shock as big as that, even hearing it from the lips of someone I idolize.
    “ Claire,” he says and then pauses a moment to turn on the car and start the heater. I'm shaking like a leaf, teeth chattering, knees knocking as I hunch over to stay warm. I see now why Emmett took off his shirt for me; I'm pathetic. “I want you to cook with me.”
    “ Why?” I ask, already questioning my response to his earlier mention of dinner. Am I going to go eat as a coping mechanism? How healthy is that? I should just forget Lianna and move on, drop a few more pounds and go back to doing what I'm good at, finding castings, standing in line, submitting application after application after application. I begin to