Paint Me Beautiful

again and put the mug to my lips.
    Hot coffee hits my tongue in an explosion of rich, earthy bitterness, biting me in the back of my sore throat and sliding down to crash into the nightmare of my stomach. I finish the cup in three sips. The greedy bitch is back, and she's mad at me for ditching her food. Anything edible that falls into my hands today is going down. And coming back up.
    “ Okay,” Emmett says, falling to his side on the bed. He's still shirtless, but he's got on black sweatpants and white socks. Adorable. “Here's what I have for breakfast, are you ready?” I keep smiling at him, unable to stop myself. My mood swings have shifted to other focuses, and I'm no longer annoyed with Emmett. In fact, I think I may be developing an unhealthy obsession with him. I am most definitely a perfectionist and perfection comes at a price. “We've got turkey bacon.” Forty calories a slice. “Scrambled egg whites.” Sixteen calories per egg. “And some whole grain toast with strawberry jam. I think I remember you saying that was your favorite?”
    “ Yep,” I say, pleased that he remembered what I said, but unable to stop myself from adding, but it's only my favorite when it's smeared on my mother's horrible, terrible, disgusting, fucking biscuits. And then, as if I could forget, one hundred and twenty calories. I seriously want to slap myself in that moment. If I'm purging, what the fuck does it matter?
    It matters because I can't stop feeling guilty and too much of that makes me feel numb and too much of that … well, the razor blade starts looking pretty inviting. I am like a hamster, trapped on a wheel of pain. No matter how far or how fast I run, I am not going anywhere. I swallow hard and try to focus on Emmett's chest, on his smooth skin and the hard lines of his muscles. Admittedly, it's a good distraction technique.
    “ So, Claire,” Emmett begins as I set my mug down on the bedside table and lean my head back against the leather upholstered headboard. Sorry, faux leather upholstered headboard because I know without knowing that Emmett would not use dried animal skin as part of his décor. “I was happy to see you in here when I woke up.”
    I smile.
    “ Then you're the opposite of most guys,” I joke. Emmett smiles back for just an instant and then his face gets real serious, real fast. He knows, I think and am surprised at how panicky I feel. My chest feels suddenly tight and the room in the air feels thick. I try not to let myself flush as I think about Emmett finding the bag of garbage that's hidden under my bed, filled with colorful wrappers and crumbs galore. Just the idea that he might know about my purging makes me feel light-headed.
    “ Feel free to do it more often,” he says and then he's standing up and threading his fingers together behind his head like maybe he's just a little embarrassed for saying that. I try my best not to laugh. Sadly, it's not that difficult to hold back; I'm not in a very happy place right now. Emmett closes his lips and fills his cheeks with air for a moment before letting it all out in a relieved sigh. “So, I was thinking, if it's okay with you, of course, that we might use my day off to work on a little project together.”
    “ What kind of project?” I ask, hoping that I'm not it. I can't help but wonder though if that's really what Emmett sees me as: a project. Something that's broken that needs fixing. A wound that needs stitches. I push that thought back. Emmett cares about polluted waterways and clean air acts, not about how to fix his anorexic pseudo-girlfriend.
    “ Well,” he begins, moving over to the window and pushing aside the curtains. Even through the slats on the white blinds, I can tell that the sun is out and the storm has passed. Well, at least for the weather anyway. “The tree house is yours, all yours, but if you want, maybe I could help you fix it up?”
    “ Fix it up?” I ask as Emmett spins around to face me, dropping his hands down to the bed and crawling across it so that he's sitting right next to me. He's grinning now, flashing me pretty white teeth in the dim bedroom light.
    “ Yeah, make it like it used to be. We could clean it up a bit, take some curtains and some rugs over there.” He pauses. “Maybe some condoms?” Even I have to chuckle at that. “I was thinking of making up a picnic basket, too, if you want to help me. If you don't, I'm not sure I can cut the tomatoes right.” I know this is supposed to