Color Me Pretty

by C. M. Stunich

  “I'm guiding the way,” he tells me with a smile, watching as I smell the cookie and twirl it around in my hands, touching it, getting myself acquainted. It's chocolate chip, soft and moist. Full of calories and fat. As soon as this thought hits me, I'm forcing it into my mouth and taking a massive bite. Can I just say: heaven.

  I finish my cookie at the same time Emmett downs his third, and then a grab a second. Together we finish the entire package.

  “You owe me a run in the morning,” I tell him and he laughs.

  I don't think about or mention the cookies again.

  It takes me four days to craft the letter to my family and two more to get up the guts to mail the damn thing. I just wrote one, addressed to them all, and I did it with my eyes closed and my skin bare. I sat outside on the back patio and wrote with moonlight bathing my skin. When Emmett came home and caught me there, I was embarrassed, but I think he understood. Sometimes, in our search for strength and spirituality, we do strange things.

  “Do you need to read it again?” he asks me, sliding his sweaty body onto the stool next to mine. We're sitting at the breakfast bar in our home – our home because I absolutely, one hundred percent feel like I live here now – and trying to recover from the three mile jog we just destroyed. I don't know why it never occurred to me before, but being skinny and being healthy aren't exactly synonymous. I feel so much better now, and I look better, too. I'm actually starting to get lines on my belly, not big ones but marks, badges if you will, signs that underneath my pale flesh, there are muscles. I like that. Oh, and I look damn good in a bathing suit, too. I can't wait until my boobs grow back. They're getting there for sure, but I have yet to fit anything bigger than a size A.

  “I don't know,” I say, wiping a hand down my forehead and glancing at the other set of letters that sit next to my elbow. One for Leanne and one for Jenn. I miss them, too, and I can't even imagine planning a wedding without them by my side. Plus, I'm pretty sure that once they get to know Kylie, they'll drag her into our little group and she'll never be able to escape.

  I smile. Frown. Unfold the letter one last time before I stick it in the envelope.

  Mom, Dad, Marlena,

  I'm writing you because it's easier to say what I need to say in ink than it would be in sound waves. I know I have a big mouth sometimes, and I don't trust myself to get out what needs to get out because, well, let's be honest: we all have big mouths. But we have big hearts, too.

  I miss you guys.

  Here's what you have to understand, what I'm just starting to understand myself: this was nobody's fault. Sometimes people are born with a bit of pain inside of them and sometimes that pain grows and morphs, changes, becomes something bigger than we are and tries to consume us. I am not alone, and I am not the only person who has suffered through this, but I am one of the ones who's going to come out the other side.

  And I did it because I had Emmett. He was there for me all along, and he knew what I needed. He was helping guide me to choices that would save me in the long run. Yes, a feeding tube may have fattened me up, but it would not have rescued my spirit. So please understand that I did not mean to kill myself and that I never truly wanted to die. What happened was an unfortunate accident, a series of mistakes spiraling down into one, intense moment where I lived or died. And I did die. I did. And then I was reborn and that makes everything okay again. When you lose your life and get it back in the same breath, you start to think differently.

  Here I am.

  I am Claire Simone, but I am not. I am her in all the best ways and some of the worst. I am still your daughter, your sister. I still love you. You still love me. I miss you. You miss me.

  I'm marrying Emmett Sinclair. He gave me a ring, his mother's ring, the only piece of her that he has left. I don't need your blessing, but I want it. And don't ever call him a pervert again. Emmett worshipped by body and he worshipped me because he could see past the shell and to the soul trapped inside. Marlena, you don't have to hire him back, but you should. Just know that.

  I've included a ticket for next month. It's for a good cause, supporting youth suffering from depression. Supporting other people like me. I know you don't like fashion shows, but there it is. If you want to talk, meet me there. If I see you, I'll know you're ready, and I'll be ready, too. If you're not there, then I'll wait until you're ready, but you'll have to come find me.

  I'm making the first move. Here it goes. I love you.

  Sincerely, Claire Simone-Sinclair.

  Emmett leans over and reads the letter with me, face soft and sober, very serious. Until he gets to the end and laughs. He always laughs when he reads that damn hyphen.

  “It's beautiful, baby,” he tells me, taking the letter from my fingers and folding it gently. He slips it in the envelope for me and passes it back over to wet with my lips. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and run my tongue along the seal, pressing it down, shutting it tight. Then, before I can stop myself, I grab all three letters and jog out the front door and to the end of the driveway.

  No traffic passes by as I stand there for what seems like a millennium, holding the letters to my chest and wishing with every beat of my heart for things to go smoothly. Emmett comes out behind me but says nothing, waiting for me to take another step forward. When I do and the letters finally drop from my fingers and fall to the dusty, metal floor of the mailbox, he smiles.

  “Tree house?” he asks, but he doesn't really need to ask at all, does he? When you need an escape, you'll always find one. I nod, but I don't cry, somehow, someway. I close the mailbox and step back. Emmett takes my hand and presses a kiss to my ring, his chestnut hair sticking out every which way, his wife beater slick with sweat. We walk to the car together, hands clasped so tight that it's hard to say where one ends and the other begins. I don't know how we got like this so fast, but I don't care. When something this good comes along, you don't question it.

  When we get to the car door though, I pause and turn my head back to glance at the mailbox. I've got an idea, but I'm not sure that it's a good one. It just is which is okay. I make a decision before I even realize it's up for debate.

  “Keys?” I ask and Emmett tosses them to me without question. When he sees me run back and grab the letter to my family, he doesn't ask, but his eyebrows go up and his lip quirks a bit. I think he knew all along what I was going to do.

  We hop in the car and we drive, towards the tree house but not quite. There's a little pit stop we have to make first. I don't speak, but Emmett understands, and he turns up the stereo so loud that my ears hurt and my heart sings. We listen to I Don't Care by Apocalyptica on repeat which works for me, strangely, since I actually do care. Don't ask. It makes sense to me at the time. I drive fast and I roll through stop signs, and maybe it's dangerous, but I've got a mission to carry out, and I've got to do it before I lose my nerve.

  I nearly throw up when we pull into the circular driveway of my parents' house, slide past the trees and come to a screeching stop in front of the massive living room windows. Inside, I can already see my mother, Big Bob, and Marlena. How convenient. Sweat starts to pour down my face, but I don't pay it any attention. I don't think about anything except delivering this damn thing.

  I get out and leave the car running, letter clutched in my sweaty hand, tennis shoes crunching through the gravel. Emmett doesn't follow me; he knows this isn't the right time.

  The front door flies open; the elk head smiles down at me.

  “Claire?” my mother asks, rising from the table suddenly. Her chair falls to the floor as she gapes at me, sprinting towards her like a mad thing. I don't wait for words, just throw my arms around her neck. She's too shocked to respond, I think, too startled to reciprocate at first, but she gets it quick.

  “What are you doing here?” Marlena asks, sounding confused. “I mean, I'm glad, but … ” When she pauses, I'm forced to pry myself from my mother's arms and spin to face my sister instead. I hug her, too, and then I make my way over to B
ig Bob. To him, I hand the letter. He looks down at it and then up at me for a long, long moment. “What is going on?” Marlena asks, but neither of us pay her any attention. It's only when I start to turn away that my father reaches out and wraps his arms around me. The hug doesn't last long in theory, but it stays forever in my heart. It's just one of those once in a lifetime hugs, the ones that seem like nothing but mean everything. “Claire?”

  I start to run again, and nobody stops me. Marlena yells after, but that's as far as it goes.

  By the time I get in the car, I'm crying again. It's ridiculous, but I can't help it. Emmett makes it even worse when he uses his thumb to brush away the first tear, his lips the second. When we finally do arrive in the parking lot, I'm all out sobbing.

  Emmett still says nothing, taking my hand and starting towards the tree house. It's me who stops him and forces us to switch places, so that I'm leading and crying at the same time. But I get us there. I don't even need the map that Emmett drew for me. I just know. In my heart, I know.

  We climb the rope ladder and miraculously, as if by magic, everything is dry. A little dirty, but dry. Even my eyes. I touch my cheeks and then I just start laughing. It's a little crazy, sure, but I think I deserve a moment of insanity, don't you? I laugh until it hurts, and then I start crying again. Emmett climbs in behind me and lays down next to me, reaching out to take my hand and wrap his fingers around mine.

  “Welcome,” he tells me, and I stop laughing to give him a look. I have no idea what it is he's talking about.

  “Welcome?”

  “Welcome, Claire Simone-the-future-Sinclair, I think you've just arrived.” And then he raises himself up on his elbows, and I lean over, and we kiss like they do in old movies – long, strong, and perfect.

  The moment I enter Lianna's office, I'm surrounded by activity, people running here and there, fabric flying like kites. It takes almost fifteen minutes for me to grab somebody's attention and even then, all they can do is tell me to sit down on the couch while they get Lianna. It's another half an hour before she comes, but I try to enjoy myself, basking in the wild frenetic energy of the place. I always wanted to be a part of something like this and now, here I am. I squeeze my dress tight, glad that I was able to make some last minute improvements to it, and wait.

  Models stop by and get fitted, and I don't feel jealous of them anymore. It's incredibly freeing. All I'm worried about at the moment is whether anyone but Kylie will be showing up to Emmett and my wedding. At least she freaked out when I told her, congratulated me like crazy and gave me a kiss on the lips that I was absolutely not expecting. Her wild reaction helped to make up for everyone else's silence – sort of. I think about my mom and Marlena a lot, wondering what they'd say if they knew. Would they banish me forever? Give me an ultimatum? In my heart, I know that's not true. I know that eventually, they'll come around and they'll love Emmett just as much as I do. It's going to take time, but thankfully, I have some of that now.

  “Claire,” Lianna says, bustling in from the back, fingers red and sore, eyes puffy. She doesn't seem nearly as perky this morning as she was last night. I wonder if she got any sleep. “Come with me.” And then she takes me in the back, past rows of sewing machines and tables covered in notions and fabric. She pauses at one of these and sweeps everything to the floor, gesturing for me to lay my creation down in front of her. “I know this is short notice, but I've been thinking this whole time that something was missing in the show. We have several prominent, local designers, models, photographers, but there was something about it that was coming across as false, do you understand what I'm saying?” I open my mouth, but she forges on, too excited to keep her ideas contained. I like that about her. Lianna Cheung has not lost herself to this industry, blended into the walls and pushed the status quo. I can tell she wants to change things, and I'm right there with her. I'll do whatever it takes to help. “We don't have the spirit that I was hoping for.” She snaps her fingers and then points at me. “But you do.” She spins around and comes back to the table with photographs. They're images from the security cameras that day I came in soaking wet and miserable, drenched in my own pain and fear.

  “What are you doing with these?” I ask her as she unzips my bag and examines my garment with steady hands and a critical eye. Whatever it is that she sees, she must like. I touch the black and white shots and am grateful that I'm not in the same place now as I was back then. That was not a good place to be. I shudder.

  “I want to show these, Claire, along with some new photographs, pictures of you as you are now, and I want you to walk.”

  “Me?” The word comes out sharper and higher than I would've liked. Somehow, it's hard for me to imagine that Lianna would want me in her show. There's still one, last demon clinging to the folds of my skirt.

  “Yes, Claire,” she says, reaching out and taking my hand, looking at me with dark brown eyes and a quirky half-smile. “I want you to walk, and I want you to wear your own dress.” She pauses and squeezes my fingers tight. The snake tattoo on her arm seems to smile at me and flick out his tongue. This is it, Claire, it tells me in a hiss. This is your chance to have everything. This is your chance to find success. I focus my gaze back on Lianna's face. “Only do this if you feel comfortable,” she says, glancing over her shoulder at the clock. I know the show's a few weeks away, but for her, it may as well be tomorrow.

  “I … ” I try to think about what Emmett would say, and then realize that even his opinion doesn't matter right now. This is all about me. I can only do this if I feel it's the right step, if I believe in myself. I take a deep breath. Although Lianna Cheung has a lot to do, although I'm a small fish in a big pond, she doesn't rush me. She just stands there and waits patiently, holding my hand, looking at a younger version of herself and praying that everything works out for me the way it worked out for her.

  “Do you need a day or two to think about it?” she asks as my eyes find the photos of that sad girl's face, as they stare at her, small and pale, ghostly, a shell of a person. I look her straight in the eyes and I think hard about what I want to do and where I want to go with my life. My mind struggles with this decision, struggles until I pass off the choice to my heart. Then, and only then, the decision becomes a simple one.

  I look up, meet Lianna's eyes and say what I'm feeling deep down, past all the bullshit and the hurt and the recovery and just everything. I speak from the soul, and that's what matters most.

  “I'd love to.”

  The day of the fashion show arrives, and I'm a complete wreck. In a good way. Emmett makes me an egg white omelet with veggies that I actually eat and promises me that everything will be okay. The thing is, I believe him. And I believe in myself, too. I don't need to tell him that the fact that my family might be there is more frightening than the thousands of eyes that will be on me, watching, judging. But that's what I want, what I've always wanted. I want to be seen. I just didn't know why at first. Now I do. I want to make a difference, be someone that can stand out as an example to those whose hearts are still bleeding.

  Dear Me, I want to be pretty while alive.

  So that the ones who are ready to give up, the ones like Kylie can look and see proof that life after life exists, that happiness after pain is possible, and nothing, nothing, nothing is ever out of our reach.

  Not on the outside, but inside where my heart beats fierce and my soul glows brighter than the sun.

  I spent months starving myself, obsessing, trying to fit into everyone else's idea of perfect when all I needed to be was myself because if I'm happy with who I am, then it doesn't matter. And even better, once you love yourself, you can find somebody else to love you, too, that one other person in the whole universe that thinks you're perfect, too.

  Burn, burn brightly, so fiercely that even the sun can't compare, even the moon can't compete.

  So that perfect person and me, we get in his little red two-seater and we drive to the fashion show nobody was sure I'd ever live to see,
and he kisses me, and I kiss him, and I walk up the stairs feeling weightless, like one of the beautiful, silver cranes on Lianna Cheung's dress.

  And the smile that taints my full lips looks like the blossoms on the branches of our favorite tree.

  She greets me with a kiss to each full cheek and ushers me into hair and makeup. To my surprise, they don't do much. I sit there in that chair, and I watch my face, the one that I've always critiqued, that I've often hated, and I decide that I'm okay with it. No, more than just okay. I'm happy. I'm happy in the here and the right fucking now.

  Search and find me with you warm heat, strong lips and become a part of me until you leave a brand new whole where love lives and pretty breathes.

  When I stand up and move over to the racks of clothing, I pass by them all, away from the frantic girls and the gowns in orange and yellow and red. Nobody stops me or asks me any questions because Lianna has already told them what she's done for me. Why she's done it, I can't really say. I guess that when you look into another person's soul and see a piece of yourself, you feel like you want to reach out to them. Lianna is doing this for me, and I can't thank her enough.

  All of this because I finally love you enough – will always love you enough because I finally see how much that I believe in you.

  I unzip the bag my dress is trapped in, and I set it free, pulling it out in a rush of fabric and clean, sharp scent, pressing it to my nose and pulling it all in, savoring the moment where all my dreams converge and melt into the most perfect slice of reality that I could've ever imagined.

  Up, up, up I was flying.

  I don't just dress myself, I dance into my gown. I spin, and I don't care who's looking or what they think of me. I just do what I need to do, and I know that they're absorbing it, watching me exist in the here and now, and I hope they're taking notes.