the excess fat … the skeletal thin … whatever. The makeup we bought isn't hurting either. My lips are no longer dry and chapped. Now, they're moist and pink, bright and youthful, the perfect complement to the blush I've used on the apples of my cheeks. The eyeliner makes my eyes pop and the shadow brings out the blue and helps hide the gray. Better. Much better. I almost feel like Old Claire now. In a way, that's a bit of a scary thought because Old Claire became In-between Claire. I have to remember that I am New Claire now. I am reborn.
I finish my makeup, slide on a pair of lace gloves, and step out of the bathroom and into a pair of black heels. These aren't designer, but Emmett tried. In fact, I'm glad they're not. I'm already so guilty about the dress that I can't even imagine what I'd do if I found out he'd splurged on a pair of Jimmy Choos.
“Wow,” Emmett says when I walk into the living room and find him sitting on the sofa. “Just wow.” Even though I feel ugly, even though I feel skinny and fat both, I blush. Emmett makes me forget that I'm an anorexic-bulimic-depressed monster. He makes me feel like just a girl, just a careless, beautiful girl.
I wait for him to stand up and come to me, to kiss my freshly rouged rips, to lean his forehead against mine.
He's been so lovey-dovey, I can hardly stand it. All through our sewing class, he was holding my hand, staring at me, kissing my cheek. Let's just say we got a lot of stares. At first I thought it might've been because I chose to wear a pair of my baggy sweats and one of Emmett's tees, letting my balding head shine fierce and my pale skin glow. But then Emmett mentioned that all the other folks in the class were women over the age of sixty, and maybe they were just staring because he was challenging gender roles by being there. I don't know if I believe him, but it made me feel better.
Still, I refused to leave the house again without a wig and some makeup. Emmett made that happen for me, even though he shouldn't, even though he can't afford it. I want to kiss his face off.
And now, with this dinner looming before us, he's still sweet as fucking pie. I'd be angry … trepidatious … scared. But Emmett isn't showing any sign that he's dreading this night. I touch the sleeves of his white button up and wish his arms were bare, so I could see those tiny scars and know that I wasn't alone. I figure it'll have to wait till tonight when I strip Emmett down and make love to him again. Despite what Marlena says, I'm not exactly a helpless little victim in all of this. I want to fuck Emmett, and I want to do it often.
“Are you okay?” I ask him, just to make sure. If he's holding it inside, I want him to let it out. I watch as he wets his lips and thinks carefully about the answer to that question.
“I am, and I'm not,” he says, folding me against him, treasuring me even though I still don't quite understand why. I assume that when I finally learn to love myself, I'll get it. “I'm glad that my dad's actually making an effort to change, but I'm sort of pissed that it's happening now. Does that make sense?”
“Don't worry about me.”
“I knew that after our first kiss in the tree house, that I would always worry about you. So don't worry about me worrying about you.” Emmett grins and grabs me on either side of my head, kissing my wig as if it really is my hair. I appreciate that.
“This is about you tonight,” I warn him, knowing all the while that he's going to be thinking about me anyway, if I'm eating, what I'm eating, how his dad is treating me. He hasn't said it aloud, but I can tell that he's worried. He says his father hurt women , but not how. Did he beat them? Rape them? And if so, once Emmett confronts him, will they have a relationship? I have no idea. I decide that I'm going to go into this without judgment, that I'll let my impression of the man and his fiancée be the deciding factor for me.
“Thank you,” he tells me,
I finish my makeup, slide on a pair of lace gloves, and step out of the bathroom and into a pair of black heels. These aren't designer, but Emmett tried. In fact, I'm glad they're not. I'm already so guilty about the dress that I can't even imagine what I'd do if I found out he'd splurged on a pair of Jimmy Choos.
“Wow,” Emmett says when I walk into the living room and find him sitting on the sofa. “Just wow.” Even though I feel ugly, even though I feel skinny and fat both, I blush. Emmett makes me forget that I'm an anorexic-bulimic-depressed monster. He makes me feel like just a girl, just a careless, beautiful girl.
I wait for him to stand up and come to me, to kiss my freshly rouged rips, to lean his forehead against mine.
He's been so lovey-dovey, I can hardly stand it. All through our sewing class, he was holding my hand, staring at me, kissing my cheek. Let's just say we got a lot of stares. At first I thought it might've been because I chose to wear a pair of my baggy sweats and one of Emmett's tees, letting my balding head shine fierce and my pale skin glow. But then Emmett mentioned that all the other folks in the class were women over the age of sixty, and maybe they were just staring because he was challenging gender roles by being there. I don't know if I believe him, but it made me feel better.
Still, I refused to leave the house again without a wig and some makeup. Emmett made that happen for me, even though he shouldn't, even though he can't afford it. I want to kiss his face off.
And now, with this dinner looming before us, he's still sweet as fucking pie. I'd be angry … trepidatious … scared. But Emmett isn't showing any sign that he's dreading this night. I touch the sleeves of his white button up and wish his arms were bare, so I could see those tiny scars and know that I wasn't alone. I figure it'll have to wait till tonight when I strip Emmett down and make love to him again. Despite what Marlena says, I'm not exactly a helpless little victim in all of this. I want to fuck Emmett, and I want to do it often.
“Are you okay?” I ask him, just to make sure. If he's holding it inside, I want him to let it out. I watch as he wets his lips and thinks carefully about the answer to that question.
“I am, and I'm not,” he says, folding me against him, treasuring me even though I still don't quite understand why. I assume that when I finally learn to love myself, I'll get it. “I'm glad that my dad's actually making an effort to change, but I'm sort of pissed that it's happening now. Does that make sense?”
“Don't worry about me.”
“I knew that after our first kiss in the tree house, that I would always worry about you. So don't worry about me worrying about you.” Emmett grins and grabs me on either side of my head, kissing my wig as if it really is my hair. I appreciate that.
“This is about you tonight,” I warn him, knowing all the while that he's going to be thinking about me anyway, if I'm eating, what I'm eating, how his dad is treating me. He hasn't said it aloud, but I can tell that he's worried. He says his father hurt women , but not how. Did he beat them? Rape them? And if so, once Emmett confronts him, will they have a relationship? I have no idea. I decide that I'm going to go into this without judgment, that I'll let my impression of the man and his fiancée be the deciding factor for me.
“Thank you,” he tells me,
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