Page 28 of So Not My Type

That Colleen and her mother were raised by the same parents blew Ella’s mind.

“Grab the apples.” Colleen pointed at the bucket in the stall’s corner.

Ella went to the stall to retrieve them, running her fingers across the wooden sign with the burned inscriptionWho Rescued Whohanging from the barn wall.

The sound of galloping horses grew louder, and Ella’s heart swelled. It was like the animals knew she was here, knew she needed love, and ran to give it to her.

Mocha-Tina, one of three rescue horses, and the one that Ella designated as “hers” when she was around ten, trotted towards her.

“Hey, girl,” Ella whispered. She rubbed the side of the rich, chocolate brown mare, who dipped her head. The horse was an anxiety med that, with every pat and glide, made Ella’s tension evaporate. She held the apple in her palm and swore Mocha-Tina flashed a gummy, toothy grin before consuming it in one bite.

They worked in silence as the sun broke through the clouds. Colleen grabbed the pitchfork and separated the hay. Ella doused Mocha-Tina with detangling spray and began methodical brushes. Strand by strand and with long strokes, Mocha-Tina stood proudly as Ella worked the tangles and groomed the coat until it turned nearly reflective.

“Not a great week,” Ella said, shaking out her forearm muscle.

Colleen tossed a chunk of hay to the side. “Work?”

“Work. My mom. My dad. My life.” She spritzed the mane and continued brushing. Her mother’s overbearingness catapulted to the Space Needle-level this week. Text messages at work, harping on her about appointments, making sure she took her meds—which she absolutely never forgot to do. “People treat me different because of my dad and it really sucks.”

Colleen kicked away a rock. “Is that true? Or is that your perception?”

Maybe it was perception? Besides the dipshit in the conference room, who called out that she was George’s daughter, only one person brought her lineage to her attention. “There’s this woman, Sophie.” She tugged out a strand of horsehair from the brush and flicked it into the breeze. “And she makes comments all the time.”

“All the time, huh?”

Okay, maybe that was a stretch. She’d only brought it up twice, maybe three times. But Ella saw the thoughts and judgements behind those green eyes. “And she thinks she’s super cool, you know, and can get away with everything because of… like who she is.”

Colleen lifted her gaze from the hay. “Who is she?”

“She’s like this, ugh, I don’t know.” Ella waved the brush in the air. “Like this shaved-head rocker chick. And beautiful. But I don’t think she knows she’s beautiful, which is somehow more annoying than just owning it. And she thinks she’s really smart and everyone else is an idiot.”

Colleen shoved the prongs and twisted, concentrating on moving the straw. “Beautiful, huh?”

Of courseSophie was beautiful. The sweetest face, a full mouth, and eyes that were green, but not just any old green. A green with speckles, that, when the sun hit, adjusted into the type of jade that belonged on a canvas. Ella returned to brushing. “I mean, if you’re into her type.”

Colleen stuck the prongs into the ground and rested her flattened forearm on the wooden handle. “Tell me about your mom and dad.”

Ella set the brush down and took a sip from the mason jar. “They’re up my ass constantly. I need my own space.”

“I remember a similar conversation when you wanted to go to college in person instead of online.”

Being homeschooled for most of her life, when Ella strolled into her mother’s den six years ago and demanded to go to college on the University of Washington campus—not online—her mother nearly fell into the ten-foot-high bookshelf. Two hundred million conversations about “danger” and “unsupervised” and “how special” she was followed, until Ella screamed like a toddler, threatened to run away (she wouldn’t have actually run away), and sobbed until her parents let up. Shehated that this was still the only successful way she was able to retain some control of her life. “This feels different. I mean, yes, I wanted to go to school, but I didn’t actually want to leave home. But now… I’m an adult and I want my own place.”

Colleen tipped a bucket upside down and sat. “A lot of people live with their parents.”

True. But that didn’t mean Ella wanted to.

She knew what it looked like from the outside. She hadeverything. At the same time, she felt like she had nothing—at least nothing that truly mattered. Mocha-Tina nickered at Ella’s side, and she scratched just beside the horse’s ears. She finally took a seat on the ground next to Colleen, and rested her head against her aunt’s hip.

Colleen didn’t push or pry. After a bit, she used the pitchfork to help her stand up and walked to the barn. She returned with a bucket of chicken feed and handed it to Ella. “Come on. One more hour of chores, then we can move to the studio.”

Swiping a fresh canvas with creamy acrylic paint was akin to heaven. Ella dipped the round brush into magenta, citrus orange, and a touch of white, and swiped. She tilted her head…Pretty.At home, she painted with a full sketch outline, exclusively in watercolor, and an end date in mind. Devices were always turned off, and her parents had strict instructions not to interrupt. At Colleen’s, the only rule was no rules. She used this time to experiment with the abstract technique and mixing hues.

Colleen returned with two PB&Js, cookies, and homemade lemonade, and set it all on the rickety TV tray between them. Ella eyed the distance from the canvas in case the tray collapsed and a lemonade-spray disaster occurred.

“Thanks.” Ella wiped her hands and dug for a cookie when she got a text from her mom.

Mom:

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