Page 9 of So Not My Type

“It wasn’t just my combat boots! It was everything… what I was wearing, how I looked, the fact that I never went to college. You should have seen her face when I broke that devasting news. She didn’t even look me in the eye.” Sophie kneaded a knuckle into the corner of her eye and flashed back to that day. She’d only been at Mahogany and Moon for a week and was desperate to make a good impression. Since she was fourteen, she’d alwaysworked—sweeping at her dad’s mechanic shop, bussing tables at her mom’s diner, summers at the pier cleaning fish guts from the Market. But this was different. This was arealjob. Arespectablejob. And she even had a title!

Then what started as forced conversation took a dark turn, and flew downhill from there. A few snarky comments tossed, glares flung, and the burning pit in Sophie’s stomach accelerating to an inferno degree. When Ella finally left, Sophie ran to the bathroom and cried.

Sophie looked at her watch.Crap.If she didn’t bolt now, she’d miss the metro and hell if she’d let Ella beat her there on day one. “I’ve gotta run. Tell Remi I want a do-over, double or nothing, on our pool match last week.”

“Are you still mad you lost your ten bucks?”

“Yes, yes I am.” Sophie grinned. “Luvs.”

She hung up the phone and zipped up her boots. Day one.

Ella better buckle up. She had no idea what it was like to work in the real world.

FOUR

ELLA

Cashmere sweaters tickle. And not in the good way. The microscopic pieces imbedded into Ella’s skin. But the top looked cute, so the tradeoff was acceptable. Ella smoothed the neckline and clasped on a simple pearl strand. Pink was her color, her mother had told her on more than one occasion. And sure, it was risky to wear white pants in the spring, but there wasn’t supposed to be rain today.

Maybe cashmere was too much. The suit yesterday had definitely been too much. But she’d been so focused on learning all the tasks that she wasn’t sure what everyone else wore. Her father was old-school and wore a suit and tie almost every day. Surely cashmere was acceptable in the office? She bit her lip and swapped her pearls for a simple gold clasp.

She probably should’ve visited more over the years and gotten a feel for the office culture. But besides the fact she had a complicated relationship with her father, she rarely had time in between school and appointments. And after meeting snarky-ass Sophie all those years back, her desire to visit turned to nil.

Stepping past her easel with her latest work in progress, an ocean-at-dusk scene, she made a mental note to order more crimson, aquamarine, and yellow #5. She’d been too nervousthis last week to work on the canvas, focusing instead on rereading old textbooks and conducting project-management internet searches. But hopefully this weekend she could buckle down for some serious self-soothing painting time.

The natural light bulbs on her chrome vanity illuminated her face and she stared. “Ugh.” She could just imagine what her mom would say. Reflected in the mirror was her lack of sleep, plagued by dreams of wandering an empty parking garage, frantically seeking an unlocked door. She dabbed extra concealer under her eyes and heated her iron.

Thirty minutes later, Ella spritzed on heat oil spray and flat ironed her bangs one last time,finallyachieving optimal smoothness. After years of having long, bang-free hair, it took some getting used to this new shoulder-length blunt bob. She pushed her chunky frames up with her forefinger and made her way through hallway one, then hallway two. The only sounds around were the quiet buzz of the housekeepers starting their daily routine. The place was eerily quiet. She refused to look at any of the six-foot-tall paintings of Italian women that lined the burgundy walls. She swore their gaze followed her, judging her behind the frames. She loved art and painting, but these ones had freaked her out since she was little. Sometimes she had this tingling sensation that they, or something, were following her. She’d bolt down the hall, or run up the stairs, and slam her door shut.

The kitchen had a fresh bouquet in the middle of the marble center island. Her mother was a stickler for the arrangements, usually requiring a mix of colors and sizes. This arrangement was all pink Stargazer lilies. Beautiful, but hopefully none of the staff were on the receiving end of her mom’s disapproving frown and a passive-aggressive statement like, “It’s okay. You must not have been given the right instructions.”

“Umph.” Ella’s breath released as she opened the massive stainless-steel double-door fridge to grab a quick breakfast. Facing her was a lunch bag with a note.

Good luck on your first day! So proud of you.

Mom

Despite herself, she grinned. Although her mom most definitely had someone make whatever was inside, it really was thoughtful. Needing to bolt out of here before her mom returned from Pilates, Ella double-checked that her emergency nasal spray was in her purse, and that her smartwatch with the medical alert had a full charge.

Let’s do this. She texted Thomas, her driver, that she was ready to go.

Among a household of revolving-door staff where Ella long ago stopped trying to learn names, Thomas had been with her family since she could remember. He drove her family to doctor appointments, dinners, and random events. When she went to college, every day he dropped her off, then waited on a bench at the University of Washington’s Red Square, or a “within jogging distance” coffee shop. She hated it… until she didn’t. Especially after a particularly turbulent period during her sophomore year when she’d blink open her eyes to a sea of concerned bystanders, disorientated with a bloodied lip or nasty head bump. His face provided the comfort she needed to cut through a confusing blacking out.

When she was little, he seemedso old, like her parents. His blondish hair turned white in the summer, his cheeks were red like he carried a permanent sunburn. But over the last few years, she noticed the gray fanning his temples, the lines across his forehead deepening, the crinkling of his crow’s feet spreading.

“Good morning, Ella.” He held the door open, long ago swapping the “Ms. Northwood” for “Ella” after she told him it felt weird for him to address her that way. He’d smiled that day and said that was his way of showing respect. She remembered thinking it was a funny statement since she was only thirteen.

She slid into the back and set her bags on the floor. “Morning.”

That would be the extent of their conversation. Where her parents suffocated her daily with a blanket of questions, Thomas seemed to know during solo drives she needed time to rejuvenate in silence. She was never comfortable with small talk. Most any talk, really. During a high school junior year homeschooling class, she studied nature vs. nurture, and went to bed that entire week wondering if her aversion to eye contact and conversation was because she was born that way or was a product of her parents’ forced isolation.

The massive black SUV bumped over the gaping downtown Seattle potholes like the dips were pesky puddles. Each jerk made her want to lurch, and she exhaled through her nose, breathing in sets of four. She closed her eyes.I can do this. I can do this.

Social media. That will help.As Thomas weaved through rush-hour traffic, with coffee shops, pho restaurants, and tourist T-shirt shops selling cheap, yet expensive, souvenirs zooming by, she scrolled. A blur of images and faces and reels overtook her space when her breath hitched.Was that… No… Ella’s finger flew back until she confirmed what she saw.Jasmine. In a lip-locked, posed selfie with a mutual, the sun setting in the background creating the absolute perfect shadowed profiles.

Bet it took her an hour to pose. Whatever.

Ella enhanced the image. Was her ex really dating a former college-mate of Ella’s? Or did Jasmine snap this photo knowing Ella was linked with this woman on social media?Probably.The level of mind-fuckery that took place during their yearlong relationship could fill a book.

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