Page 17 of So Not My Type
“Yes, but Thomas will be back any second to take you.”
“I’m going to Uber today.” Ella popped a bite in her mouth and gathered lunch items.
Her mom’s head tilted. “Why would you take an Uber?”
“Trying something different. Consider this my act of rebellion for the week.”
Her mom lifted a brow. “I thought your act of rebellion was wearing those pants with those shoes.”
Of course, her mom wouldn’t understand giving up the luxury and convenience of having a driver, for the chance that Sophie, or any other co-worker, would see her dropped off by a town car. And maybe a week ago, she wouldn’t have fully understood herself, either. In the U District, with so much car and foot traffic, people shuffling from class to class, or barreling down The Ave to get pad thai, no one paid attention. A certain anonymity existed in campus life.
But now, being around working people, feeling the same crunch herself of earning dollars for independence, she was hyper-aware of the perception.
It’s not like she hadn’t asked her parents for the money to move out. Her mom had lamented about how when they had over ten thousand square feet of living space, there was no reason for her to get her own place. Here, she had a staff to attend to needs, her art studio, Thomas… She didn’t even have to do her own laundry. Her mom tackled this ask with a kind voice, talked about how difficult it would be for Ella to wash dishes and learn how to clean clothes and mop floors. And she shouldrealize how blessed she was, and why would she want anything else? “It’s like slapping the less fortunate in the face,” her mom had said.
That statement had made zero sense to Ella.
When Ella had shifted into begging, her mom snapped and said if she moved out, she’d refuse to support her at all. Credit cards gone. Cash allowance gone. Sure, she had a modest trust fund, but that was wrapped up in more lawyers than a celebrity sex-scandal case, and she couldn’t access it until she was thirty-five. Which at this point may as well be a hundred.
Her mom added a dash of creamer to her coffee and stirred. “Did you reschedule the doctor appointment you missed last week?”
Ella opened the Uber app. “Ah, no. Not yet.”
“What? Why not?”
She avoided what was surely her mother’s heated gaze and hand pressed against her heart like she was warding off a heart attack. Why hadn’t Ella gone? Because the very last thing she needed was to leave work early and have Sophie shoot dagger eyes all day for Ella getting more special treatment.
“Ella. Jean. Northwood.”
Great. The full name. Ella was twenty-four and still cringed at the tone.
“When are you going to reschedule? I can do it for you.”
She glanced up at her mom’s fierce gaze and swallowed. “I’ve got it.”
Her mother pressed her slim hands on the table and sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Epilepsy is nothing to take lightly. You always want control and to not listen to a word we say, but this is serious. I don’t think you understand the implications?—”
“You don’t think you’ve pounded this into my head since I was nine? Idon’ttake it lightly. My whole fucking world revolves around making sure I am doing everything right, avoidingthings, not avoiding things, med schedule, nasal spray, my alarm, everything.” She exhaled fire. “I just need to reschedule. Christ.”
Her mom barely flinched at the tone, or the cursing, and Ella’s stomach turned. She hated that any time she was frustrated, her mom took the brunt of her outbursts. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t right or fair.
“We’re just worried.” Her mother crossed her arms. “With this new medication, we just don’t know when something may trigger a seizure.”
“Enough! Okay? Jesus Christ, I get it.”
Her mom’s gritted teeth made it look like she was on the verge of smacking something or tears, and at this point, Ella couldn’t handle either one.
Ella softened her stance, stuffed the rest of the lunch in a bag, tossed in an ice pack, and zipped. “I appreciate you looking out for me. I really do. Just?—”
“Just what?” her mom demanded.
Just… I can’t breathe.Ella couldn’t stomach looking at her parent’s face like she was a fragile doll that would splinter if the wind hit hard enough. Sometimes it felt like salt and ash soaked the air, and no matter how much she pulled in, she couldn’t fill her lungs.
And how could she explain that it felt as if she lived in a prison? Sure, the prison was luxurious and huge and filled with everything she needed—except freedom. She ached to swap her luxury Egyptian cotton sheets and bathroom suite and Victorian dressers for something that was only hers. “Nothing, Mom. I’m really sorry I worried you. I got this, I promise.”
The fruit plate was pushed aside, and her mother rested her head into her hands. “I can’t have anything happen to you. I just… I’d never forgive myself.” The tiniest crack left her mom’s normally stoic voice.
And there it was—that pained look, followed by a crushing guilt that consumed Ella and made her want to bolt.