MILA Origins 2.0 - The Fire

this version of Mom back, the one who dispensed hugs and kisses and comfort as needed. But up until this moment, I’d been convinced that the old version hadn’t made the trip to Clearwater. That maybe the old version had holed up somewhere in Philly—along with the missing pieces of my memory.
    Mom pulled away all too quickly, her right hand flying to the emerald pendant dangling around her neck. Mybirthstone. A necklace Dad had given her when I was just a baby.
    After his death, Mom heaped more affection on the symbolic version of her daughter than she did the real thing.
    Her abrupt swivel kicked up dirt. I watched the dust plume upward in a small, tangible reminder of her rejection, a cloud that thinned and thinned until it finally dissipated into blue sky. What would it be like, to disappear so easily?
    “Go walk Bliss out and rub her down. I’m going to check on Maisey,” Mom called from over her shoulder, her swift stride already carrying her halfway to the barn.
    If only I were as efficient at leaving things behind as she was.
    “Oh, and Kaylee called. She wants to pick you up for a Dairy Queen run in half an hour. You can go there and nowhere else, understand?”
    “Yes,” I said, barely suppressing an eye roll. Come straight home after school. No going anywhere without approval. Never let anyone besides Kaylee—who’d gone through a rigorous prescreening process—give me a ride. You’d think we lived in the slums of New York City or something.
    Not that it mattered. I didn’t have anyone else to go with—or anywhere else to go—anyway.
    I leaned my head against Bliss’s lathered body, taking comfort in her warmth, in her musky horse smell, before straightening. “Come on, Bliss. Let’s walk you out.”
    She snorted, as if in approval.
    I started a slow trek in Mom’s footsteps, letting my eyes wander over the grounds that practically screamed country. Everything here screamed country.
    Like the gravel driveway to my right, and the dirt trail that sprouted off and led to the guesthouse ahead. Our new residence was a smaller, more modest replica of the vacant eight-thousand-square-foot, L-shaped main house that sprawled another half mile back. The same white paint with green trim, the same covered porch. No lounge chairs with their wrought-iron backs crafted into the shape of horse heads, but we did have our very own bronze horse-head door knocker.
    The dirt path continued from our guesthouse and led to the tall, A-framed building to my right. The stables; part of the reason Mom and I were here. Apparently the owners had a sick relative in England and had to stay indefinitely, so Mom had been hired on as the resident vet and caretaker.
    Lucky me.
    I supposed some girls would be thrilled to move to a big ranch away from the city, to help care for the horses, to make a fresh start.
    I rubbed Bliss’s oh-so-soft muzzle. So far, the horses were the only thing working for me.

TWO
    D o these colors look right together, Mila?”
    Kaylee’s high-pitched voice, so close to my ear, plucked me right out of a memory with Dad—a good one.
    He’d been walking through Penn’s Landing, hand in hand with Mom, while I ran up ahead, taking in all the tourists and the skaters, the historic ships and the musty scent of the Delaware River. The air held a chill, in spite of my red-mittened hands, but his bellowing laugh had warmed me.
    When I opened my eyes to the brown-and-tan interior of the Clearwater Dairy Queen, loss ripped through me. Back in the memory, I’d felt loved, a sense of belonging. A feeling that was hard to come by in a fast-food restaurant in a strange town.
    Kaylee wiggled her alternating Purrrfectly Pink and Purplicious fingernails right under my nose, bouncing the entire booth with her enthusiasm. I forced my fists to unclench and fought back the urge to bat those colorful fingers away.
    “They look great, right?” In typical Kaylee fashion, she jumped in and answered her own question before I’d even had a chance to respond.
    “They look awesome,” Ella answered from across the table, genuine enthusiasm lighting up her narrow, mousy face.
    “Awesome,” I echoed. Actually, I couldn’t summon even a speck of interest over nail polish colors and top coats. “How’d you get that scar on your pinkie?”
    Kaylee stopped the finger wiggling. She frowned as she inspected the little fingers on both hands, squinting at the white line I’d noticed, near her first knuckle. “This