Page 109 of Healing Eleanor

I smirk bitterly. “Don’t pretend you didn’t know. And don’t pretend you didn’t keep it from me.”

He lets out a low, humorless laugh. “Careful, boy. Don’t get smart with me.”

A wave of white-hot ire crashes over me. “Careful? My mother—your wife—is dying, and you don’t think your son deserves to know?”

He steps closer, his face inches from mine, jaw clenched. “Don’t come into my job demanding answers, Nikolai. You won’t like where it ends.”

That old threat. The one he’s used my whole life to shut me up. But not this time.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I shove, fury spilling over.

His response is flat, dismissive. “Because I didn’t. Irina didn’t want you to know, and I wasn’t about to cross her. That’s it.” He turns away, already walking back toward the double doors. “Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do.”

I’ve been betrayed twice in one day. Within hours. No empathy. No remorse. It’s unreal, like I’ve stepped into some nightmare.

Because why would Mama keep this from me? Dad, sure—that makes sense. But Mama? She always tells me everything. We never keep secrets, especially not about health.

Back in my car, rage and hopelessness pump through my veins. Blinding, all consuming, and full of pure poison.

I don’t even know where I’m driving until I’m already there. My hands have a memory of their own. By the time I pull into the cracked asphalt lot, the neon sign glares down at me. The Fig and Ash.

The place where I used to drown every sorrow. Every failure. Every wound. Of course I ended up here. It’s the one place that promises a quick fix, even if it’s a lie.

Snow begins to fall, light and soundless, blanketing the car like a warning I refuse to heed.

Gabriel, Dillon, and Lily immediately pop into my head. I know I could call them, and they’d be here for me if I asked. They would listen without judgment, because that’s who they are—good friends. But I’m already here. There’s no point dragging them into something not even I want to touch with a ten-foot pole.

I grab my coat and step inside, shoving thoughts of my friends to the back of my mind.

The bar hasn’t changed. The air is stale, heavy with sweat and booze. The floor sticks beneath my shoes with who-knows-what. Torn vinyl stools sag along the counter, while rows of bottles loom behind the bar like old temptations waiting to be claimed. Flashing beer signs buzz in the corners. The jukebox wails a sad ’80s ballad, its crackling chorus clawing straight into my skull.

And the smell. I stifle a gag in my throat. Urine. Smoke. Spilled alcohol. I can’t believe I ever called this place home.

The bartender glances up mid-pour. Blonde curls piled messily on her head, neckline low enough to make my skin crawl. Her eyes light up when she spots me.

“Nik?” Her voice pitches. “Oh my gosh, it is you!” She practically shrieks. “How the hell ya been?”

I inch closer, trying to place her face. Nothing. Maybe Kaley? Kelsey? Kylie?

She rolls her eyes with a laugh. “It’s me—Kelly. Remember?” She winks, and my stomach churns.

“Ah, come on,” she says, already pouring what used to be my usual. “Don’t tell me you forgot me that easily. We had some fun nights together, you know.” She slides the pertsovka across the bar with a sly smile. “Because I,” she says, her voice dipping, sultry and low, “wouldn’t forget hands like yours.”

I think I’m going to hurl.

Still, my hand moves on its own. I grab the glass and take a long swig, the vodka burning a path down my throat. It’s familiar, bitter, almost comforting in the worst way.

“Right,” I force out. “Kelly. Didn’t forget.” I lift the glass in a mock toast and dip my chin. “Thanks for this.”

“Don’t mention it, Sugar.” She smirks, grabbing a cup and wiping it half-heartedly with a dirty towel. “I’ll keep ’em comin’.”

I want to say no, but I don’t. I’m already here, touching the one thing I swore I’d never touch again.

Everything has finally collapsed on top of me. Mama. Dad. Opening night. Kasper breathing down my neck. And Eleanor. Always, always Eleanor. She lives in the back of my mind like a ghost I can’t exorcise.

Five pertsovkas later, and I’m floating. My mind finally quiets, the pain dissolving into a haze. I can almost convince myself this is better. A forgetful bliss. Just me and the glass. This drink won’t lie. Won’t betray me like my parents; demand excellence or care about opening night.

But then it betrays me anyway, because every swallow brings her face with it. Eleanor, splintering me with just a thought.