Page 118 of Healing Eleanor

I hang my head, whispering into the cold, “Jesus, I repent of my sinful behavior… the drinking.” I grimace. “I pray that You forgive me of my sins. That You wash my slate clean, as white as snow. I pray for Your redemption, Lord. Amen.”

I lose myself in the chapter despite the cold biting through my coat, until soft crunching in the snow pulls me back.

I look up to see Eleanor. In sneakers, sweatpants, long-sleeve leotard, no jacket, and no beanie. My chest burns at the sight. I want to scold her for being out here in the cold, but I can’t summon the energy.

She walks over and I instinctively slip my coat off, handing it to her. “Here,” I mutter, avoiding her eyes.

She settles beside me, pulling the coat around her. “Thanks,” she says softly. “I brought this for you… figured you’d need it.”

She extends her hand, small and warm, holding two Advil and a bottle of water.

I take them, my fingers brushing hers. “Thanks,” I say, swallowing the pills and chugging the water. Her concern is… overwhelming. I hate that she’s here, but I hate being alone even more.

Silence stretches between us. She fidgets with the sleeve of the coat, while I yearn to disappear. I can’t bear her seeing me like this. Broken, hungover, and guilty.

“How are you feeling?” She asks, nibbling her bottom lip.

I let out a dry laugh. “I’ve been better.”

I keep my gaze firmly fixed to the ground. The memory of my hands on her lips last night, the words I said… I’m such an idiot. My face burns, shame curling in my chest.

“Do—” she hesitates. “Do you remember anything from last night?”

I shake my head. Easier to say nothing than admit I remember fragments that make me feel both guilty and… alive.

Her face crumbles. “Oh. Do you want to talk about it?”

“About what?” I snap a little too quickly, hating the edge in my voice.

“Wh—what happened?” she asks, her voice faltering.

I close my eyes, heart hammering. I refuse to let her see the mess I am inside. “My mom is on hospice,” I reply bitterly.

Her gasp cuts through the cold. “What? What do you mean?”

“She’s on hospice. Chemo stopped working months ago apparently. She knew this is where she’d end up… and she didn’t tell me.” My voice drops.

Her hand presses lightly against my arm. “I’m so sorry, Nik. She should’ve told you.”

Pressure mounts in my chest as I fight the urge to let her comfort me. “The worst part… my dad knew too. And he didn’t tell me.”

“That’s… that’s horrible. Do you know why?”

I shrug. “He didn’t deem it necessary, I guess.”

“That seems pretty necessary to me,” she mumbles quietly, shaking her head.

“Yeah, well,” I mutter. Shrugging is easier than opening up further. I don’t want to relive it, and I don’t want her pity.

Another beat of silence passes.

“You could’ve woken me this morning. You didn’t have to just leave,” she says, quiet but firm.

I clench my fists in my lap, hating that she has to see me flinch under the weight of my shame. “Did you get my note?”

She nods. “I did.”

“I needed to get my car,” I say quickly, hoping to end it there. I can’t talk about last night. At least not yet. Maybe ever.