Page 50 of Healing Eleanor

Edward glances my way with an awkward smile and pours wine into the glasses like he owns the place. In a way, maybe he does. He has the approval. The name. The success. He can probably move freely through this house without Mom hovering over his shoulder.

I pull out the chair at the far end and sit, folding my hands in my lap. My appetite is already running away from me, like it knows better than to stick around.

Mom is the last to sit, setting her phone face-down on the counter with a sigh. “Mae’s bringing the food out. Let’s try to have a nice evening.”

The room stills for half a second, her words settling over the table. Even she knows this dinner is headed for disaster from the things we’ll say to one another.

She sits at the head of the table, perfectly composed. Mae and a few other servers walk out with the food before anyone responds.

The food looks incredible. Roasted chicken with lemon and rosemary, haricot verts and roasted carrots with shaved almonds, and potatoes that glisten with olive oil. But my stomach twists just looking at it.

As plates are passed, I take small slivers. A bit of chicken, exactly three green beans, and one half of a potato. Even the potato is a stretch. I know I’ll beat myself up for eating it later. I’m surprised Mom is even letting them be served, unless she’s changed her stance on carbs.

“Eleanor, you don’t need the potatoes, those were prepared for Scarlett and Edward.” Mom comments, watching my plate. “You can set it off to the side .”

I go quiet, staring at the floor, wishing I could disappear.

Scarlett sips her wine and changes the subject. “So, Edward, tell us about the case you’ve been working on.”

Their voices fade into the background as I stare down at my plate, the flames from the candle flickering beside me. They’re soft and silent reminders that no matter how careful I am, I’ll never be enough to keep from burning.

I cut the chicken into smaller and smaller pieces, though I’m not eating any of it. Just moving food around like a child hoping no one will notice. But of course, someone always does.

“Eleanor,” Edward’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “What about you? Still in the Metropolitan?”

My fork pauses mid-slice. “No.” I’m not surprised he’s unaware of anything important going on in my life.

Edward’s eyes bug out of his head for a moment. “Really? What happened there…”

Beside him, Mom shakes her head as if to say: not now.

Edward clears this throat. “So… where are you now then?”

I take a sip of wine and regret it immediately. It tastes like acetone and raisins. I have no idea how anyone drinks this stuff for fun. With a grimace, I swallow it and chase it with a sip of water. “I’m working at Forma for now.”

He nods like it physically pains him. “Is there… any future there? Or is it just temporary until you find a real company?”

Real company. Like my job isn’t real unless it comes with prestige, programs, and company credits to impress his colleagues at firm dinners.

“I’m auditioning,” I say. “I’m Forma’s receptionist right now—” I stop myself short because no matter what I say, it won’t be good enough for them.

Edward swirls his wine. “Well, it’s good to stay busy.”

“It’s admirable, honestly. Having the patience to work a receptionist job waiting to hear back from other companies…” Scarlett says, trying to help but making it worse.

“She wouldn’t have needed to wait for a company to accept her if she had taken an offer that was presented to her,” Mom interrupts. “But I guess dancers who can’t perform need to find some way to stay relevant—even if it means working at a glorified pilates studio.”

I force a small breath and avert my eyes to my plate.

The candles continue to flicker, little beacons of warmth in a house that has none. The sweat prickles behind my knees. The dress tightens around my waist now that I’ve eaten a sliver. I try to remind myself it doesn’t matter. That I don’t care. That I can go home soon. But a rebellious part of me does care. I seem to always care. Because part of me still wants to be chosen. I still want someone at the table to say I’m enough.

My phone vibrates in my purse beneath the chair, the sound an insistent buzz against the silence. I keep my eyes on my plate, methodically sliding food around as if that might make the noise disappear. I take a few small bites of chicken, willing it to stop.

Then it starts ringing again.

Mom lets out a sharp and theatrical sigh. “Just answer it, Eleanor. It’s bad enough you didn’t leave your purse in the front room where it belongs. Clearly, someone’s very eager to reach you.”

My cheeks flush as I mutter a quiet, sorry and reach for my phone. I push back my chair and slip into the sitting room to the right. Once the door clicks shut behind me, I answer.