Page 53 of Healing Eleanor

After a quick shower, I twist my hair into a neat bun then freeze. Tangled in the bristles of my brush is a small clump of hair. I pluck it out and stare. Did I brush too hard? I force myself not to dwell on it now.

I pull on leggings, a leotard, leg warmers, my favorite oversized cardigan, and sneakers. I have five minutes to leave if I want to be early. With no time for a full makeup routine, I swipe on mascara and call it good enough.

In the kitchen, I stuff my dance bag with a water bottle, extra rosin, and a towel. I grab a banana from the counter and head for the door. Phone to my ear, I call a taxi, hoping one will show up in time.

If there’s one thing I’ve already learned about this town, public transportation is practically nonexistent. Everyone drives. This definitely isn’t New York City anymore. If I stay here, I might actually have to buy a car, an expense I can’t even begin to wrap my head around. So for now, a taxi will have to do.

When I arrive at Hollingford Ballet Company, I pause for a brief moment outside the grand double doors. The morning sun glints off the polished brass handles, and for a second, I just breathe. Then I push them open, and am greeted by a familiar mix of bergamot and something peaceful. It wraps around me like a soft shawl, calming the nervous flutter in my chest.

My sneakers make soft thuds against the gleaming hardwood floor as I step inside, the echo swallowed by the vastness of the entry hall.

I almost forgot just how beautiful this place was.

A piano plays softly in the distance, and I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the feeling of belonging, like I’m returning home.

Robin is hunched over a stack of papers at the reception desk, her brows furrowed in focus. She looks up when she hears my footsteps, her expression softens instantly, and when she smiles, it isn’t the kind of forced politeness I’ve come to expect in places like this. It’s genuine, warm, and welcoming in a way that still catches me off guard. I remind myself that the people here are different. The kindness is real.

“Good morning,” she greets, her voice bright with excitement. “I’m thrilled to see you again, Eleanor.”

I return her smile, shifting a little on my feet. “Good morning, Robin.” I clear my throat lightly. “Could you point me to Studio B again? I think that’s where I’m supposed to be.”

“Of course, love,” she says, pointing toward the hallway. “Head down this way. The third door on the right is the dressing room, as you probably remember. After that, take a left, and Studio B will be the first door on your left.”

I nod and murmur a quiet thanks before heading to the dressing rooms to change, then toward Studio B.

I’m the first to arrive. The room is calm, almost reverent, like a cloud heavy with rain, waiting to let go.

I wander over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, curious about what lies beyond the glass. Large trees frame what looks like a garden. Stones of varying sizes form a winding, uneven path that weaves between clusters of wildflowers and thick, leafy bushes. At the end of the walkway is a weathered white stone bench, its sides curled in vines, as if nature has slowly claimed it.

The whole thing looks like it’s from a fairytale. Delicate and unexpected, especially for a ballet company.

A man with dark hair sits on the bench, bent forward and completely absorbed in a book with glistening, gold-edged pages. I squint, trying to make out the shape of his face. From this distance, I can’t be sure, but he looks familiar.

I lean closer, trying not to fog the window with my breath or leave a fingerprint. Just as I tilt my head to get a better angle—like a complete and total stalker—he shifts, checks his watch, and then looks up.

Right at me.

Nikolai.

I jolt backward so fast my foot catches my other pointe shoe, and I pitch forward straight into the window, leaving an unmistakable print behind. A surge of heat crawls up my neck and into my cheeks as our eyes meet.

He leans back slowly, one arm stretching along the bench behind him, and smirks, clearly entertained by catching me mid-snoop. I back away from the window in a panic and wipe my clammy palms against my leotard.

Way to go, Eleanor. Now he definitely thinks you’re some kind of creep.

Instead of pushing my detective skills any further and risking a second round of humiliation, I sink down beside the freestanding barres, lean my head against the wall, and close my eyes, letting the silence envelop me.

I’m nearly asleep when I hear footsteps echo across the wood, a shadow falling over my face. I crack one eye open, and there he is.

Nikolai.

Standing above me, arms crossed, brow raised, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in unmistakable amusement.

If there’s ever a time to run away and never look back, it would be now. I give him a sheepish look, hoping the ground might open and swallow me whole.

“Hi,” I murmur, like a total social expert who hasn’t just been caught stalking him through a window.

“Enjoying the view?” he asks, a glint of humor in his eyes.