Page 59 of Healing Eleanor

Clapping echoes from the corner of the room. My heart slams into my chest as my eyes fly open, and I spin toward the sound.

Nik stands near the door, leaning casually against the frame. A bright smile plays on his lips, and his warm and unguarded eyes are fixed on me. He keeps clapping, slow and deliberate, sending a fresh wave of heat crawling up my neck.

Once he stops, he makes his way toward the podium. “Beautiful,” he comments, his eyes still on me. “And here I was beginning to think you were a bisto.”

“You scared me,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest as my heart knocks against my ribs. I know bisto is Russian ballet slang for a worthless dancer, but I hope he’s joking.

He has the gall to laugh. “Sorry. I thought you would’ve heard me come in, but you kept dancing... so I stayed and watched.” He drops his bag on the floor and walks over to the freestanding barres. “Your dancing—it was beautiful.”

I look away for a moment, too focused on catching my breath, or maybe calming the flush in my cheeks. “What, that?” I ask. “I wasn’t even trying.”

“Exactly,” he says, lifting one of the barres and moving it toward the center of the room.

Wait—what? What is that supposed to mean?

I can’t help myself. After a week of corrections and clipped comments, I have to ask. “What do you mean by that?”

He adjusts the barre, then stands to his full height and takes a few steps toward me. I’m just noticing how tall he really is.

“I mean,” he says, voice low but certain, “you dance beautifully... when you finally shut that brain of yours off.”

If my face isn’t already the color of a tomato, it has to be now. “But… but you’ve been correcting me all week. And that’s what you call beautiful?” I ask, completely thrown. I mean, if Margaux ever caught me dancing like that, she’d probably ship me off to some kind of ballet boot camp.

Nik squares his shoulders, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you want to know why I’ve been correcting you, Eleanor?”

I bob my head a little too quickly, my eyes bugging out of my head.

“It’s because I can’t figure you out,” he says simply, moving to grab the next barre.

That only confuses me more. “Figure me out?”

“Correct.” He lifts the barre with ease. “I can’t understand why a girl who dances as exceptionally as you does everything but let go.”

He sets the barre down, not bothering to adjust the height, and keeps his eyes locked on me.

“Just now,” he starts gesturing to the open space where I was dancing, “you didn’t care who was watching. You were dancing for you. Completely free. And it was stunning.”

I pinch my lips together, unsure what to say.

He continues, voice gentler now. “Most dancers either perform because their parents forced them to, or because it’s an outlet. A way to say what words never could. But you…” He trails off for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to read me. “You’re different. Your body speaks one language, but your face—your eyes—they say something else entirely. You’re holding back. And I can’t tell why.”

I scoff. “What makes you think I’m holding back?” My voice sharpens despite myself, but I don’t take it back. “What’s so wrong with having precise movements? Most companies would kill to have someone with technique like mine.”

Maybe I am taking it too personally, but something about the way he looks at me makes the outer shell of my walls begin to crack, and that terrifies me.

Nik doesn’t flinch. “Well, let’s see,” he says, holding up a finger. “One. You hold on to too much control. You’re so afraid to mess up that it chokes the life out of your movement.”

A second finger. “Two. You don’t trust yourself. I see it in your eyes every time you double-check your arms or your legs, like you’re waiting for someone to tell you it’s okay.”

A third finger. “And three. Overemphasizing precision will damage your growth. Technique without artistry is just… math. Factual and utterly forgettable.”

He drops his hand. “Your eyes may carry all the emotion, but the rest of you is too afraid to let it out.”

He turns back and adjusts the barre without waiting for a response.

My throat goes dry. “You’re wrong,” I respond, though my voice cracks at the edges. Because in truth, he isn’t wrong at all. He’s terrifyingly accurate.

He continues to adjust the barre without meeting my eyes. “Then prove it.”