Page 6 of Healing Eleanor

I will never be Scarlett. I’m just the washed-up reflection of my mother’s once-successful career as a soloist ballerina. She never made it to principal, and it ate at her. When she looks at me, she can’t even say I made it further than she did. I’ve been a soloist for a measly five years.

Scarlett’s eyes soften, her silent sorry. She’s still not sorry enough to correct our mother, though.

“Edward wanted to be here,” Mom adds, picking at a piece of bread without eating it. “The governor asked him to stay late for dinner with the appeals board. He’s making real progress toward that Supreme Court nomination—no surprise there.”

“Of course,” I nod stiffly.

The last I heard from him was a birthday text two months ago. Being a judge meant no time for anyone else or anything other than meetings, hearings, or cases.

He’s hard to reach and even harder to hold onto.

When the food arrives, my plate is a sparse pile of greens, gray tuna, and egg, with a lemon wedge as the only splash of color.

Scarlett digs into her pasta, but Mom doesn’t touch her plate.

“So,” Mom broaches, dabbing her lips with a napkin, even though she hasn’t eaten anything. “Now that you have been with this company for five years, I assume a promotion is on the horizon?”

My fingers clench into a fist beneath the table. “I hope so,” I reply carefully. “Soren cast me in a major piece this season, so I’d like to think I’m on the right track.”

She stirs her straw in her water, the ice clinking softly. “Hm. Good,” she says, almost as an afterthought. “This is your window, Eleanor. Dancers don’t get endless chances.”

Scarlett turns her attention to her, brows furrowed like she might say something, but stays silent instead.

I chew the inside of my cheek and keep my eyes on the salad I haven’t touched. I push a piece of lettuce around the plate, pretending to be engaged.

The rest of dinner passes in clipped, awkward conversation. The weather. Traffic. A wine Scarlett tried last week. They talk like I’m not sitting right here, and honestly, I’m starting to feel like I’m not. I’m floating outside my own body, watching the three of us from somewhere far away.

Present, but utterly invisible.

As the waitress clears the table, Mom sets her napkin neatly beside her half-eaten plate, already reaching for her phone to check whatever pressing matter can’t wait.

“I’m glad we could all get together,” she voices, like she hasn’t spent most of dinner talking about everyone except me. “Scarlett, I’ll call you about the fundraiser next week.”

Scarlett nods and stands, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “Congrats again on the performance, Eleanor,” she says with a soft smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Thanks,” I reply sardonically.

Mom looks up from her phone towards me. “Oh—Eleanor, dinner is on me tonight. This isn’t exactly the place for a soloist budget.”

Gee thanks.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

She glances at her watch. “You have a ride, right?”

“I’ll call a cab,” I say a little too quickly, before she can offer one out of guilt or obligation.

She nods, already halfway out the door with Scarlett.

Outside, the cool spring night coils around me like that abhorrent corset I have to wear for Giselle week after week. I shove my hands into the pockets of my sweats, trying to hold onto whatever warmth I can find.

The city lights flicker overhead, painting the sidewalks in gold and shadow. The steady pulse of traffic buzzes around me like white noise. I pull my phone from my dance bag and order a cab.

As I wait on the curb, the weight of the evening presses heavily on my shoulders. My hands tremble slightly from the effort of holding myself together at the dinner table. I’m growing weary of pretending.

The cab approaches the curb, and I slide into the back seat giving the driver my address.

The ride is quiet, just the engine’s steady hum and the soft crunch of tires on asphalt. I rest my head against the cool glass, watching the buildings blur past in streaks of gold and gray.