Page 61 of Healing Eleanor

Lily peeks back over her shoulder again, and though Gabriel isn’t looking at her, his expression only seems to darken. Her features soften just a touch, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she edges closer to me and whispers, “Hey, I’ve got something to ask you after class.”

My heart starts racing. “Oh?” Nothing good ever comes from that phrase.

She must hear the shift in my breathing because she quickly adds, “Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad.”

Pressure builds in my chest. Just as I’m about to respond, Nik’s voice cuts through the studio.

He steps in front of the podium and casually leans back against it, arms folding across his chest. “Happy Friday, everyone.”

His gaze sweeps across the room. When it lands on me, he holds it. It’s steady, unreadable and for a beat longer than he does with anyone else. Then he moves on.

“I know it’s the first weekend of the season,” he continues. “And while most of you have heard this before, I’ll say it again.” His tone shifts, firmer. “Do not spend your weekend drinking and partying. If anyone comes in Monday morning hungover, you can consider yourself cut from the program.”

A quiet stillness falls over the class.

“I don’t expect that to be a problem,” he adds, voice easing slightly. “But let this serve as your reminder.”

Then his eyes drift back to mine, brief, but enough to make my pulse jump. “But most importantly,” he says, “rest. Rejuvenate. Come back Monday ready to work.” He finally looks away, and I find my breath again.

“It won’t be long until we begin casting for our upcoming variation, which will be announced soon.”

That’s it. The line that makes my shoulders stiffen and my mind race. Casting is coming, and I’m not sure which is harder to ignore—my nerves… or Nik’s eyes.

“Let us pray,” Nik says, bowing his head.

Beside me, Lily, Dillon, Gabriel, and everyone else lower their heads. Except me. I stay still, my eyes open, watching him.

It isn’t that I mind it, exactly. I just don’t understand it. Why he does it. What it means to him. What it’s supposed to mean to me. Maybe one day, if I ever find the nerve, I’ll ask.

His voice is calm and steady. “Lord, thank You for another day allowing us to move our bodies. Let our practice and dance glorify You. Let us produce fruit today, Lord. Amen.”

A quiet chorus of Amen curls around me.

I don’t say it. I’m not sure I can.

But something about the way he prays, like it actually matters to him, stirs something in my chest that I can’t name.

As warm-ups start, I let my body settle into the familiar rhythm. My hand rests lightly on the barre, fingertips just grazing it as I move through the positions. First, second, third, fourth, and fifth. I glide through the combinations with ease, stretching until the tension in my muscles melt away. No corrections. No interruptions. If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll go unnoticed for the entirety of the class.

Except I’m not that lucky.

During the fourth combination, just as we start the rond de jambe à terre, I hear it.

“Eleanor.” Nik’s voice cuts through the studio like a rubberband snapping. “Relax.”

I give a quick nod, trying not to let the heat rise to my cheeks.

He nods back. “Again.”

I reposition. Chin lifted. Shoulders down. My arm extends in a gentle curve. I take a deep breath and move. Down into a plié, then extend my leg outward in a clean arc. But I feel it, just as I begin to sweep my leg behind me, my hip catches, pulling the movement off-center.

Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.

I finish the motion anyway, bracing myself for whatever’s coming. I lift my eyes.

Across the room, Nik runs a hand along his jaw, eyes narrowed slightly. He doesn’t exactly look angry, but almost calculating. His gaze locks onto me, then shifts away. “Break. Be back in fifteen,” he calls.

A murmur of relief passes through the room as dancers rush toward the door.