Page 76 of Healing Eleanor

“What on earth are you doing out here?” I ask, irritation creeping into my voice. My clothes are soaked through, so I can’t imagine how she feels. Rehearsals ended an hour ago, and the thought of her sitting out here that long makes my blood boil.

With chattering teeth and trembling lips, she stammers, “I—I’m wa—waiting for a t—taxi.”

You’ve got to be kidding me. I run a hand down my face, wiping away an ocean of water from my eyes. “Not anymore. Let’s go.” I grab her bag, cutting off any chance for argument, not giving it a second thought. I just thank God Kasper isn’t here right now.

She gets up silently and follows me around the studio to my car parked by the garden. I fumble for my keys, unlock the door, and practically plop her into the passenger seat. I toss our bags into the back, slide behind the wheel, and turn the ignition, blasting the heat. The warmth hits me like a wave of relief.

Beside me, Eleanor’s teeth chatter so violently I think they might crack. I dig through the backseat, find a spare hoodie I keep for emergencies, and hand it to her. Her lips are tinged blue, and a surge of protectiveness coils in my chest. Seeing her shiver and soaked to the bone, makes me want to pull her close and never let go… but the thought, jarring as it is, helps me hold my composure in front of her.

“Th—thank y—you,” she murmurs through her shivers.

I swallow roughly. “You don’t need to thank me, Eleanor.”

She lowers her chin slowly, settling back in the seat and closing her eyes .

I stay put for a moment, watching her, a storm of conflicting emotions churning inside me. Part of me wants to take care of her, but I can’t. I never imagined that keeping my hands to myself would feel like such a challenge.

Back then, when I drowned my pain in alcohol, I cared only about temporary comforts: finding a girl to fill the emptiness for a night, long enough to forget. It was transactional, fleeting, a shared sadness that left both parties hollow. I never once considered truly being there for someone.

I know God saved me from that warped perspective, and for a long while, I was content to never have a girlfriend. The thought of putting someone I genuinely care about through the mess of my past is unbearable. I know I’ve changed, but what kind of man would I be if I dragged a girl like Eleanor through the shadows of my former self?

It was messy, painful, and something I’d regret for the rest of my life. The shivering girl beside me deserves someone pure. Not someone like me. And yet, as much as I want to, I can’t walk away.

As the heat blasts around us, I finally feel my fingers again. I flex them against my lap, nerves twisting in my stomach. “Are you feeling better? Warmer, at least?”

Her eyes flutter open, and a small, tired smile tugs at her lips. “Yes. My hero.” A quiet laugh follows.

Her attempt at a joke makes me grin wider than I have any right to. “Good.” I glance at her, noticing the flush returning to her cheeks. “What’s your address?”

She rattles it off, and I realize it’s maybe twenty minutes away. A pang of unwarranted sadness slams into me. Part of me wants to keep her here, in the car, make her tell me everything about her life. But I know that’s irrational, and I force myself to rein it in.

I put the car into reverse, backing out of the garden lot, and head toward the main road. The wipers whisk away the rain as I drive down the back roads, avoiding rush-hour traffic. In my favor, it gives me more time with Eleanor.

“So,” I voice, breaking the silence. “What were you doing waiting for a taxi in the pouring rain for an hour?”

Her gaze stays fixed on the wet window, following droplets as they run down the glass. “I usually don’t mind waiting.”

I glance at her. “An hour isn’t nothing. Taxis and Ubers down here usually head to the city in the mornings and evenings. They make more money that way since Hollingford is so small.”

She shrugs, almost dismissively. “I usually bring a book or rehearse in my head. It passes the time quickly.”

Even in these small moments, she wears discipline like armor. I press my lips into a thin line. “How are you settling in? With the move, the apartment… everything?”

“It’s fine,” she mumbles. “The studio is small, but… enough.”

“Enough,” I echo softly, letting the word linger. Then I ask, “But do you feel at home?”

Her head whips toward me, startled. “Home?” The word seems bitter on her tongue. “I don’t think I’ve ever really thought about that.”

I incline my head, keeping my gaze on the road. “Maybe that’s something worth finding here. A place where you belong, not just where you live.”

She tenses, turning pale in the dim light. Her voice is low. “Why would you care if I feel at home?”

My grip firms on the steering wheel. She’s right. What am I doing? “Because you matter, Eleanor. You’re more than just a dancer on a stage.”

She lets out a quiet, nervous laugh and shakes her head. “You don’t even know me.”

“Then let me,” I blurt without thinking, already regretting it. But the words don’t go back in. “Tell me something about you that no one else at the studio knows.”