Page 96 of Healing Eleanor

There are still moments when she lags or becomes too focused on perfection, but overall, she has improved. Determination radiates from every movement she makes.

I don’t know what to make of it. Seeing her at such a low point yesterday, it’s almost impossible to believe the girl before me is the same one. But I decide to overlook it for now. I’ll take the small wins when I can get them.

With her dance bag gripped tightly in her hand, Eleanor reenters the studio. She changed into leggings and a loose-fitting dusty blue sweater, paired with the white sneakers she always wears. Her hair is free from its bun, strands framing her face as it hangs loosely around her shoulders.

She’s beautiful. Not in the obvious, polished way the world seems to prize, but in something wholly individual. A beauty that catches me off guard every time I see it. And even as I notice, I silently pray for discipline. For my thoughts to stay in the right place, and for my eyes to see her as God sees her: broken but beloved, worth far more than what this world demands of her.

“Ready?” I ask, shoving the last of my things into my bag. My nerves are impossible to hide. I know tonight’s conversation will be raw and uncomfortable, but necessary. She needs someone safe, someone who will listen, and I’m determined to be that person.

She lifts her shoulder. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” A shy smile curves her lips.

“That’s the spirit.” I give a short laugh, slinging my bag over my shoulder. I open the door and gesture for her to go through first. “After you.”

When we slide into my car, a crack of thunder rolls through the distance.

Eleanor stills beside me. “Do you think it’s a good idea to go out during a storm?”

I smirk before I can stop myself. “Live a little, Elenochka.” The endearment slips out uninvited, and heat surges to my face. What am I doing?

Her cheeks flare just as red as mine, her eyes darting toward the window like she’s pretending she didn’t hear.

I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, willing my voice to steady. “It’s November. Any New Yorker knows the rain’s part of the deal.”

She rolls her eyes playfully. “I know that. But do you really want to get caught in the rain?”

Before my better judgment catches up with my mouth, I hear myself say, “I wouldn’t mind being stuck with you.”

The words hang in the air like lightning. Striking, and impossible to take back.

If this is any indication of how the night will go, I should just go ahead and bury myself now. Here lies Nik, dead by embarrassment, slain by his own mouth.

The rest of the drive slips by in silence. Not the kind that gnaws, but one that fills the car like mist—tangible, present, and too annoying to ignore. My hands stay fixed on the wheel, while my thoughts trip over every stupid word I’ve just said. Out of the corner of my eye, Eleanor sits quietly, her gaze on the passing city lights, unreadable.

When we finally pull up to Pot & Kettle, timing is on our side. The moment we step inside, the sky breaks open and fat raindrops splatter the pavement, steady and relentless. The café glows warm. The lamplight is soft against mismatched chairs, steam curling from teapots, and quiet laughter weaving between the clink of porcelain cups. We slide into the same little corner as last time, our refuge against the storm.

This time, I hand Eleanor a menu. “Pick anything you want.” No pressure, no assumptions. The mistake of ordering for her last time still weighs on me. I want her to breathe easy with me, to know her choices matter.

She hesitates before taking the menu. “Thanks,” she murmurs, almost like the word itself is unfamiliar on her tongue.

Baby steps, I remind myself. Baby steps. Healing isn’t instant, though I know God can do it in a heartbeat if she reaches for Him. But there’s always purpose in the waiting, in the ache. Eleanor’s journey isn’t mine to control.

“Ready to order?” A waitress with copper curls and a name tag that reads Shelby appears at our table, pen poised.

I glance at Eleanor and lift a brow.

She shifts, then finally says, “Um… can I get a Sereni-tea, please?” Closing her menu, she slides it aside, as if that small act takes effort.

Shelby dips her chin, jotting it down, before turning to me. “And for you, sir?”

I almost grimace at the word sir. Respectful, sure, but it also makes me feel like I belong on the other side of forty. “Fireside Apple Spiced tea for me, please.” My stomach gives a loud protest, but I ignore it. Tonight isn’t about me.

Shelby leaves our table while Eleanor looks down, fumbling with the sleeves of her sweater. Something I notice that she does often. I have no idea how to have this hard conversation with her, so I start easy. “You did well in rehearsals today.”

Her eyes rise to meet mine. “Not as good as I need to be,” she mumbles, completely bypassing the compliment.

But I won’t give into her self-loathing pity party. “What can I do to help you?” I mean that in more ways than she can imagine.

She slouches back in her chair and crosses her arms. “Why do you always want to help me?” She retorts, not answering the question. A master in deflection.