Page 97 of Healing Eleanor

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “You didn’t answer the question.”

She huffs. “Well, neither did you.”

A smirk plays on my lips as I relax back into my seat. “Fair enough.” I run a hand through my hair. “I want to help you because I took a chance on you—care for you even. Sure, there’s a lot riding on my shoulders for your success, but I care for you as a person, Eleanor. You’ve become more to me than just some dancer.”

The tea arrives at our table, and she quickly takes a sip. Probably avoiding answering my questions again. But I won’t let her get away that easily.

She sets her cup down, and watches the steam curl. “You took a chance on me…” She peers at me from under her lashes. “How?”

“When Kasper found out why you were let go from the Metropolitain, I had to convince him to hire you—that you were worth it.” I confidently answer.

Her face flushes. “You—you know about that.” Her voice wobbles, chest rising unevenly.

“I do,” I state simply.

She drops her gaze to the table. “I… it’s not true,” she whispers.

I wrestle with whether to push before reaching across the small space and lift her chin, gentle but firm.

Her eyes flicker to mine.

“I know. Gossip is poison in this world. I’ve seen it destroy better men than me. I took a chance on you because I believe in you. In your gift.” I let my hand fall away. “Which is why I don’t understand how someone as talented as you is… struggling.” I don’t say the word that sits heavy on my tongue. Saying it will make it too real.

Her throat bobs as she swallows another sip of tea. “You would never understand.”

“Then help me,” I whisper.

She holds my stare, unblinking. “I don’t know how to explain it, except… it’s been carefully woven into me. Crafted. My brother and sister got the carbs, the treats, the fun.” Her mouth twists. “I inherited my mother’s washed-up dream of being a ballerina. She controlled everything—what I wore, how my hair was pinned, what I ate, how much I ate.”

Eleanor exhales, a hollow sound. “My life around food was always planned. Nothing more, nothing less.” A small line forms between her brows. “Then Soren—my coach at the Metropolitan—said I looked like a whale on stage. And I guess… I didn’t look back after that.”

The sound of Soren’s name makes my blood boil. I know him, and men like him in this industry, who use fragile girls to satisfy their own egos. I trace the rim of my cup with a finger. “So… when did it become nothing less?” I echo her words softly.

She shakes her head and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “After I got fired… I became determined to find another company. And after so many no’s, I pushed myself. I didn’t want to let myself go in the waiting, you know?”

I nod, not really understanding, but wanting her to continue.

“And then I got hired, and I was so… elated.” Her whole face lights up with the memory. Her shoulders lift, and her eyes shine. But just as quickly, the light fades away. “But my mother was disappointed. She said I was going backwards in my career by going to a small company.”

She lifts her cup and takes a long sip, maybe to hide behind it. “The night I got hired, she said I looked great. At that point I’d only lost a couple of pounds.” A small, almost shy smile curves her lips, like she’s reliving it. “It made me happy to see her proud of me for once.” The smile falls, and her hands tighten on the cup. “So I kept going. I guess you could say… until I lost control of it.”

My jaw clenches. I want to say something, anything, but no words feel big enough to hold the weight of what she’s just handed me. But I need to know. “Yesterday…” I start, hoping she knows the moment I’m alluding to. “How many times do you do… that?”

A faint blush rises to her cheeks. “That was the first time,” she mumbles quietly.

I let out a sigh of relief. At least she doesn’t purge herself all the time. Maybe I caught her in time. “That’s good,” I voice, mostly to myself.

She shrugs helplessly. “Is it?” She traces a crack in the wooden table. “I don’t have what you do. How you can have bad things happen to you, but still show up happy.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m just not like that.”

I contemplate my next words carefully. A beat of silence envelopes us, until the words come to me.

“You think I’m happy because nothing touches me,” I voice softly, “but that’s not true. I’ve had my share of grief—more than I care to carry. The difference isn’t me, Eleanor.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “It’s Him.”

Her brows furrow. “Him?”

“God,” I state simply, not flinching from her gaze. “When the worst happened in my life, when I thought I couldn’t get up again, He carried me. My joy isn’t because my life is easy. It’s because He’s faithful, even when everything else falls apart.”

Her lips part slightly, as if she wants to argue but doesn’t know what to say.