Page 114 of Healing Eleanor

A strangled laugh escapes me. “Yeah… I remember.” The first time he said that was when he caught me in the women’s restroom.

His eyes dart between mine. “If I wasn’t so plastered right now… I’d kiss you.” He brings his hand to my lower lip, running his thumb across it. “I’ve dreamed of kissing these.”

The world around us fades, and I’m left completely still and wonderstruck. His touch on my lip sends butterflies soaring through my stomach.

He withdraws his hand, lacing our fingers together again, then rests his head on the pillow, eyes closing. “One day.” He sighs softly. “When I’m not your coach anymore.”

I don’t know what he means by that, but I lay my head against his shoulder again, clinging to his warmth. Tomorrow scares me. Tonight changes everything between us—assuming he even remembers it in the morning.

Light snores emerge from him, and I know I can get up, slip into my own bed, and try to find some real sleep. But I can’t bring myself to move. All night, I remain perched on my pillow, half-covered by a blanket, my head resting against his warm shoulder. His chest rises and falls beneath me, the faint scent of him and alcohol lingering in the air.

It isn’t restful sleep, but it doesn’t matter. Being here, even like this, feels like the safest place in the world. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I don’t have to think about the world outside, about ballet, about my fears or failures. I just exist, quietly, alongside him. And for now, that’s enough.

Nikolai

I feel like a bag of smashed apples. My head throbs with a relentless, rhythmic pain. My mouth is dry and bitter, my tongue thick, and my limbs sluggish, like they’re moving through quicksand.

A faint buzzing rattles in my pocket, needling against my skull. With clumsy fingers, I fish out my phone and silence the alarm before it drills any deeper into my head.

6:00 a.m.

I groan, dragging a hand over my face. I shove the phone back in my pocket, squinting around. This isn’t my apartment.

I try to sit up, but the weight on my shoulder holds me in place. I turn my head and go still.

Eleanor.

Her head rests against me, her hair falling across her cheek in soft strands, our fingers still twined together as if she hasn’t let go all night. She’s asleep, her breathing even and calm. She looks… Peaceful. Safer than I feel she ever allows herself to be. And even though she has to be uncomfortable, she hasn’t moved.

Slowly, carefully, I slide my hand free and ease her head off my shoulder. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and press my palms into my face, trying to rub the pain out of my skull.

But the memories come anyway, like shards of glass scattering across the floor.

The betrayal. My father knowing about Mama. The anger boiling in my chest. The alcohol burning its way down my throat. Showing up at Eleanor’s door.

The things I said to her.

That I wanted to kiss her.

A fresh groan tears out of me, lower and heavier this time. I bury my face in my hands. Of all the mistakes I can make… I’m not sure there’s one worse than this.

I need to get out of here—fast. My body aches from sleeping on a couch that’s far too small, every muscle stiff and sore. I push myself upright, stretch, then crouch beside Eleanor.

I gather her into my arms and lift her carefully. She’s so light. Too light. The weight of her frailty presses into me harder than her body ever could, stealing the breath from my lungs. Skin and bone. It breaks me in ways I don’t have words for. I carry her to her bed and lay her down, tucking the blanket around her with a gentleness born of fear—like if I’m not careful, she may shatter.

In the kitchen, I search for something to write with, opening a few drawers while trying not to snoop. When I finally find a pad of sticky notes and a pen, I scribble a quick message.

Sorry for the sudden exit. I had to leave early. Thank you for letting me crash… and for taking care of me. - Nik

I press it to the counter, shove the pen back in the drawer, and put my shoes on. But when I straighten, the weight of it all boils up like acid.

I open the front door and shut it softly, careful not to wake her.

Then I bolt down the stairs, double over the nearest bush, and empty my stomach. Every swallow of vodka, every mistake, every regret pours out with it. But the guilt remains.

I can’t afford to process that now, or it will destroy me. I dig my phone out of my pocket and squint at the screen.

6:17 a.m.