Page 12 of Healing Eleanor

And let’s be honest, it’s only downhill from here. The Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet is one of the best in the country. Anywhere else is a step down.

I’ve given this company everything. Five years gone. Just like that. Every ounce of grace, perfect line, or emotion I didn’t have the words for poured out and evaporated under stage lights. And now it is over.

Back in the wings, a few dancers offer polite nods as they pass, but most rush to the dressing rooms to wash the night away and greet their families.

I pull the flowers from my hair, each pin catching slightly like my body doesn’t want to let go.

When I reach my vanity, a note is taped to the mirror, written in Margaux’s signature stationery.

Make sure your station is cleared before morning. Return your keycard to the reception desk. Thank you.

No name. No signature. Just a polite erasure.

I read it twice, then crumple it in my hand and toss the note in the trash.

I grab my dance bag, shoving everything that’s mine inside.

Tears blur my vision. Sofia is my only friend here… or so I thought. How easily she had the power to ruin my life in a split-second decision, so gracefully unaware of the damage she caused.

Why would she do this?

I strip off my dress and lay it neatly over the bench, like it matters. I grab a few cotton rounds drenched in make-up remover and wipe my makeup off in slow circles, watching the girl in the mirror vanish with every pass. Just as Giselle was erased from her lover’s life.

Bare-faced and aching, my stomach twists into a knot I refuse to acknowledge. I haven’t eaten since breakfast; my snack has been dutifully forgotten since the ‘conversation’ with Soren—if you can even call it that.

The very thought of food makes bile rise to my throat.

Whale. That’s what Soren called me. There was no way I was going to earn that promotion naturally. I wasn’t thin enough to meet his ideal of perfection… and yet too principled to do what he wanted. Either way, I was losing.

I try to shake the thought, but it lingers like a perfume I can’t wash off.

At the reception desk, I hand over my keycard. Realization washes over me: I’m no longer a dancer here.

Outside, the city lights are harsh, and the sounds of traffic, laughter, and distant sirens don’t feel real. People pass me on the sidewalk without looking. I could’ve been anyone. I could’ve been no one.

I don’t know where I’m going. Only that I can’t stay here.

I’ve been sitting by the river at Arnon Park for what feels like hours, watching the boats drift past and wishing one of them would take me with it. A small, bitter part of me even wishes that some mythical creature would rise from the depths and swallow me whole. But, of course, neither happens.

I can’t go home yet. If I do, everything will become too real. I’ll have to face the fact that I’m officially unemployed.

The spring season just started, which means that no reputable company will even consider auditions until late summer. I won’t be attending the fall gala either, which is going to send my mother into a full-blown meltdown.

My mother.

I can’t even begin to unpack that can of worms.

I don’t know what’s worse—facing my mother’s wrath or trying to find a job before another company will take me. If another company will take me.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I pull the bag of almonds from my bag and stare at them.

Whale, Soren’s voice hums at the edge of my thoughts.

My hands tremble, and for a moment they don’t feel like mine. A wave crashes over me and I’m ten years old again.

It was a Saturday morning in late spring, but it might as well have been winter. The windows were open in the kitchen, and the breeze wafting through stung against my bare arms. I stood in front of the mirror as my mother yanked my hair into a bun so tight it pulled the skin at my temples.

“You should’ve gone to bed earlier,” she muttered, voice clipped as always. “You look puffy.”