Page 132 of Healing Eleanor

The lights dim. The orchestra swells to life. Gabriel enters first, Eleanor trailing close behind.

I can’t help stealing glances at Catherine, though I try not to be obvious. I pray that her presence won’t make Eleanor falter.

Act I passes without incident. Eleanor keeps up, and for a moment I let myself breathe. But Act I is the easy part. Act II is where her stamina always frays.

As it begins, I can’t stop glancing over my shoulder. Catherine sits stiff as marble, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line, as if just being here inconveniences her. Parents rarely show up the day before opening night, and that oddness gnaws at me. Catherine hasn’t come once this season, at least not that I’ve seen. Eleanor has said their relationship is strained, and I doubt there are phone calls or comfort exchanged behind the scenes.

I force my focus back to the stage, but the cracks are already showing. Eleanor’s legs tremble and her arms falter in their swanlike sweep. My breath catches as I brace for the inevitable.

Act III comes, and thankfully her pas de deux with Gabriel is smooth enough. As she steps into Odile and begins her thirty-two fouettés, I dare to look again. Catherine’s face has sharpened into open contempt, her gaze cold and unforgiving. My blood boils. How can a mother sit there and watch her child come apart? How can love be so conditional, so merciless?

Then I hear it. A sudden, sickening snap, followed by a blood-curdling scream that tears through the orchestra.

I whip around just as Eleanor crumples, clutching her ankle, tears streaking down her face. Dancers rush toward her, the stage a blur of chaos, but I don’t wait. I shove past seats, past people, my heart lodged in my throat. I don’t care if Russell or Kasper sees. Nothing else matters but reaching her—consequences be damned.

24

What Might Have Been

Eleanor

A sharp, burning pain tears up my calf, shooting through my heel and ankle like they’ve been plunged into molten lava. The urge to scream again claws at my throat, but I bite it back. My mother is here. Sitting. Watching. Furious, no doubt, that I have once again failed to meet her expectations.

A crowd gathers around me, their faces blurring through the tears. If the pain weren’t so consuming, I might wish I could die of embarrassment instead. Yesterday I passed out in front of everyone. And now this.

The snap keeps replaying in my head. I know what it means. I know the damage is done, and that there’s no going back.

A warm hand presses to my shoulder. “Eleanor, can you hear me? Are you alright?”

Through the haze, I make out Gabriel’s face, worry carved in his features. I try to answer, but my mouth refuses to work. Every flicker of movement sends the pain screaming higher up my leg.

Lily and Dillon kneel beside him.

Lily’s hand covers her mouth as tears spill freely. “Oh no,” she sniffles, voice breaking.

“Someone call medical!” Dillon shouts to the crowd.

The swell of voices around me rise and fall in waves, each one ratcheting my anxiety higher, making the world tilt and spin.

“Move.” A single voice cuts through the chaos, steady and commanding.

Feet shuffle back. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, too afraid to look at what has become of my ankle.

Then strong arms slide beneath me and lift me from the floor. The world sways, but I know that scent instantly: sandalwood and mint.

Nik.

For a split second, relief crashes through the pain. But then dread follows fast behind. Because if Nik is carrying me, if his arms are the only thing holding me together, my mother is watching this, too. Watching me humiliated. Weak. Carried like a child instead of standing on my own two feet.

And I know, without even looking at her, she will never forgive me for it.

I cling to Nik’s shirt, pressing my face into the curve of his neck. I don’t know what hurts worse, the searing fire in my ankle, or the guilt scorching me from the inside out.

Nik’s arms stay strong, his hold both steady and impossibly gentle, even as he all but kicks the dressing room door open.

“Everyone out.” His voice booms, low and commanding, the kind of tone that allows no room for argument.

The chatter behind us falls silent. Shoes scuff, bags rustle, and the room empties in a rush of motion until it’s only us.