Page 116 of Healing Eleanor

I grab my cables and move to get into my car. Freedom is within reach when her voice calls again.

“Nik?”

For the love of—

My muscles turn to stone, my hand white-knuckled on the doorframe, praying that if I don’t acknowledge her, she’ll cease to exist. I exhale and turn anyway. “Yeah?”

Kelly tilts her head, scanning me like a code she almost has the key for. “You sure you’re okay? You looked pretty rough last night.” Her voice softens, and for a moment it almost sounds like concern.

Then her lips curl into that smirk again. “Not that I mind. You were always more fun after a few drinks.”

The words slide under my skin like glass. “I’m fine.”

“Fine,” she echoes, doubt dripping from the word. She takes a step closer, boots crunching in the snow. “You know, Nik… you don’t have to pretend with me. I remember you. The real you.” Her hand brushes the car door, nails tapping metal. “The one who knew how to forget everything for a night.”

I swallow down a wave of sour acid. “That’s not me anymore.”

“Maybe.” She leans in, eyes flicking up at mine. “But last night said otherwise.”

“Last night was a lapse in my judgment.” I hiss the words through my teeth. “It won’t be happening again.”

Her smile curls into something venomous. “Right. Well.” She inhales, as if she has more to say, then smoothes it over. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”

Yeah, like that’ll ever happen. I nod, it’s faster than wasting words, and move to climb into my car.

“Oh, and Nik?” she calls, backing away.

My patience snaps. “What?”

Her smirk returns, smug and satisfied. “You and I—we’re birds of a feather. People like us,” she says, jabbing a finger between us, “we belong. You can try to run, but you won’t hide for long. One day, you’ll wake up and give in. Stop pretending you don’t want this.”

I don’t answer. I slam the door and peel out of the lot, her voice ringing in my head like a curse.

The clock on my dash reads 7:19 a.m.

Dang it. Dang it. Dang it. There’s no way I have time to go home. It takes twenty minutes just to get from here to Hollingford Ballet Company. I am royally screwed.

Halfway there, I pull into a gas station and stumble inside. I grab a travel-size toothpaste, a toothbrush, Advil, and the biggest bottle of water I can find. In the bathroom, I scrub last night out of my teeth, change into spare clothes from my bag, roll on deodorant, and run cold water through my hair.

I barely recognize the haggard stranger in the mirror: skin the color of parchment, eyes rimmed in red, shadows deep enough to add a decade to my face.

I pop two Advil and down most of the water, but it isn’t enough. Today is going to be the longest day of my life, and I deserve every miserable second.

Bag slung over my shoulder, I sprint into the building and shove open the door to Studio B. The clock glares back at me: 8:02. Late, but only by two minutes. I exhale a shaky breath, relief mingling with dread.

Every eye turns my way. I know what I looked like—a wreck, exhaustion dripping from me like sweat. It’s a sea of fixed gazes. Their silence is worse than words, pressing down until guilt surfaces. I force it down.

Clearing my throat, I manage, “Sorry I’m late.” My bag hits the floor beside the podium, and I set my hands on my hips, trying to steady myself, to look like I still have control.

“Nik,” Lily’s voice is soft, threaded with concern.

I ignore her. If I crack now, I won’t stop. I’m stretched so thin I can feel the snap coming.

“Everyone, places,” I order.

“Nik.” Lily tries again.

“Not now, Lily.” My words escape with sharp edges, and I scan the room. No one moves. Their hesitation digs under my skin like thorns. “Is everyone deaf? Places. Now.”