Page 4 of Healing Eleanor

The first notes of music swell through the theater.

There’s no turning back now.

The second I step into the wings, the noise of the audience dulls behind the curtain. Sweat clings to my skin, and my muscles tremble with leftover adrenaline. Dancers clap me on the back and offer smiles, but their faces are a blur. I just need a moment alone. I weave through the hallway that leads toward the dressing rooms, but stop dead in my tracks.

She’s here.

Standing near the corner in her stiletto heels and a coat tailored for the spring weather, her salon-blonde hair is styled in a sleek bob, not a strand out of place. My mother watches me like a judge waiting to deliver a verdict. I wonder if she’s been hanging out with my brother Edward lately.

Bile creeps up the back of my throat. “What… what are you doing back here?”

Her blood red lips curl into a small, practiced smile. “You knew I was coming tonight Eleanor, I came back here to see you.”

“I know, but how did you even get backstage?”

She holds up a laminated badge between perfectly polished nails. “Connections. Don’t tell me you forgot that I coach many of your colleagues here.”

I swallow into silence. Of course. How could I forget that the great Catherine Montgomery only coaches the wealthy and the worthy?

Before I can respond, the familiar creak of the backstage bathroom door sounds, and out walks my older sister Scarlett. She’s still in her nurse scrubs, dirty blonde hair settling in a high ponytail. Her green eyes land on me and light up just enough to make my chest tighten. I certainly didn’t know she was coming.

“Eleanor! That was incredible,” she says, walking toward me. “You looked like a real ballerina up there.”

“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice a little hoarse.

I mean it, I think. There’s always something about Scarlett’s compliments that make them feel just slightly off. It’s as if they’re rehearsed or maybe just obligated since our mother’s standing right there. Not that she cares if Scarlett pays me a compliment or not.

Her gaze softens as her lips curl upward, then glances toward our mother before eyeing me again. “You really were amazing, El.” She sounds slightly out of breath, like this conversation’s just as awkward for her as she knows it is for me.

Scarlett is the designated peacemaker in our family. Our relationship has never been particularly strong, but she’s always willing to play the fragile buffer between me and our mother.

I love my sister, truly. Even though her loyalty has always belonged to Mom and Edward. Ever since Dad left after I was born, it felt like Scarlett, Edward, even Mom, quietly agreed on one thing: I was the fracture that splintered our family apart.

Mom turns toward me with her arms crossed. “We’re going to dinner. A place Scarlett wants to try out. You’re coming.”

It isn’t a question. It never is with her.

My mouth opens, but nothing falls from my lips. I’m still damp with sweat and still in my costume. My stomach feels like a hollow knot, and I want to be anywhere but here—preferably alone, or with quite literally anyone else.

“I need to change,” I finally say, deflecting.

“We’ll wait,” she replies, and her voice falls flat: Don’t test me, Eleanor Odette Montgomery. I’d known back then that she was serious when my middle name was used. Growing up, I loathed my middle name. Mom is obsessed with Swan Lake, and her favorite character is Odette. She is pure, perfect, graceful, and tragically obedient. Everything my mother expects me to be.

There is no doubt in my mind that the name is sitting on the tip of her tongue, waiting to spill out and humiliate me.

Scarlett shifts beside her, trying to smile, though her fingers are wound tightly around the strap of her purse.

I nod slowly, not because I want to, but because it’s easier.

“I’ll be out in a few minutes.” As I turn toward the dressing room, the echo of my mother’s stilettos behind me makes the hallway feel smaller than ever. Tonight can’t go by quick enough.

Scarlett chooses Rue 75, an upscale French bistro tucked into the heart of the city.

I step out of my mother’s car and sling my dance bag over my shoulder.

In an effort to get this night over with faster, I left my stage makeup on and threw a pair of sweats over my leotard.

Terrible idea.