Skate Ever After (Grimm Reapers #1)

Chapter 1

ELEANOR

The van rattled like it was protesting the move as much as I was.

Boxes pressed against the windows, a leaning tower of “new beginnings” stacked between me and the rearview mirror.

Ava sat in the passenger seat with her headphones on, staring out at the long driveway like it was a portal to another world. One she didn’t ask to enter.

“It’s only for a little while,” I said, my voice doing that bright, brittle thing it did when I was lying to both of us. “Grandma’s house will be . . . fine.”

Ava didn’t answer, but her fingers drummed against her thigh in a steady rhythm, her way of counting breaths, I think. I followed the beat, trying to sync my heart to hers.

The house appeared through the trees exactly as I remembered it.

It was too big, too neat, the kind of place where even the grass seemed to mind its manners.

My chest tightened. I used to dream of getting out of this place.

Now I was pulling back in, dragging grief and cardboard boxes behind me like a shame parade.

“It’ll be okay,” I whispered, shifting into park.

Ava finally looked at me. “Will it?” she asked.

I wanted to promise her yes. That we’d unpack, and heal, and find something like peace. But I’d learned promises were fragile things, and I was already surrounded by broken ones.

So instead I smiled, thin and hopeful. “We’ll make it okay.”

The screen door creaked open before I even killed the engine.

Of course, she was waiting. My mother stood on the porch like a general inspecting troops, perfectly pressed slacks, soft pink sweater, hair still refusing to gray. From here, I couldn’t tell if she was smiling or bracing herself.

“Home sweet home,” I murmured, mostly to Ava, though my voice wobbled on home.

When we stepped out, my mother descended the porch steps, arms wide. “Eleanor! Oh, sweetheart, you look exhausted. And Ava, my goodness, you’ve gotten so tall.”

Her hug smelled like vanilla and control. I let her hold me. Her hand skimmed my arm in that appraising way that made me want to hide under one of the moving blankets.

“I baked cookies,” she said, as if that erased the years of silence between us. “Chocolate chip. Are those still your favorite?”

Ava’s headphones stayed firmly in place. Her gaze darted to the front window, then the hydrangeas, then back to her shoes. My mom crouched down just enough to be eye-level, voice dipping into that sing-song tone people use when they don’t know what to do with kids like mine.

“Sweetheart, you can take those off now. Grandma wants to say hello properly.”

Ava clamped her hands over the headphones like armor. “No, thank you.”

For a heartbeat, the air froze between us. Her disapproval was sharp enough to taste. Then she smoothed her expression, straightened, and gestured toward the door. “Of course. Let’s get you two settled.”

Inside, the smell of cookies and lemon polish hit me like a memory bomb. Everything gleamed. Even the couch pillows were aligned like obedient soldiers.

I tried to focus on the warmth, on the cookies cooling on a tray. “It smells amazing, Mom.”

“Thank you, dear.” She brushed an invisible speck of flour from her sweater. “Hector and Belle should be bringing in your boxes any minute.”

I blinked. “That’s not their job?”

She waved a manicured hand, all gracious dismissal. “Nonsense. They insisted on helping.”

“Pretty sure they didn’t insist,” I muttered, already heading for the door.

Outside, a tall man in work gloves, Hector, the gardener, I vaguely remembered from summers past, was carrying a box marked Kitchen. Beside him, a woman in a faded plain purple polo with a tattoo peeking out carried another box.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, rushing toward them. “You don’t have to do this. I can—”

The woman grinned, her dark curls escaping a messy bun. “You’re Eleanor, right? Don’t worry about it. Your mom bribed us with chocolate chip cookies. I’m Belle.”

Her handshake was warm and confident, her smile unbothered by my awkwardness. There was something about her energy. She was steady and unpretentious. She was a breath of fresh air.

“Well, thanks for rescuing us,” I said, taking a box from her. “Sorry you got drafted.”

“Please,” she said, rolling her eyes affectionately toward the house. “Your mom’s a force of nature. You don’t say no, you just pace yourself.”

That pulled a laugh out of me before I could stop it. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”

“Don’t worry,” Belle said, tilting her chin toward the open door. “You’ll find your rhythm again. Happens to all of us who move back home.”

Before I knew it, I was sitting at the formal dining table, posture automatically straightening under the weight of my mother’s gaze. The table gleamed beneath the chandelier, with herb-roasted chicken, mushroom risotto, and a spinach salad arranged like it had been plated for a magazine.

Our boxes were already gone, vanished into closets and cupboards as if we’d always lived here. It was like stepping into an alternate universe where time and grief and cardboard didn’t exist.

I dug into the food because it felt rude not to, and because I hadn’t eaten since morning. The first bite was perfect, of course. My mother never did anything halfway.

Across the table, Ava nudged a piece of chicken with her fork like it might bite her back. The spinach leaves glistened, untouched.

My mother noticed. Of course, she did.

“Sweetheart,” she said, too gently. “You need to eat something.”

Ava didn’t look up. “I don’t like mushrooms.”

“Well,” my mother said, her voice tilting into cheerfully reasonable, “then eat the chicken.”

Ava stared at her plate like it was a math problem designed to break her spirit.

“She’ll eat later,” I said, maybe too quickly.

My mother’s smile froze, polite but sharp. “Eleanor, she needs to keep a routine. You know that’s important for her.”

I set my fork down, pulse flickering in my temple. “I think she’s had enough change for one day.”

For a long second, all you could hear was the clink of cutlery and the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Then Belle swept in with a pitcher of iced tea, saving me from whatever came next. “Everything tasting all right?” she asked brightly.

“It’s wonderful, thank you,” I said, grateful for the interruption.

Belle’s gaze flicked to Ava’s plate, then to me. There was no judgment there, just understanding. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” she said to Ava. “I’ll make you a grilled cheese later if you want. No mushrooms in sight.”

Ava’s head lifted just enough for her eyes to peek over the rim of her plate. “Extra crispy?”

Belle grinned. “The only way.”

For the first time that day, Ava smiled. Just barely, but it was there.

And that was the moment I knew I was going to like Belle.

Ava nudged a risotto grain across the plate like she was trying to draw constellations with her fork. The chicken was untouched. I watched her shoulders start to curl in, small and tight, the way they did when she felt cornered.

I sighed, setting my fork down. “Go find Belle,” I said softly. “Ask her about that grilled cheese.”

Ava’s head snapped up, relief flashing through her eyes. “Really?”

“Really,” I said. “Tell her I said it’s okay.”

She slid off her chair and padded toward the kitchen, her socks whispering over the hardwood. The door swung shut behind her, and the room felt suddenly too big.

I didn’t have to look up to feel my mother’s disapproval radiating from across the table. The pause stretched until she finally cleared her throat.

“She really should eat what we eat,” she said lightly, as if she were commenting on the weather.

I pressed my palms against my thighs, forcing a small smile. “It’s fine, Mom.”

“It isn’t about fine, dear. She needs structure. Boundaries. You can’t let her dictate every meal—”

“I’m not,” I said, sharper than I meant to. I swallowed, voice softening. “I’m just . . . tired.”

And I was tired of the drive, of the weight of boxes, of watching my daughter shrink under expectations she’d never fit into. I was tired of grief that clung like smoke, of pretending I knew how to start over.

My mother studied me for a long moment, the corners of her mouth twitching like she wanted to say something kind and couldn’t quite find the shape of it.

“I know, sweetheart,” she said finally. “It’s been a long year.”

Her words should’ve comforted me. Instead, they felt like a summary, too neat and small for everything that had broken.

I nodded, because it was easier than explaining. “Yeah. It has.”

I stayed at the table long enough to make it polite, pushing a few more bites of risotto around before finally giving up. My mother excused herself to check on something in the laundry room, probably to reorganize the linen closet for the third time this week, and I took the opportunity to breathe.

When I followed the faint sound of laughter into the kitchen, the tension from dinner melted a little.

Ava sat on a stool at the counter, swinging her feet, a plate with half a grilled cheese in front of her.

The smell of butter and crisp bread filled the air.

Belle leaned against the counter across from her, sleeves rolled up, sipping from a chipped mug that definitely didn’t belong to my mother’s pristine matching set.

Ava pointed with one hand, her other clutching the sandwich. “Is that a roller skate?” she asked, eyes wide.

Belle glanced down at her forearm, where the outline of a vintage roller skate peeked out from under her sleeve. “Sure is,” she said with a grin. “Got it after my first season with the Grimm Reapers.”

“The Grimm Reapers?” Ava repeated, the name tasting like forbidden magic.

“Best derby team in Briar Glen,” Belle said proudly. “We knock each other down for fun.”

Ava giggled, crumbs falling onto the counter. “You fight?”

“Only on wheels,” Belle said. “And only when everyone agreed to it first. It’s like tag, but louder.”

I leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the two of them. Ava was completely at ease, shoulders loose, eyes bright. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d looked that way.

Belle glanced up and caught me smiling. “Hey, Mama Bear. You want a sandwich too? I promise it’s mushroom-free.”

I shook my head. “No, thank you. I’ll steal a bite of hers later.”

Ava held her plate protectively to her chest. “No, you won’t.”

Belle chuckled. “That’s fair. There’s more where that came from.”

Something in me unclenched. Like maybe we could make a home here, even if it wasn’t the one my mother imagined.

Later, when the house had gone still, and the dishes were stacked neatly away, I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed that didn’t feel like mine yet. The moonlight slanted through lace curtains, painting soft ghosts across the floor.

I liked Belle.

She was kind in a way that didn’t demand anything in return. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone spoke to me without expectation attached. There was something grounding about her.

I wished I could hold onto that feeling.

Because underneath the polite smiles and lemon polish, the house hummed with my mother’s order.

Every tidy drawer, every perfectly folded towel, reminded me that this wasn’t really my home.

It was hers. And I was a guest who’d overstayed before I’d even unpacked.

What scared me most wasn’t being back here, but rather what it might do to Ava.

She’d already been through so much. Losing Ethan had gutted both of us, but she’d gone quiet in a way that scared me. Like her voice had been packed away in one of those boxes and we’d forgotten to label it.

Ethan would’ve known what to do.

He always did.

He’d been the calm when I spun out, and the warmth that drew Ava out of her shell.

He made the world feel safe. And then, one terrible night, he was gone.

A heart attack. One year later, and I still half expected him to walk through the door, smelling like sawdust and coffee, grinning that lopsided grin that had always undone me.

I missed him so much it still felt like a bruise I couldn’t stop pressing.

The door creaked softly. Ava slipped in, her oversized headphones glowing faintly in the dark. Without a word, she padded across the room and climbed into bed beside me.

I lifted the blanket, and she curled into my side, small and solid, her head resting against my shoulder.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured, voice muffled by fabric.

“Me either,” I whispered.

Her hand found mine under the blanket. I squeezed, just once, and she relaxed into me.

For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of her steady breathing and the faint hum of her music through the headphones.

We were both trying to find a new normal.

And maybe, just maybe, this was the first step.