2. Tragically Obedient #2
I stare into my empty wine glass. “Thanks for coming,” I say a little too dryly.
“I always come, Eleanor. You know that.” She glares at me, her eyes boring into the side of my face.
Scarlett shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Can we not do this tonight?” she asks gently. “It was a big night for Eleanor.”
Mom turns to her. “I’m just saying what needs to be said.”
Scarlett clears her throat. “Anyway. I got promoted.”
I roll my eyes. “So that’s why we’re here,” I mumble under my breath.
Mom’s eyes snap to me. “If you have something to say, speak up.”
“Mom—” Scarlett starts.
Mom doesn’t look away from me. “No, Scarlett. Let’s hear what Eleanor has to say.” A small, venomous smirk crosses her lips.
I glance at Scarlett. “All I said was, ‘Wow. Really? That’s fantastic, Scarlett. Honestly.’”
This dinner was never meant for me. Scarlett never comes to my performances and Mom only shows up for opening night. She loves to gloat in front of us—Edward’s just not here to witness it this time.
Scarlett nods, her smile small but proud. “Thanks El, I’m the new shift lead in labor and delivery. I start next week.”
“That’s amazing,” I say, forcing sincerity into my voice. “You’ve worked so hard for that position.”
She did. Scarlett spent years in nursing school, specializing in newborn care. If anyone deserves a promotion, it’s her. Though, I wish she would’ve chosen another night to share it.
“She has,” Mom echoes, like the compliment should’ve belonged to her first. “Scarlett’s always been steady and reliable.”
I will never be Scarlett. I’m just the washed-up reflection of my mother’s once-successful career as a soloist ballerina. She never made it to principal, and it ate at her. When she looks at me, she can’t even say I made it further than she did. I’ve been a soloist for a measly five years.
Scarlett’s eyes soften, her silent sorry. She’s still not sorry enough to correct our mother, though.
“Edward wanted to be here,” Mom adds, picking at a piece of bread without eating it. “The governor asked him to stay late for dinner with the appeals board. He’s making real progress toward that Supreme Court nomination—no surprise there.”
“Of course,” I nod stiffly.
The last I heard from him was a birthday text two months ago. Being a judge meant no time for anyone else or anything other than meetings, hearings, or cases.
He’s hard to reach and even harder to hold onto.
When the food arrives, my plate is a sparse pile of greens, gray tuna, and egg, with a lemon wedge as the only splash of color.
Scarlett digs into her pasta, but Mom doesn’t touch her plate.
“So,” Mom broaches, dabbing her lips with a napkin, even though she hasn’t eaten anything. “Now that you have been with this company for five years, I assume a promotion is on the horizon?”
My fingers clench into a fist beneath the table. “I hope so,” I reply carefully. “Soren cast me in a major piece this season, so I’d like to think I’m on the right track.”
She stirs her straw in her water, the ice clinking softly. “Hm. Good,” she says, almost as an afterthought. “This is your window, Eleanor. Dancers don’t get endless chances.”
Scarlett turns her attention to her, brows furrowed like she might say something, but stays silent instead.
I chew the inside of my cheek and keep my eyes on the salad I haven’t touched. I push a piece of lettuce around the plate, pretending to be engaged.
The rest of dinner passes in clipped, awkward conversation. The weather. Traffic. A wine Scarlett tried last week. They talk like I’m not sitting right here, and honestly, I’m starting to feel like I’m not. I’m floating outside my own body, watching the three of us from somewhere far away.
Present, but utterly invisible.
As the waitress clears the table, Mom sets her napkin neatly beside her half-eaten plate, already reaching for her phone to check whatever pressing matter can’t wait.
“I’m glad we could all get together,” she voices, like she hasn’t spent most of dinner talking about everyone except me. “Scarlett, I’ll call you about the fundraiser next week.”
Scarlett nods and stands, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “Congrats again on the performance, Eleanor,” she says with a soft smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Thanks,” I reply sardonically.
Mom looks up from her phone towards me. “Oh—Eleanor, dinner is on me tonight. This isn’t exactly the place for a soloist budget.”
Gee thanks.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
She glances at her watch. “You have a ride, right?”
“I’ll call a cab,” I say a little too quickly, before she can offer one out of guilt or obligation.
She nods, already halfway out the door with Scarlett.
Outside, the cool spring night coils around me like that abhorrent corset I have to wear for Giselle week after week. I shove my hands into the pockets of my sweats, trying to hold onto whatever warmth I can find.
The city lights flicker overhead, painting the sidewalks in gold and shadow. The steady pulse of traffic buzzes around me like white noise. I pull my phone from my dance bag and order a cab.
As I wait on the curb, the weight of the evening presses heavily on my shoulders. My hands tremble slightly from the effort of holding myself together at the dinner table. I’m growing weary of pretending.
The cab approaches the curb, and I slide into the back seat giving the driver my address.
The ride is quiet, just the engine’s steady hum and the soft crunch of tires on asphalt. I rest my head against the cool glass, watching the buildings blur past in streaks of gold and gray.
By the time we reach my apartment, my chest feels a little lighter because I’m finally alone.
I pay the driver, and climb the stairs to my apartment, the echo of my footsteps trailing behind me. When I unlock the door, the familiar creak of the hinges greet me, followed by deafening silence. No one is waiting. Just me and the low whir of the fridge.
I toss my bag by the door and kick off my shoes, wincing as my sore toes brush the floor. Every part of me aches. My muscles from hours of dancing and my nerves from dinner with my mother.
I turn off the main light and pad into the kitchen for a glass of water. As the faucet drips, my mind drifts back to Scarlett. I’d give anything to feel even a fraction of the love she gets from Mom. Just once.
Water in hand, I slip into my bedroom and sit on the edge of my bed. City lights flicker through my window while distant traffic hums below. I reach for my journal in my nightstand drawer. The leather cover is worn, and the pages are half-filled with scribbles and thoughts I can’t say out loud.
I open to a blank page and stare at it for a moment before writing:
Opening night of Giselle: Survived. Barely.
Mom was… well, Mom. Scarlett was polite.
Edward didn’t show… figures. I danced with everything I had, but somehow I still felt invisible.
Like I wasn’t enough. Maybe if I get that promotion, Mom will finally have something to boast about. Maybe then she’ll see my worth.
I set the journal aside and head across the hall to my small bathroom, ready to wash away the remnants of the day. I climb back into bed, pull the blanket over my legs, and switch off the lamp. The room slips into darkness.
Tomorrow is waiting.
And with it, whatever pieces I’m brave enough to pick up.