11. Enjoying The View?
Enjoying The View?
Eleanor
The past week and a half has been brutal, and that’s putting it nicely. After the disaster that was Edward’s dinner party, Scarlett wouldn’t stop calling. Ever the peacemaker, she somehow managed to get Mom to actually apologize for her behavior. That alone was shocking.
Then, as if possessed by some alternate version of herself, Scarlett offered to help me move. Who was this person, and what had she done with my sister? I didn’t know this new considerate Scarlett.
Still, I didn’t question it. Secretly, it was nice having her on my side… though I’d never admit that out loud.
Soon after, Mom offered to pay my first month’s rent as an apology gift. I didn’t want her money, or her attempts to buy my love, but if this was her version of an apology, who was I to question it?
Once everything in my apartment was packed, I took Kasper’s offer to hire a moving company, and Scarlett and I hit the road. Shockingly, the drive wasn’t terrible. Our conversations weren’t nearly as dull as the first time she drove me up here.
She actually asked about me, didn’t brag about her job, and somehow didn’t bring up Edward, which was a miracle, considering they’re basically best friends who just happen to share DNA. She asked thoughtful questions and seemed genuinely interested in my answers. It was… refreshing.
Unfortunately, after Scarlett dropped me off, I was left alone to tackle the mountain of unpacked boxes.
In hindsight, I really should’ve labeled them better. Finding anything in this chaos has been a nightmare. This studio is even smaller than my old apartment. Everything is close together, like it’s been built to conserve space and, ultimately, my patience.
A small kitchen flows into floating counters that double as my dining area.
The living room holds a TV, a coffee table, and a futon tucked into the corner.
My bed sits against the wall, framed by two narrow bedside tables.
Next to it is a bathroom barely large enough for the essentials, stripped of any counter space.
I’m trying not to be bitter about it, but right now the boxes take up about eighty percent of the floor space, and the claustrophobia is getting to me. I’m just grateful I managed to dig out a box with my ballet attire. One less thing to stress about this morning.
After a quick shower, I twist my hair into a neat bun then freeze. Tangled in the bristles of my brush is a small clump of hair. I pluck it out and stare. Did I brush too hard? I force myself not to dwell on it now.
I pull on leggings, a leotard, leg warmers, my favorite oversized cardigan, and sneakers. I have five minutes to leave if I want to be early. With no time for a full makeup routine, I swipe on mascara and call it good enough.
In the kitchen, I stuff my dance bag with a water bottle, extra rosin, and a towel. I grab a banana from the counter and head for the door. Phone to my ear, I call a taxi, hoping one will show up in time.
If there’s one thing I’ve already learned about this town, public transportation is practically nonexistent.
Everyone drives. This definitely isn’t New York City anymore.
If I stay here, I might actually have to buy a car, an expense I can’t even begin to wrap my head around. So for now, a taxi will have to do.
When I arrive at Hollingford Ballet Company, I pause for a brief moment outside the grand double doors.
The morning sun glints off the polished brass handles, and for a second, I just breathe.
Then I push them open, and am greeted by a familiar mix of bergamot and something peaceful.
It wraps around me like a soft shawl, calming the nervous flutter in my chest.
My sneakers make soft thuds against the gleaming hardwood floor as I step inside, the echo swallowed by the vastness of the entry hall.
I almost forgot just how beautiful this place was.
A piano plays softly in the distance, and I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the feeling of belonging, like I’m returning home.
Robin is hunched over a stack of papers at the reception desk, her brows furrowed in focus.
She looks up when she hears my footsteps, her expression softens instantly, and when she smiles, it isn’t the kind of forced politeness I’ve come to expect in places like this.
It’s genuine, warm, and welcoming in a way that still catches me off guard.
I remind myself that the people here are different. The kindness is real.
“Good morning,” she greets, her voice bright with excitement. “I’m thrilled to see you again, Eleanor.”
I return her smile, shifting a little on my feet. “Good morning, Robin.” I clear my throat lightly. “Could you point me to Studio B again? I think that’s where I’m supposed to be.”
“Of course, love,” she says, pointing toward the hallway. “Head down this way. The third door on the right is the dressing room, as you probably remember. After that, take a left, and Studio B will be the first door on your left.”
I nod and murmur a quiet thanks before heading to the dressing rooms to change, then toward Studio B.
I’m the first to arrive. The room is calm, almost reverent, like a cloud heavy with rain, waiting to let go.
I wander over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, curious about what lies beyond the glass.
Large trees frame what looks like a garden.
Stones of varying sizes form a winding, uneven path that weaves between clusters of wildflowers and thick, leafy bushes.
At the end of the walkway is a weathered white stone bench, its sides curled in vines, as if nature has slowly claimed it.
The whole thing looks like it’s from a fairytale. Delicate and unexpected, especially for a ballet company.
A man with dark hair sits on the bench, bent forward and completely absorbed in a book with glistening, gold-edged pages. I squint, trying to make out the shape of his face. From this distance, I can’t be sure, but he looks familiar.
I lean closer, trying not to fog the window with my breath or leave a fingerprint. Just as I tilt my head to get a better angle—like a complete and total stalker—he shifts, checks his watch, and then looks up.
Right at me.
Nikolai.
I jolt backward so fast my foot catches my other pointe shoe, and I pitch forward straight into the window, leaving an unmistakable print behind. A surge of heat crawls up my neck and into my cheeks as our eyes meet.
He leans back slowly, one arm stretching along the bench behind him, and smirks, clearly entertained by catching me mid-snoop. I back away from the window in a panic and wipe my clammy palms against my leotard.
Way to go, Eleanor. Now he definitely thinks you’re some kind of creep.
Instead of pushing my detective skills any further and risking a second round of humiliation, I sink down beside the freestanding barres, lean my head against the wall, and close my eyes, letting the silence envelop me.
I’m nearly asleep when I hear footsteps echo across the wood, a shadow falling over my face. I crack one eye open, and there he is.
Nikolai.
Standing above me, arms crossed, brow raised, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in unmistakable amusement.
If there’s ever a time to run away and never look back, it would be now. I give him a sheepish look, hoping the ground might open and swallow me whole.
“Hi,” I murmur, like a total social expert who hasn’t just been caught stalking him through a window.
“Enjoying the view?” he asks, a glint of humor in his eyes.
“I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t know what was out there—or that it was you,” I fumble, waving vaguely toward the garden like that will somehow explain everything.
He chuckles. “Relax. I’ve had worse first impressions.”
Great. So he definitely thinks I’m a creep.
I don’t answer until I have a realization. “Wait… but this isn’t the first time we’ve met.”
His smile deepens. “True. But this is my first impression of you as one of my dancers.” With that, he turns and walks toward the podium.
I force myself not to stare after him. The last thing I need is to be caught again. “So then,” I call after him, “what was your worst first impression of a dancer?”
He sets his bag down beside the podium and leans against it casually, like this is just another ordinary Monday and not a moment I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
“A girl once walked in two minutes before rehearsal and spilled her coffee all over the freshly polished floors,” he says, bending down and rummaging through his bag. “Let’s just say it made for a memorable introduction.”
I laugh lightly. “Wow. Was she fired?”
“Oh no, she stayed,” he says, looking up. “But she never brought coffee to class again.”
If I had done something like that at the Metropolitan, I would’ve been let go on the spot.
“Really?” I ask, my brows pulling together in confusion.
He meets my gaze without hesitation. “Of course. We all make mistakes. She’s a strong dancer, and I wasn’t going to punish her for an accident.”
Something in my expression must give me away, because he adds gently, “I know the Metropolitan has... strict policies and harsh outlooks when it comes to discipline. But that’s not how we do things here.”
I give a small nod instead of answering.
He gives me a gentle smile and returns to rummaging through his bag, pulling out a few things and setting them on the podium with a calm focus. He rounds the podium and walks toward the freestanding barres. “So,” he says, glancing back at me. “Are you always this early to rehearsals?”
I stand, silently offering to help. He nods in appreciation.
“I try to be,” I answer, grabbing one of the barres, only to realize just how heavy it actually is.
“There were times when traffic in the city would get crazy,” I continue, bracing the barre against my side as I shuffle awkwardly toward the center of the room.
“I’d barely make it on time. But here...
there’s not much traffic. The taxi got to me earlier than I expected. ”