14. Food for Thought #2
So I looked. Not obviously—at least, I hoped not—but for signs. Anything that would give me a clear answer. She was small, yes, but so were plenty of the dancers here. All I had to go on was that I hadn’t seen her eat. Not at lunch. Not during breaks. Nothing.
But then again, I haven’t seen some of the others eat either. And I’m not silently condemning them.
“You all did great today,” I tell the class, clapping my hands together. “See you tomorrow.”
As the dancers begin leaving the studio, I catch Dillon’s eye. “Hey… can you stay back for a bit?”
He wipes a towel across his brow and nods. “Yeah. Sure.”
I stand by the barre as Gabriel, Lily, and Eleanor pass, offering each of them a small goodbye nod.
Eleanor’s gaze lingers for a fraction of a second longer than the others before she follows them out.
When the door shuts behind the last dancer, the room falls silent. I lean back against the barre, crossing my arms over my chest like it might shield me from the absurd question I’m about to ask.
“Everything good?” Dillon asks, studying me. “You look like you’re about to throw up.” He laughs.
“I might,” I admit, because it honestly doesn’t feel far off. “I actually wanted to ask you something… kind of strange.”
He bunches the towel in his hands. “Oh?”
My eyes settle on him. “Are you and Eleanor… together?”
He chokes on his spit, coughing. “I’m sorry, what?” Once he gathers himself, he roars with laughter. “Not with the way you look at her. I’m sure not.”
That throws me off. “What do you mean?”
Dillon throws his head back, cackling. “Oh, come on. During class, your eyes stay on Eleanor the entire time. I’m surprised you even realize you’re running it.”
Heat blooms in my neck, creeping up to my cheeks. “That is absolutely not true.”
“Oh?” Dillon’s laugh fades, his expression growing more serious. “In fact… I’m actually a little worried for you.”
Worried for me? My plan was to warn him about dating a dancer in the same class, and now it somehow revolves around me? Maybe I need to write I don’t want a girlfriend on my forehead. “Why are you worried for me?”
He throws the towel over his shoulder. “I mean, I see the way you look at her, Nik. All the years we’ve been friends, I’ve never seen you look at another girl like that.
” He pauses, weighing his words. “And I’m worried because she’s your student, and there’s no way Kasper would let you date a dancer. ”
My eyes nearly bug out of my skull. What is with everyone? “Well, good thing I have zero desire for a girlfriend. I was coming to tell you to be careful with dating a dancer.”
A small smirk tugs at his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Nik, I don’t think someone as beautiful as her would date someone who looked like me.
” He takes a steadying breath. “And anyway… I don’t think you’d be coming to me if you didn’t feel an inkling of something for her. Just food for thought.”
Dillon is quiet and observant by nature.
Never the loudest in the room, but always the most aware.
A foster kid from Ireland, defying everything life threw at him.
A worship leader with a voice capable of silencing an entire crowd.
The very definition of kind. But I also know how he feels about his burn scars—the ones tracing beneath his jaw, curling around his ear, running down his forearms—and the way his mind spirals around them.
“You could have anyone, Dillon,” I say, meaning every word.
He shrugs, a quick smile plastered in place. “Well, lucky for you, I don’t like her like that.” He spins on his heel and starts for the door. “But Nik,” he adds, glancing back and walking backward a few steps. “I think you do. And I’ll say it again. Be careful.”
Then he’s gone, not giving me a chance to respond.
As the door clicks shut behind him, a crack of thunder booms, followed by the sky unleashing a torrent of rain.
Fat drops splatter across the windows as the wind whips leaves into the air.
I usually don’t mind fall, but I can do without the rain.
It’s relentless this time of year, a constant nuisance.
Add bad New York drivers to the mix, and it usually spells disaster.
I linger in the quiet studio, watching the storm rage outside. Tree branches knock against the windows, warning me this will get ugly fast. I start breaking down the freestanding barres, putting them away. The later I leave, the worse the drive home will be.
Once all the lights are off, I grab my things and head for the garden exit at the back of the studio. But a tug in my gut makes me pause. A nagging feeling tells me to go out the front door, something I rarely do. But the feeling refuses to leave me.
When my instincts speak, I usually listen. Suppressing my annoyance at the detour, I climb back up the stairs, pass rows of empty studios, and walk by the now-vacant reception desk until I reach the front door.
The wind and rain hit me with a force that makes me shield my face. Irritation prickles at me. I really don’t want to be out here. All I care about right now is getting home. As I turn to make my way back inside, I see her.
Eleanor.
She’s curled up on the bench beside the door, drenched and shivering. Strands of hair escape her bun and plaster to her face while she clutches a thin, inadequate shawl around her shoulders.
My breath catches in my chest. Part of me wants to rush over and pull her into the nearest warm corner, but another more cautious part hesitates, unwilling to cross a line. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen anyone look so small, so exposed. The sight hits me harder than I expect.
“Eleanor?” My voice is swallowed by the rain.
She doesn’t move at first, folded in on herself, shoulders shaking. The shawl does little to protect her, and a flare of frustration rises in me. How can someone so strong on the inside be so defenseless on the outside?
I step closer, careful not to overwhelm her, my shoes splashing in puddles. “Eleanor,” I say a little louder this time, waving my hand in front of her face so she’ll notice me.
Her head lifts slightly, and for a fleeting moment, our eyes meet. Water drips from her hair onto her lap, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and brush it away.
Something in her gaze… so vulnerable, defiant, and aching makes my stomach twist into a million knots. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that walking away isn’t an option.
“What on earth are you doing out here?” I ask, irritation creeping into my voice. My clothes are soaked through, so I can’t imagine how she feels. Rehearsals ended an hour ago, and the thought of her sitting out here that long makes my blood boil.
With chattering teeth and trembling lips, she stammers, “I—I’m wa—waiting for a t—taxi.”
You’ve got to be kidding me. I run a hand down my face, wiping away an ocean of water from my eyes. “Not anymore. Let’s go.” I grab her bag, cutting off any chance for argument, not giving it a second thought. I just thank God Kasper isn’t here right now.
She gets up silently and follows me around the studio to my car parked by the garden.
I fumble for my keys, unlock the door, and practically plop her into the passenger seat.
I toss our bags into the back, slide behind the wheel, and turn the ignition, blasting the heat.
The warmth hits me like a wave of relief.
Beside me, Eleanor’s teeth chatter so violently I think they might crack.
I dig through the backseat, find a spare hoodie I keep for emergencies, and hand it to her.
Her lips are tinged blue, and a surge of protectiveness coils in my chest. Seeing her shiver and soaked to the bone, makes me want to pull her close and never let go…
but the thought, jarring as it is, helps me hold my composure in front of her.
“Th—thank y—you,” she murmurs through her shivers.
I swallow roughly. “You don’t need to thank me, Eleanor.”
She lowers her chin slowly, settling back in the seat and closing her eyes .
I stay put for a moment, watching her, a storm of conflicting emotions churning inside me. Part of me wants to take care of her, but I can’t. I never imagined that keeping my hands to myself would feel like such a challenge.
Back then, when I drowned my pain in alcohol, I cared only about temporary comforts: finding a girl to fill the emptiness for a night, long enough to forget. It was transactional, fleeting, a shared sadness that left both parties hollow. I never once considered truly being there for someone.
I know God saved me from that warped perspective, and for a long while, I was content to never have a girlfriend.
The thought of putting someone I genuinely care about through the mess of my past is unbearable.
I know I’ve changed, but what kind of man would I be if I dragged a girl like Eleanor through the shadows of my former self?
It was messy, painful, and something I’d regret for the rest of my life. The shivering girl beside me deserves someone pure. Not someone like me. And yet, as much as I want to, I can’t walk away.
As the heat blasts around us, I finally feel my fingers again. I flex them against my lap, nerves twisting in my stomach. “Are you feeling better? Warmer, at least?”
Her eyes flutter open, and a small, tired smile tugs at her lips. “Yes. My hero.” A quiet laugh follows.
Her attempt at a joke makes me grin wider than I have any right to. “Good.” I glance at her, noticing the flush returning to her cheeks. “What’s your address?”
She rattles it off, and I realize it’s maybe twenty minutes away. A pang of unwarranted sadness slams into me. Part of me wants to keep her here, in the car, make her tell me everything about her life. But I know that’s irrational, and I force myself to rein it in.
I put the car into reverse, backing out of the garden lot, and head toward the main road. The wipers whisk away the rain as I drive down the back roads, avoiding rush-hour traffic. In my favor, it gives me more time with Eleanor.