18. Trust Me #2
I pray God will open her heart and guide me, show me the right path with her.
Because right now, it feels like I’m trapped in the labyrinth of my own mind.
And I’m ready to get out of that room. I need to be at rehearsals.
I need to get back in Kasper’s good graces.
But most of all, I need to see Eleanor. I need to see with my own eyes that she’s okay.
When Russell and I are dismissed, I practically jump out of my seat and speed-walk to Studio B. It’s still early, so I don’t expect to see anyone—but I know Eleanor and Lily like to arrive ahead of time, so there’s a chance she’ll be there.
Relief washes over me as I open the door. Eleanor and Lily sit on the floor by the window, gazing out at the garden below. Eleanor’s hair is pulled into a neat bun, a few clips restraining stray strands. Her eyes are brighter, and her cheeks are tinged with pink.
But I see through it from a mile away. I know that look well—the art of appearing fine while everything underneath unravels.
I clear my throat. “Good morning, ladies,” I greet, walking to the podium and setting my bag down like every morning.
Both girls look up, but it’s Lily who speaks first. “Good morning, Nik-a-roo,” she says, standing.
“Is Russell here? I want to try to convince him to let me do some more fun moves when I’m on stage.
” She dramatically sighs. “The Queen is so boring, Nik. I really needed more flair.” She waves her arms around and spins once.
I let out a small chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” Then I motion toward the door. “He’s in Studio A.”
“Perfect.” Lily claps and dashes away.
“Good luck,” I call after her. She probably doesn’t hear me, but she’ll need it anyway—especially since I doubt Russell will change his choreography for anything.
The room falls into a tense quiet. Eleanor stays by the window, staring at me. I try to keep my focus elsewhere, but it feels impossible with her so close. I’m glad to see her, but that doesn’t make me any less upset.
She slowly rises and walks toward me. She draws in a deep breath. “I’m sorry for yesterday,” she starts quietly, fidgeting with the sleeves of her leotard. “I’m sorry if I upset you, and I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me anymore.”
I meet her eyes. “You don’t need to apologize, Eleanor.”
She shakes her head. “No, I do. I feel terrible. I’m so, so sorry.” She shrugs. “I’m just… sorry.”
I set my things down and give her my full attention. “Stop apologizing,” I say a little more firmly than I intend, grimacing at how harsh it sounds. “You really don’t need to keep apologizing. I mean… the situation wasn’t okay, but I just—” I stop, unable to find the right words.
She stands there like a dancer balancing on bruised toes.
“Let’s talk after rehearsals. Is that okay?” I ask. I can’t have the conversation I want with class starting in fifteen minutes.
She nods, her teeth grazing her lower lip.
I offer a faint smile. “Good. We’ll go to Pot & Kettle.”
Her cheeks flush, and her eyes widen. “I—okay. Sure.”
At least she doesn’t say no. That’s a start.
Rehearsals fly by, even with the extra time tacked on—much to no one’s delight.
Everyone dances with precision and rhythm, more than I hoped.
By some miracle, even Eleanor moves more smoothly today, managing the pas de deux with Gabriel.
It isn’t flawless—far from it, actually—but she’s clearly put in the effort.
There are still moments when she lags or becomes too focused on perfection, but overall, she has improved. Determination radiates from every movement she makes.
I don’t know what to make of it. Seeing her at such a low point yesterday, it’s almost impossible to believe the girl before me is the same one. But I decide to overlook it for now. I’ll take the small wins when I can get them.
With her dance bag gripped tightly in her hand, Eleanor reenters the studio. She changed into leggings and a loose-fitting dusty blue sweater, paired with the white sneakers she always wears. Her hair is free from its bun, strands framing her face as it hangs loosely around her shoulders.
She’s beautiful. Not in the obvious, polished way the world seems to prize, but in something wholly individual.
A beauty that catches me off guard every time I see it.
And even as I notice, I silently pray for discipline.
For my thoughts to stay in the right place, and for my eyes to see her as God sees her: broken but beloved, worth far more than what this world demands of her.
“Ready?” I ask, shoving the last of my things into my bag. My nerves are impossible to hide. I know tonight’s conversation will be raw and uncomfortable, but necessary. She needs someone safe, someone who will listen, and I’m determined to be that person.
She lifts her shoulder. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” A shy smile curves her lips.
“That’s the spirit.” I give a short laugh, slinging my bag over my shoulder. I open the door and gesture for her to go through first. “After you.”
When we slide into my car, a crack of thunder rolls through the distance.
Eleanor stills beside me. “Do you think it’s a good idea to go out during a storm?”
I smirk before I can stop myself. “Live a little, Elenochka.” The endearment slips out uninvited, and heat surges to my face. What am I doing?
Her cheeks flare just as red as mine, her eyes darting toward the window like she’s pretending she didn’t hear.
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, willing my voice to steady. “It’s November. Any New Yorker knows the rain’s part of the deal.”
She rolls her eyes playfully. “I know that. But do you really want to get caught in the rain?”
Before my better judgment catches up with my mouth, I hear myself say, “I wouldn’t mind being stuck with you.”
The words hang in the air like lightning. Striking, and impossible to take back.
If this is any indication of how the night will go, I should just go ahead and bury myself now. Here lies Nik, dead by embarrassment, slain by his own mouth.
The rest of the drive slips by in silence.
Not the kind that gnaws, but one that fills the car like mist—tangible, present, and too annoying to ignore.
My hands stay fixed on the wheel, while my thoughts trip over every stupid word I’ve just said.
Out of the corner of my eye, Eleanor sits quietly, her gaze on the passing city lights, unreadable.
When we finally pull up to Pot & Kettle, timing is on our side.
The moment we step inside, the sky breaks open and fat raindrops splatter the pavement, steady and relentless.
The café glows warm. The lamplight is soft against mismatched chairs, steam curling from teapots, and quiet laughter weaving between the clink of porcelain cups.
We slide into the same little corner as last time, our refuge against the storm.
This time, I hand Eleanor a menu. “Pick anything you want.” No pressure, no assumptions. The mistake of ordering for her last time still weighs on me. I want her to breathe easy with me, to know her choices matter.
She hesitates before taking the menu. “Thanks,” she murmurs, almost like the word itself is unfamiliar on her tongue.
Baby steps, I remind myself. Baby steps. Healing isn’t instant, though I know God can do it in a heartbeat if she reaches for Him. But there’s always purpose in the waiting, in the ache. Eleanor’s journey isn’t mine to control.
“Ready to order?” A waitress with copper curls and a name tag that reads Shelby appears at our table, pen poised.
I glance at Eleanor and lift a brow.
She shifts, then finally says, “Um… can I get a Sereni-tea, please?” Closing her menu, she slides it aside, as if that small act takes effort.
Shelby dips her chin, jotting it down, before turning to me. “And for you, sir?”
I almost grimace at the word sir. Respectful, sure, but it also makes me feel like I belong on the other side of forty. “Fireside Apple Spiced tea for me, please.” My stomach gives a loud protest, but I ignore it. Tonight isn’t about me.
Shelby leaves our table while Eleanor looks down, fumbling with the sleeves of her sweater. Something I notice that she does often. I have no idea how to have this hard conversation with her, so I start easy. “You did well in rehearsals today.”
Her eyes rise to meet mine. “Not as good as I need to be,” she mumbles, completely bypassing the compliment.
But I won’t give into her self-loathing pity party. “What can I do to help you?” I mean that in more ways than she can imagine.
She slouches back in her chair and crosses her arms. “Why do you always want to help me?” She retorts, not answering the question. A master in deflection.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “You didn’t answer the question.”
She huffs. “Well, neither did you.”
A smirk plays on my lips as I relax back into my seat.
“Fair enough.” I run a hand through my hair.
“I want to help you because I took a chance on you—care for you even. Sure, there’s a lot riding on my shoulders for your success, but I care for you as a person, Eleanor.
You’ve become more to me than just some dancer. ”
The tea arrives at our table, and she quickly takes a sip. Probably avoiding answering my questions again. But I won’t let her get away that easily.
She sets her cup down, and watches the steam curl. “You took a chance on me…” She peers at me from under her lashes. “How?”
“When Kasper found out why you were let go from the Metropolitain, I had to convince him to hire you—that you were worth it.” I confidently answer.
Her face flushes. “You—you know about that.” Her voice wobbles, chest rising unevenly.
“I do,” I state simply.
She drops her gaze to the table. “I… it’s not true,” she whispers.
I wrestle with whether to push before reaching across the small space and lift her chin, gentle but firm.
Her eyes flicker to mine.