21. Stay With Me #3
A shiver skates down my spine. “Uh, yeah. Right. Sorry.” I turn back to the dead engine. Kasper will just have to live with me being late. I can’t do this.
“Car trouble?”
“Yup. Starter’s shot.”
“Have any jumper cables?”
“I do.”
“I can help. Let me pull my car closer.”
I give a tight nod. “Thanks.”
Once her car’s in position, I hook up the cables. My engine roars back to life, and the sound nearly makes me weep. “Thanks, Kelly.”
“No problem.” She tosses her curls back like this is the start of something, not the end.
I grab my cables and move to get into my car. Freedom is within reach when her voice calls again.
“Nik?”
For the love of—
My muscles turn to stone, my hand white-knuckled on the doorframe, praying that if I don’t acknowledge her, she’ll cease to exist. I exhale and turn anyway. “Yeah?”
Kelly tilts her head, scanning me like a code she almost has the key for. “You sure you’re okay? You looked pretty rough last night.” Her voice softens, and for a moment it almost sounds like concern.
Then her lips curl into that smirk again. “Not that I mind. You were always more fun after a few drinks.”
The words slide under my skin like glass. “I’m fine.”
“Fine,” she echoes, doubt dripping from the word. She takes a step closer, boots crunching in the snow. “You know, Nik… you don’t have to pretend with me. I remember you. The real you.” Her hand brushes the car door, nails tapping metal. “The one who knew how to forget everything for a night.”
I swallow down a wave of sour acid. “That’s not me anymore.”
“Maybe.” She leans in, eyes flicking up at mine. “But last night said otherwise.”
“Last night was a lapse in my judgment.” I hiss the words through my teeth. “It won’t be happening again.”
Her smile curls into something venomous. “Right. Well.” She inhales, as if she has more to say, then smoothes it over. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”
Yeah, like that’ll ever happen. I nod, it’s faster than wasting words, and move to climb into my car.
“Oh, and Nik?” she calls, backing away.
My patience snaps. “What?”
Her smirk returns, smug and satisfied. “You and I—we’re birds of a feather. People like us,” she says, jabbing a finger between us, “we belong. You can try to run, but you won’t hide for long. One day, you’ll wake up and give in. Stop pretending you don’t want this.”
I don’t answer. I slam the door and peel out of the lot, her voice ringing in my head like a curse.
The clock on my dash reads 7:19 a.m.
Dang it. Dang it. Dang it. There’s no way I have time to go home. It takes twenty minutes just to get from here to Hollingford Ballet Company. I am royally screwed.
Halfway there, I pull into a gas station and stumble inside.
I grab a travel-size toothpaste, a toothbrush, Advil, and the biggest bottle of water I can find.
In the bathroom, I scrub last night out of my teeth, change into spare clothes from my bag, roll on deodorant, and run cold water through my hair.
I barely recognize the haggard stranger in the mirror: skin the color of parchment, eyes rimmed in red, shadows deep enough to add a decade to my face.
I pop two Advil and down most of the water, but it isn’t enough. Today is going to be the longest day of my life, and I deserve every miserable second.
Bag slung over my shoulder, I sprint into the building and shove open the door to Studio B. The clock glares back at me: 8:02. Late, but only by two minutes. I exhale a shaky breath, relief mingling with dread.
Every eye turns my way. I know what I looked like—a wreck, exhaustion dripping from me like sweat. It’s a sea of fixed gazes. Their silence is worse than words, pressing down until guilt surfaces. I force it down.
Clearing my throat, I manage, “Sorry I’m late.” My bag hits the floor beside the podium, and I set my hands on my hips, trying to steady myself, to look like I still have control.
“Nik,” Lily’s voice is soft, threaded with concern.
I ignore her. If I crack now, I won’t stop. I’m stretched so thin I can feel the snap coming.
“Everyone, places,” I order.
“Nik.” Lily tries again.
“Not now, Lily.” My words escape with sharp edges, and I scan the room. No one moves. Their hesitation digs under my skin like thorns. “Is everyone deaf? Places. Now.”
Dancers shift into position, but Gabriel speaks up as they move. “Aren’t you going to pray?” His tone is confused, even hurt.
I shake my head quickly. If I pray now, it will all come undone. The shame of last night still clings to me, choking me. I know I’d have to face God—but not here in front of everyone.
Dillon inches forward, his brows drawn in. “Nik, if you need a minute—”
I cut him off. “Combination one. After that, we run Act Two.”
Nods ripple through the room, their eyes sliding anywhere but me—except hers. Eleanor. Always Eleanor.
She bites her bottom lip, worry etched deep. Or is it sadness? Both, maybe. I can’t tell. I can’t hold her gaze long enough to find out. Not after last night. Not when I don’t deserve her concern.
My gaze flicks between Dillon, Gabriel, and Lily.
Dillon’s brows are still knotted, Gabriel stands with fists clenched at his sides, staring me down.
But it’s Lily’s cold, averted gaze that breaks something in me.
I see it then… Everything I cherish is falling apart because of me, right in front of my eyes.
The piano strikes the opening notes of the first combination, and bodies move into motion.
Normally, I’d feel pride in their synchronicity, in the strength they carry with each step.
But today… I barely see any of it. My head throbs with each count, and the harsh studio lights stab through my skull like knives.
“Higher, Gabriel,” I bark, harsher than I intend.
His leg shoots up, but I’m already moving on. “Elbows back, Danica. Lift, don’t drag.”
My voice sounds foreign. It’s too sharp, too impatient, and without the steady warmth I usually try to keep. I know it. They know it.
The room feels brittle, like one wrong word might shatter it completely.
“Again,” I snap when the combination ends. “From the top.”
Groans ripple through the dancers, quickly stifled. No one meets my eyes.
Simon, the pianist, glances at me uncertainly, waiting for my nod. I give it, and the music begins again.
But Eleanor… Eleanor doesn’t just move. She watches. Even as her body bends into perfect lines, her eyes remain on me, searching. I hate it. Hate how she can see past the commands, straight into the mess I’m trying to hide.
I push harder. “Stronger. Sharper. You’re supposed to be swans, not sleepwalkers!” My voice cracks with the force of it, and for a split second the room comes to a halt.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I rub the exhaustion from my eyes and take a slow, deliberate breath to steady my voice. “Again. Please.”
They reset, but the uneasiness radiates through them. And Eleanor… her movements falter. And it isn’t because she doesn’t know the steps, it’s because she’s too focused on me.
I look away. I can’t bear it. The last thing I want is for Eleanor to fumble because of me. I don’t want to see her falter at all, even if it’s by her own doing. But the way she looks at me… I can’t be the reason.
So for the rest of the first half of rehearsals, I avoid her entirely. I focus on the corps. They require less. I don’t have to correct or reposition them, and that’s all my hungover brain can handle.
When I call for lunch, a wave of relief passes through the room. No one enjoys being here right now, and I can feel it. I need a break too, a moment to breathe, to be alone.
I leave before anyone else, drawing stares. I rarely leave the studio first, but today I don’t care. I walk to my car, retrieve the Bible I keep stashed in the console, and make my way to the garden.
The flowers are dead, snow clings to the walkway, and the stone bench is blanketed in white. The scenery matches my mood—dull, cold, and lifeless. I brush the snow off the bench with my coat sleeve and sit, Bible in hand. My gut knots as I open it, knowing which verse I need.
1 John 1:9 says that if we confess our sins, God is faithful and just to forgive us and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.
A hot tear slides down my cheek and lands on the page. Guilt and shame burn through me in equal measure.
When I became saved, I vowed to leave alcohol and lust behind. God held my hand, sanctifying me week by week, guiding me past temptation.
And now… ten years of progress, gone in an instant. Temptation has been there all along, lurking around corners, waiting for me to falter. And I did.
The weight of it all hits me like a freight train. I haven’t been reading my Bible. I haven’t been praying. I let my busy life push God to the backburner.
I hang my head, whispering into the cold, “Jesus, I repent of my sinful behavior… the drinking.” I grimace. “I pray that You forgive me of my sins. That You wash my slate clean, as white as snow. I pray for Your redemption, Lord. Amen.”
I lose myself in the chapter despite the cold biting through my coat, until soft crunching in the snow pulls me back.
I look up to see Eleanor. In sneakers, sweatpants, long-sleeve leotard, no jacket, and no beanie. My chest burns at the sight. I want to scold her for being out here in the cold, but I can’t summon the energy.
She walks over and I instinctively slip my coat off, handing it to her. “Here,” I mutter, avoiding her eyes.
She settles beside me, pulling the coat around her. “Thanks,” she says softly. “I brought this for you… figured you’d need it.”
She extends her hand, small and warm, holding two Advil and a bottle of water.
I take them, my fingers brushing hers. “Thanks,” I say, swallowing the pills and chugging the water. Her concern is… overwhelming. I hate that she’s here, but I hate being alone even more.
Silence stretches between us. She fidgets with the sleeve of the coat, while I yearn to disappear. I can’t bear her seeing me like this. Broken, hungover, and guilty.
“How are you feeling?” She asks, nibbling her bottom lip.