Chapter 3
ELEANOR
Two weeks into the school year, and Ava was . . . surviving.
Some mornings were good. Some ended in tears. But she’d started eating lunch with a quiet girl named Zoe and spent half of yesterday drawing bats on the class bulletin board. Progress, in our world, was measured in tiny, miraculous increments.
I’d learned the teachers were saints. Ms. Leighton sent daily emails that began with The good news is .
. . and ended with We’re working on . . .
Darlene waved every morning when we arrived, her purple streak shining under the fluorescents, like a small promise that at least one adult in the building got it.
At night, Ava still crawled into my bed.
And I still let her.
Things weren’t easy, but they were better. And “better” felt like a luxury I didn’t want to jinx. Which was probably why I’d been avoiding Belle’s invitation to the roller derby bout all week.
I’d almost said yes. Almost.
But the truth was, I hadn’t done anything for myself in so long that the idea of fun felt foreign, like a language I’d forgotten how to speak. And even if I could find the words, I wasn’t sure who would listen.
A knock on the doorframe pulled me out of my thoughts. My mother leaned in, looking pleased with herself. Never a good sign.
“Eleanor,” she said, in that too-casual tone she used when she was about to ruin my plans. “I have a little surprise for you.”
I looked up from my laptop. “Unless it’s a winning lottery ticket, I doubt I’ll like it.”
Her smile didn’t waver. “Don’t be dramatic. It’s just a dinner. A date, actually.”
I blinked. “A what?”
“With a perfectly lovely man. He’s the nephew of a woman from my bridge club. He’s a partner at a law firm. I told him you’ve been working so hard and could use a night out.”
“You told him—Mom, no. Absolutely not.”
“Oh, come now. It’s just dinner.”
“I don’t want dinner,” I said. “Or a date. Or to sit across from someone who’s going to ask about Ethan and then look sorry for me.”
Her expression softened, but only slightly. “Honey, you can’t live like this forever. Ethan wouldn’t want that.”
The familiar ache in my chest flared. “Please don’t use him to guilt me into dating.”
She sighed, expertly changing tactics. “Fine. Don’t do it for yourself, do it for me. Or for Ava. You can’t pour from an empty cup.”
I gave a humorless laugh. “My cup shattered a year ago.”
“That’s why you need a new one,” she said sweetly. “Besides, I promised Ava we’d have a popcorn and Addams Family night. She’s thrilled. I’ll keep her entertained, and you’ll have a few hours to yourself. No one loses.”
I wanted to argue. God, I wanted to.
But she was right about one thing. Ava was excited. I could hear her upstairs, humming the Addams Family theme under her breath.
So instead, I pressed my fingers to my temples and muttered, “Fine. But I’m leaving after dessert.”
My mother’s grin was triumphant. “Wonderful. He’ll pick you up at seven.”
When she swept out of the room, I groaned and let my forehead hit the table.
A night out with a stranger when all I wanted was to crawl into bed with my kid and pretend the world outside didn’t exist.
And the worst part?
I wasn’t sure if I was angrier at my mother for arranging it . . . or at myself for agreeing.
I spent most of the afternoon trying to convince myself it wouldn’t be that bad.
Dinner, polite conversation, escape before dessert. I’d endured worse . . . like being back under my mother’s roof.
By the time seven rolled around, I’d changed my shirt three times and ended up in something that screamed I’m not trying, but please don’t pity me.
When the doorbell rang, Ava darted out of the living room in fuzzy pajamas, a handful of popcorn already in her mouth. “Grandma said you’re going out to dinner,” she said.
“Apparently,” I muttered.
She tilted her head. “Do you want to?”
“Nope.”
Ava smiled faintly, then handed me a handful of popcorn. “For bravery.”
My heart squeezed. “Thanks, kiddo.”
I popped it in my mouth, kissed her hair, and let my mother usher me out like I was heading to prom instead of emotional purgatory.
The restaurant was nice in that generic, overcompensating way, with linen tablecloths, moody lighting, and a menu where everything came with a balsamic reduction.
David, my mother’s matchmaking masterpiece, was perfectly pleasant. At first.
He talked about his work and becoming a partner, asked about Ava, and even laughed when I admitted I’d once burned spaghetti. It was fine.
Fine in that way where you could feel how hard everyone was pretending it was.
Then the waiter brought the wrong wine.
“I said the Merlot,” David snapped, his tone sharp enough to make nearby tables flinch. The waiter, a kid, barely twenty, apologized and hurried off.
I stared at him, stunned. “That wasn’t necessary.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “If people want to work in service, they should do it properly.”
Something cold and solid settled in my gut. “He made a mistake, not a crime.”
David blinked, clearly not expecting pushback. “You’re very sensitive.”
“Or maybe you’re just an ass.”
He sat back, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”
I stood. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
“What?”
I tossed my napkin onto the table and walked out before he could say another word.
Outside, the night air was cool enough to sting. I pulled my phone out, thumb hovering over the Uber notification.
Your driver is on the way.
“I’m sorry, my dear, I think ye dropped this.”
I turned to see a short, round woman with wild red hair and a glint in her eye.
“I’m sorry, what was that?”
She handed me a flyer. “I do believe ye dropped this,” she said again in her Scottish brogue.
I took the piece of flyer from her.
The Grimm Reapers vs. The River City Sirens.
“This isn’t mine,” I said as I turned to give it to her, but she was gone.
But then I saw a building across the street. It was the same address as the flyer, and it looked like the bout was about to start.
The building looked like nothing special from the outside, a small, run-down skating rink, but the inside pulsed with music and light.
Through the open doors, I caught flashes of skaters whizzing past, neon helmets gleaming under the spotlights, and a crowd chanting something I couldn’t quite make out.
I hesitated only a second before hitting Cancel Ride.
My mother would probably call it impulsive.
Ethan would’ve called it brave.
I crossed the street.
The moment I stepped through the doors, the world exploded into color and sound.
The floor vibrated beneath my feet with the rumble of wheels on wood. Whistles blew, people cheered, cowbells clanged. The air smelled like popcorn and sweat and something sweet, like adrenaline turned tangible.
On the track, women of every size, shape, and color flew past in a blur of muscle and glitter. Tattoos flashed. Helmets sparkled. Someone in fishnets shoulder-checked another player hard enough to make the audience roar, then they both laughed, skating back into formation.
Everywhere I looked, there was power. Loud, unapologetic, alive.
I stood just inside the door, transfixed. It felt like stepping into Oz, after years of living in black and white, someone had turned the saturation up to impossible.
A girl at the ticket counter grinned at me. “First time?”
I nodded, still staring.
“Five bucks,” she said, sliding me a wristband. “Welcome to the Reaper pit.”
I fished a crumpled bill from my purse and moved toward the bleachers. The music shifted into something fast and wild, a bass line that thudded right through my ribs.
One of the skaters skated tall, fierce, and grinning behind her mouth guard and slammed into an opponent, sending her spinning. The crowd went feral.
I laughed before I even realized it was happening. The sound felt foreign in my throat, rusty, like something I hadn’t used in too long.
For the first time in a year, maybe longer, I felt awake.
Alive.
And I couldn’t look away.
Then I saw her.
Belle.
For a second, I thought I was imagining her — but no. There she was on the track, flying past in black fishnets, a torn jersey that read “Belle Ringer” across the back, and a spray of glitter shining like starlight on her arms.
Her curves, the ones I’d quietly admired under her cleaning uniform, were all on display now. She was strong, unapologetic, and commanding. She wasn’t small or soft or contained. She was power in motion.
And she was glorious.
Her dark curls were pulled back in a low ponytail, a streak of silver catching the lights every time she turned.
Her face, usually kind with a hint of mischief, was transformed.
She was focused, fierce, radiant with adrenaline.
She didn’t smile much out there, but when she did, after landing a hit that sent her opponent spinning, it was electric.
The crowd roared her name. And she owned it.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
This wasn’t the woman wiping down my mother’s kitchen counters or gently coaxing my daughter to eat. This was someone who didn’t apologize for taking up space, she reveled in it.
And watching her made something inside me ache — not jealousy, exactly, but hunger. For that kind of freedom. For the right to exist without shrinking first.
When the whistle blew, Belle slowed, hands braced on her knees, chest heaving as she caught her breath. Then she looked up, scanning the crowd, and her eyes landed on me.
Her grin was quick and knowing.
Like she’d been expecting me all along.
Heat rushed to my cheeks, but I found myself smiling back.
For a long moment, we just looked at each other, a woman on the track and another in the stands, the air between us humming with something I didn’t have words for yet.
The ref blew the whistle again, and she was gone, swept back into the chaos, leaving me dizzy and breathless and impossibly alive.
I tore my eyes away from the track long enough to really look around me.