Chapter 8 Eleanor
ELEANOR
The smell hit us before we even parked. Charcoal and grilled meat and sunshine on fresh-cut grass filled the air.
Ava pressed her face to the window, frowning slightly. “It’s loud.”
“It’s happy loud,” I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. “You’ll see.”
Belle had texted directions to the Grim Reapers’ “Spring Picnic,” which turned out to be more of a festival.
A dozen tents dotted the park, each one buzzing with laughter.
Kids zipped past on roller skates, music played from a portable speaker, and the air shimmered with that warm, messy kind of joy that happens when people actually like being together.
I pulled into a spot under a tree. “Okay, bug. Ready?”
Ava shrugged, fiddling with her headphones. “Maybe.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
We climbed out, the grass soft beneath our feet. Belle waved from near the grills, wearing a tank top that said Bruise Control in glittery purple letters and holding a plate of burgers like a trophy.
“Eleanor! Ava!” she shouted. “You made it!”
Ava gave a tiny wave, half hiding behind me.
Belle grinned and pointed her spatula toward the food tables. “We’ve got burgers, dogs, and pork chops. Drinks and sides are over there, and Mel’s famous chili, chaos is everywhere else. Welcome to the family.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “It smells amazing.”
“That’s because I’m cooking,” Belle said proudly. “Now grab a plate before Sonia steals the last potato salad.”
As if summoned, a woman with a buzzed haircut and aviator sunglasses walked by, holding a paper plate stacked precariously high. “It’s not stealing,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s strategic preemption.”
Belle rolled her eyes. “Sonia!” she called. “Save some for the civilians!”
A woman turned with kind eyes and a sharp grin. “You must be Eleanor. Belle’s been talking about you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”
“Probably,” Becca said with a laugh, offering her hand. “I’m Becca. My wife, Mel, is wrangling our son somewhere . . . small human, rainbow tutu, theatrical tendencies?”
I smiled. “Leo. We met at the Penguin Project rehearsal.”
Her grin widened. “Oh, then you’ve met my favorite chaos gremlin. Good. He’s somewhere near the snow cone stand. If you hear singing, follow it.”
“Noted.”
Ava tugged lightly on my sleeve, eyes fixed across the field. Leo was there, of course, bright and impossible to miss, wearing his tutu and chatting animatedly with two older kids.
“Go say hi if you want,” I said softly.
She hesitated. “He’s talking.”
“That’s okay. He’ll notice you.”
Ava stood there for a long second, chewing her lip. Then, without a word, she started walking.
I watched her go, heart in my throat. Leo turned, saw her, and grinned like she was the best thing that had happened all day. He waved so hard his snow cone nearly took flight.
Ava smiled — actually smiled — and waved back.
Belle bumped my shoulder with hers. “Looks like we’ve got our next power duo.”
“Yeah,” I said, blinking back the sudden sting in my eyes. “Looks like it.”
Belle smirked. “Told you everyone fits in here.”
Becca handed me a bottle of water, her tone warm and knowing. “You’ll get used to it, this feeling that things might actually be okay.”
I looked around at the laughter, the skates, the sunshine, and my daughter finally belonging.
“I could get used to that,” I said quietly.
It was hard to remember the last time I’d seen Ava laugh like that.
She and Leo had joined a small cluster of kids near the walking path. Some of them were skating, some chasing each other on scooters, all of them shrieking in delight as bubbles floated across the park. Every so often, Ava’s laugh would carry above the noise, high and clear and utterly unguarded.
It was beautiful.
I sat on a picnic blanket beside Belle, nursing a lemonade and watching my daughter exist in a world that didn’t require her to shrink.
“She’s a natural,” Belle said, grinning as Ava wobbled along on borrowed skates, holding Leo’s hand.
“Natural disaster, maybe,” I said, but my chest felt light. “She’s never been this . . . free.”
Belle bumped my shoulder with hers. “That’s the magic. Once you stop worrying about how you look, you start having fun.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
She gave me a mischievous grin. “Or . . . and hear me out, you could try it.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Skating,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “We’ve got extra pairs.”
“I was watching to make sure no one died.”
“Uh-huh.” Belle was already standing, hands on her hips. “Come on, Eleanor. You can’t write about adventure if you never have one.”
“I write children’s books. My characters don’t typically require knee pads.”
“Then you’re overdue for an upgrade.”
I opened my mouth to protest again, but Belle was already halfway to the rental table, shouting over her shoulder, “Size eight, right?”
I sighed, but couldn’t help smiling. “Bossy woman,” I muttered.
“Motivationally assertive!” she called back.
A few minutes later, I found myself lacing up a pair of scuffed-up skates, trying not to think about how long it had been since my last attempt. The moment I stood, my knees wobbled like newborn deer legs.
Belle grinned. “You’ve got this. Just find your balance.”
“My balance left in 2014,” I said, clutching her arm.
She laughed and gave me a gentle push. “You’re fine. Just skate around the edge—slow and steady.”
Slow and steady lasted approximately twelve seconds.
The first few feet were almost graceful, if you squinted. Then the path dipped slightly, my wheels caught a pebble, and the next thing I knew I was airborne—followed by a very undignified thud.
“Oh no,” Belle gasped between laughs, jogging over. “You okay?”
I groaned, staring up at the sky. “Define okay.”
“Can you move?”
“Technically.”
“Then you’re fine.” She tried to help me up, but I winced at the scrape on my knee. “Okay, maybe not fine fine,” she said, all amusement fading. “Let’s get you to the first aid tent.”
The tent had a few folding chairs and a table with first aid kits. A few kids were there with minor scrapes, chatting with a man in a volunteer shirt as he wrapped an ankle.
Belle guided me in. “Hey, doc, got another casualty for you.”
The man turned, and my stomach dropped.
It was him.
Alex.
He looked up, sunlight filtering through the tent and catching in his hair. Recognition flickered across his face, followed by a warm, crooked smile. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
I blinked. “We’ve only met once.”
“Then we’re already establishing a pattern,” he said lightly, nodding toward my knee. “May I?”
Belle grinned between us. “I’ll, uh, go make sure Ava doesn’t join the derby prematurely.”
She winked and vanished.
Alex gently cleaned my scrape. “Does this hurt?”
“Only my pride,” I said, trying to ignore the way his touch made my pulse jump.
He smiled, eyes crinkling. “That’s a common injury at these things. Happens to the best of us.”
“I used to be good at this,” I muttered.
“I believe you,” he said. “Bodies remember. They just complain louder now.”
That made me laugh, even through the sting. “So what’s the verdict, doctor?”
“I think you’ll be fine,” he said after a moment, applying some ointment and a bandage. “Just a scrape. You’ll be right as rain soon enough.”
Our eyes met, and for a second, everything else—the laughter, the noise, the smell of burgers—faded into the background.
“Thanks,” I said softly.
“Anytime,” he said, setting my foot back on the ground. “You’re kind of my favorite patient already.”
I rolled my eyes. “You say that to everyone.”
“Only the ones who fall with style.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “That wasn’t style. That was gravity bullying me.”
“Still,” he said, smiling. “You got back up.”
And somehow, that felt like the most important thing anyone had said to me all day.