Chapter 14 Eleanor
ELEANOR
By the time I pulled into the driveway, the house was dark. The porch light flickered like it couldn’t quite decide whether to stay on.
Inside, everything was still. I slipped off my shoes at the bottom of the stairs and padded up quietly, the wood cool under my bare feet. My mom’s door was closed. The soft drone of the TV leaking through the walls. And Ava’s nightlight glowed under her door in a warm, steady line.
I exhaled, relieved. I wasn’t ready for Mom’s commentary or Ava’s curious questions about how my “not-a-date” went. I wanted to hold the night close, keep it just for me for a little while.
In the bathroom, I turned on the shower and let the water run until the steam fogged the mirror. My reflection blurred, softening at the edges, and I stepped under the spray, closing my eyes.
Warm water cascaded down my shoulders, washing away the perfume and candlelight, but not the memory of his eyes, deep brown, steady, full of something that made my stomach flutter.
I kept replaying the moment outside the cafe. The way his hand had brushed mine. The way he’d leaned in, close enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek. And then, Ethan’s face, sharp and sudden and gone too soon.
My chest still tightened when I thought about it.
About him.
About everything.
But when I’d pulled back, Alex hadn’t looked hurt or disappointed. He’d just smiled softly and said, “We can take it slow.”
I could still hear it. That gentle patience in his voice. Like he wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere, I wasn’t ready to go.
In my room, I turned on the lamp, soft golden light spilling over the carpet. I bent to slide my shoes back into the closet, and something caught my eye.
A box.
It was half-hidden behind old winter boots, pushed far back on the shelf. The cardboard was worn at the corners, the writing on top faded: E + E.
For a long moment, I just stared. My throat tightened, but my hand was already reaching for it before I could talk myself out of it.
I carried it to the bed and sat down, the weight of it solid on my lap.
When I lifted the lid, the scent of dust and time hit me, and then the memories spilled out.
A burned CD with The Clash written across it in Sharpie.
A ticket stub from that night we’d snuck into Columbus for a concert.
A photo of me with blue hair and smudged eyeliner, laughing into the camera while Ethan looked at me like I hung the damn moon.
I traced his face with my fingertip.
God, we’d been such kids. Brave, stupid, so sure, forever would always mean forever.
The tears came quietly, at first just a prickle at the corners of my eyes. Then more freely, falling hot and unashamed. But it wasn’t the same kind of crying as before. Not the sharp, hollow kind that left me gasping.
This was softer.
This was release.
I loved him. I always would. But for the first time, I understood that loving him didn’t mean I had to stay frozen in the space he’d left behind.
He’d want me to move.
To laugh again.
To live.
I picked up the photo again, looking at his grin, that mischievous, beautiful smile that had started it all.
“I miss you,” I whispered. “But I think . . . I think I’m ready.”
My voice didn’t break. It didn’t have to.
I carried the picture to my vanity and tucked it into the edge of the mirror. His smile caught the lamplight, soft and knowing.
Then I turned off the light, crawled into bed, and let the quiet fill the room.
For the first time in a long time, the ache in my chest wasn’t just grief. It was hope.
Sunlight warmed the edge of my pillow, pulling me awake slowly, gently, in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. Before I even reached for my phone, I felt the smile tugging at my mouth.
Last night.
The kiss.
His eyes.
His voice saying we can take it slow.
My phone buzzed again, lighting up the nightstand. As I shifted, I felt a warm, familiar weight behind me. Ava must have crawled into bed with me at some point in the night.
My phone buzzed again, lighting up the nightstand.
Alex Prince: Good morning. I had a wonderful night, Eleanor. Thank you.
My breath caught, and that quiet, glowing smile bloomed full force.
Me: I had a wonderful night too.
I pressed the phone to my chest for a second, letting the warmth settle.
Then I heard the sounds downstairs, pans clinking, the faint hum of my mother’s “pleasant hostess” voice.
Perfect.
Ava stirred behind me. "What is the smell?" she murmured.
I turned and wrapped my arms around her and kissed the top of her head before breathing in her sleepy smell. "I think Grandma is making pancakes."
"I love pancakes," she said as the small corner of her mouth curved up.
"Well, let's get dressed and head down."
Ava sat up and stretched before getting out of bed and heading across the hall.
I threw on jeans and a soft T-shirt, ran a brush through my hair, and headed down.
The kitchen stopped me in the doorway.
The table was set like she was expecting company for brunch, filled with eggs, bacon, pancakes, fresh fruit, and even a pitcher of juice, arranged like she’d been waiting to perform.
Ava sat at the table already in pajamas, swinging her feet and eating berries by the handful.
“Good morning!” my mom sang, overly bright, turning from the stove. “I thought we could have a nice breakfast and you could tell us about your date.”
Ahhh, there it was.
I slid into the chair beside Ava. “The table looks beautiful, Mom.”
“Yes, well.” She placed a stack of pancakes in the center like a centerpiece. “I’m dying to hear how the evening with David went.”
My stomach dropped. “Mom—”
She waved a dismissive hand. “He’s such a catch. Handsome, polite, great job, great family. I just knew the two of you would hit it off. So?” She leaned forward. “Tell me everything.”
Ava perked up, curious. “Mom, you said it wasn’t a date?” Her eyes went wide. “You lied?”
Kill me.
I cleared my throat and poured myself coffee instead of making eye contact with either of them.
“It—wasn’t David. And it wasn’t a date.”
Silence.
The heavy, loaded kind.
My mother blinked once. Slowly. “I’m sorry?”
“I said it wasn’t David,” I repeated, focusing very intently on buttering a pancake. “I didn’t feel a connection with him. So I . . . went out with someone else.”
Her face froze into that careful, porcelain mask she used for funerals and charity galas.
“A stranger,” she said, voice soft as a knife. “You went out with a stranger.”
Ava’s gaze ping-ponged between us, sensing something wrong but not understanding it.
“He’s not a stranger,” I whispered, trying to be calm. “He’s someone I’ve gotten to know.”
This was not how I wanted to broach the subject of dating with Ava. After everything she’s been through, I wanted to sit down and have a real conversation with her. Yet here I was being interrogated by my mother.
“And who might this mystery suitor be?” she asked, sugar-sweet and poisonous.
I swallowed. “Just . . . someone I met through the Penguins Project. A parent.”
Something flickered in her eyes. It was disapproval, disappointment, judgment, all wrapped in one breath.
“I see,” she said. “So you threw away a perfectly respectable match for some . . . single father you barely know?”
My cheeks flamed.
Ava’s fork paused mid-air.
I forced a smile toward my daughter. “Eat your strawberries, sweetheart.”
Then I turned back to my mother, lowering my voice. “I had a nice time. That’s all you need to know.”
Her lips thinned. “Eleanor, after everything you’ve been through, I would think you’d choose someone stable. Someone appropriate. Someone who understands your responsibilities.”
The words hit harder than I wanted them to.
But my phone buzzed softly in my lap, and beneath the table, I saw his name light up again, just a simple:
Alex Prince: Good. :) See you at rehearsal on Monday. Hope your Saturday’s a good one.
A quiet reminder that someone out there saw me not as a disappointment, or a project to fix, or a fragile widow, but as someone worth smiling at.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and set my shoulders back.
“Mom,” I said gently, “I know you worry. But I’m allowed to make my own choices.”
She didn’t answer.
She just carved into her pancake with the elegance of someone murdering a very small, very flat man.
Ava reached over and nudged my arm. “Mom?”
I looked down.
“You’re smiling,” she said.
I hadn’t even noticed.
The days passed blessedly quiet. My mom had been giving me the cold shoulder since finding out about my date, but I couldn't bring myself to care.
By the time we reached the community center on Monday afternoon, Ava was practically vibrating with excitement. She’d memorized half of her lines already and insisted on performing them in the car the entire drive over. It was adorable. And loud.
I walked her to the rehearsal room, kissed the top of her head, and watched her dash toward her mentor with a confidence that still surprised me every time I saw it.
“Have fun, sweetheart.”
“I will!” she called over her shoulder before disappearing into the tangle of kids and volunteers.
My chest warmed. For Ava, this place wasn't just a program. It was a world opening up.
I headed toward the coffee shop with my tote bag full of sketchbooks, pencils, markers, and the spark of an idea that had been growing louder in my mind for days now.
A book.
A real book.
My first since Ethan died.
And not just any book, a roller derby story with a brave, scrappy little girl inspired by everything I’d seen lately.
I’d even almost emailed my agent last night, typing up a whole pitch before chickening out and closing my laptop. Maybe today after I get the opening sketches right.
Belle was already behind the counter when I stepped in, hair piled high in a messy bun, eyeliner sharp enough to kill. She wiggled her eyebrows at me.
“Well, well, well. Look who’s glowing today.”
“Please don’t,” I groaned.
“Fine, fine. Latte for the lady in denial?”
“Yes. Please.”
She handed me my coffee with a knowing smirk, and I took it to a small table tucked away by the window, quiet and perfect for hiding from the world.
I spread out my supplies, opened my sketchbook, and started drawing.
It didn’t take long for the rest of the world to fall away.
Line by line, stroke by stroke, the character in my mind took shape, wild-haired, skinned-kneed, grinning like nothing could knock her down for long. My fingers moved on instinct, guided by something deeper.
I was so deep in it, I didn’t hear the bell above the door. Or footsteps. Or anything at all until— A throat cleared softly.
I froze, pencil hovering in midair.
Then a familiar voice. It was quiet, warm, and somehow nervous.
“Is this seat taken?”
My heart leapt straight into my throat when I looked up. There he was.
Alex Prince stood in front of me, hands in his pockets, hair slightly tousled from the wind, his beard the perfect scruff level, and that soft smile, the one that had completely undone me, spreading across his face.
I felt my own smile pull wide before I could stop it.
“No,” I said, clearing my throat. “No, it’s not taken.”
His smile deepened, slow and genuine.
“Good,” he said. “Because I was really hoping you’d say that.”
He pulled out the chair and sat down, settling across from me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And God help me, it felt exactly right.