Chapter 17 Eleanor
ELEANOR
The next day, after I got Ava dropped off at school, my mom was at her weekly Bridge club. I decided to take advantage of the alone time. I hadn’t roller-skated in at least a decade, except for the disastrous attempt at the picnic where I had fallen. My body was making sure I remembered that.
“Okay,” I muttered to myself, wobbling dangerously as I clung to the side of the garage. “You can do this. You are a grown woman. You have given birth. You have survived grief. You can absolutely roll across your own driveway without dying.”
The skates felt foreign on my feet, heavier than I remembered, like someone had swapped my childhood wheels for cinderblocks. I pushed off carefully, rolling a few inches before my balance shifted at a betrayal angle.
“Nope nope nope—”
I flailed, windmilling my arms until I managed to steady myself. Barely.
God.
Tomorrow.
I was meeting Alex tomorrow at the park for a skating lesson.
And I really, really didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of the man who made me feel soft and fluttery and—
I pushed off again, managing a slow, shaky glide. It wasn’t pretty, but it was movement. And right now, that was enough. I took a deep breath, straightened my knees, and tried again. Wobble. Glide. Arms out. Wobble. Try not to die.
I was concentrating so hard on not eating pavement that I didn’t hear the car until the tires crunched over the end of the driveway.
A familiar silver Lexus.
No.
No no no no no.
My stomach dropped straight into my skates.
Mom’s car.
She wasn’t supposed to be home for at least another hour. I’d planned this carefully, practice a little, get my footing, take off the skates before she could see me, and avoid the inevitable interrogation about “unsafe hobbies” and “undignified midlife crises.”
Too late.
Her car door opened, and she stepped out in a perfectly pressed blouse and pearls that gleamed even in the cloudy afternoon light. She froze the second she saw me.
And I froze too, one wheel sliding forward against my will.
“Oh dear God,” she whispered, sounding personally victimized. “Eleanor.”
I swallowed, trying to force my feet into some position that looked less like imminent disaster.
“Hi, Mom,” I said brightly. “You’re early.”
She stared at me like I had sprouted tentacles.
“What,” she said slowly, “are you wearing?”
I looked down at myself — leggings, a T-shirt, elbow pads, wrist guards, knee pads the size of dinner plates, and bright blue roller skates.
“I’m . . . practicing.”
“For what?” she demanded, stepping closer. “The circus?”
Wow. Strong start.
I pushed off again, mostly so I didn’t fall in place. “Just skating. For fun.”
“Fun,” she repeated, tasting the word like it was sour. “Eleanor, honey . . . you’re a mother. You’re too old to be doing—” she gestured vaguely at my entire body “—this.”
I clenched my jaw. “I’m meeting someone to skate tomorrow and wanted to be prepared.”
“Someone?”
“Just . . . a friend.”
“One of those Penguin people?” she pressed. “One of those single parents?”
She said the last words like stray cats.
I rolled forward a few inches just to get away from her. “Mom, I’m just skating. This isn’t a moral failing.”
She opened her mouth to argue — And that’s when my wheel hit a pebble.
I lurched forward, arms flailing, pure panic bubbling in my throat as I managed, somehow, through sheer panic and maybe divine intervention, not to crash into the mailbox.
“ELEANOR!”
I straightened, breathless. “I’m fine!”
Mom pinched the bridge of her nose like she was seconds away from disappearing in embarrassment.
“This,” she said, “is ridiculous.”
“No,” I said, chest still rising and falling, “it’s new. And I’m allowed to have new things.”
She looked like she wasn’t sure whether to shout or sigh. She ended up doing neither, just shaking her head.
“I’ll be inside,” she said coolly. “Try not to break anything.”
She turned back toward the house.
I watched her go, hands shaking slightly, heart pounding harder than the skating justified.
Then I pushed off again.
Slow. Unsteady.
Determined.
Tomorrow I’d meet Alex at the park.
And no matter how many times I fell today, I was going to be ready.
By the time I managed to wobble my way back to the house and pry the skates off my feet, I was sweating, out of breath, and pretty sure I’d discovered muscles I hadn’t used since 2003.
I needed a shower. Immediately.
Upstairs, hot water eased some of the tension in my shoulders and the lingering embarrassment from nearly face-planting in front of my mother. I washed my hair, reminding myself repeatedly:
You don’t need her approval.
Whether or not I believed it yet was another story.
I wrapped myself in a towel and was stepping out of the bathroom when I heard a cheerful voice downstairs.
“Hello? Anyone home in the House of Tremaine?”
Belle.
Of course, Belle would appear the moment I looked like a drowned cat.
“I’m upstairs. I’ll be right down!” I called back, pulling on some comfortable jeans and a soft sweater.
By the time I got downstairs, Belle was leaning against the kitchen island like she lived here, hair in a high ponytail in her cleaning polo and Reapers sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. She grinned the second she saw me.
“Well, well, look who survived her driveway death match,” she teased.
I groaned, dropping my head into my hands. “Was it that obvious?”
“I just saw the skates and knee pads on the porch and put two and two together . . . ”
I moved around her to the fridge, pulling out turkey, cheese, and condiments.
“So . . . how’s Alex?”
I shot her a glare and got back to my sandwich.
She held up a hand. “Anyway, I didn’t come here for your love life. Not solely, at least.”
“Oh, good,” I muttered.
“I talked to Mel, the fearless leader of the Reapers. I told her you're interested in joining, and she is pumped. We have tryouts coming up, but she said to come to the rink tomorrow, and she can show you some pointers. Just us skating, low pressure.”
I snorted. “Low pressure? When I saw you guys skate, someone did a jump that would’ve made a stuntwoman cry.”
“She broke her ankle,” Belle said cheerfully.
“What?!” I exclaimed, looking up at her, only to find her grinning.
“I’m only teasing.”
“That’s . . . not reassuring.”
Belle shrugged. “If you’re still interested in being a reaper, it would be a great start. You should come. No pressure. Just hang out. Meet people.”
I took a deep breath. It was time to try new things. “Okay, I’ll —”
Before I could respond, the front door opened.
My mother stepped in, keys jingling, posture already stiff like she was bracing for impact. Her eyes landed on Belle, then flicked to me.
Her expression tightened.
“Eleanor,” she said coolly. “May I speak to you. Alone.”
Belle’s brows shot up.
“Oh boy,” she murmured under her breath. “Mom Voice activated.”
I exhaled, bracing myself. “We’re just talking, Mom.”
“Yes,” she said, lips pinched. “And I’d like to speak to you privately. Now.”
Belle hopped off the stool. “I can go—”
“No,” my mother said sharply. “I need to speak to my daughter.”
I set down my sandwich, heart sinking. Whatever this was . . . it wasn’t going to be good.
“Okay,” I said quietly, wiping my hands on a towel. “Let’s talk.”
My mother stepped aside, waiting for me to follow her into the living room like a criminal being escorted to sentencing.
I shot Belle a weak smile.
Text me if you need bail, she mouthed.
I almost laughed. Almost.
Then I followed my mother.
And the kitchen suddenly felt very far away.
My mother didn’t sit. Of course, she didn’t.
She stood near the fireplace, hands folded neatly in front of her, like she was preparing to deliver a eulogy. Or a verdict. The same posture I remembered from every time I’d “embarrassed” the family growing up, too loud, too weird, too independent, too me.
Just seeing her like that filled me with a sense of impending doom.
She didn’t waste time.
“Eleanor,” she began, voice clipped and cool, “this . . . behavior lately is becoming increasingly concerning.”
I swallowed. “What behavior?”
“Don’t play coy with me.”
Her lips barely moved, her tone the perfect mixture of pity and disdain. “I come home to find you roller skating. In the driveway. Like a teenager. And that woman”—she flicked a hand toward the kitchen—“is encouraging you into . . . goodness knows what.”
I felt my spine stiffen. “Belle is my friend.”
“She is not your friend, Eleanor. She is a hired employee.” Her voice sharpened. “And someone like that does not understand the standards required of a Tremaine.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “Mom—”
“No.” She cut me off. “No, I have been patient. I have allowed you to live here. I have done my best to provide stability for you and Ava during . . . this difficult transition.” Her eyes softened with false sympathy. “But you are an adult. A mother. And it is time you began behaving like one.”
The words landed like cold stones in my stomach.
Growing up, she’d said them so many times. Behave, Eleanor. Don’t embarrass us. Don’t be dramatic. Don’t be difficult.
And every time, it pushed me smaller. Quieter. Easier to manage.
I thought I’d grown past that.
Apparently not.
She stepped closer, lowering her voice like she was confiding something for my own good. “You need to think about Ava’s future. And yours.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Which means finding a suitable husband. Someone stable. Someone with standing. Someone who can provide for you both.”
Her meaning was clear.
Not Alex.
My chest tightened painfully.
“Mom,” I whispered, “I’m not looking for someone to provide for us. I’m looking for someone who’s kind. Someone who understands Ava. Someone who . . . makes us happy.”
She scoffed softly. “Happy?”
Like it was an unserious word. A childish one.
“Happiness is fleeting. Stability is what matters.”
I felt myself shrinking under the weight of her tone like I was sixteen again. In trouble again. Never enough, yet somehow too much.
Her eyes softened in that way that made everything worse.
“I know you’re still emotional from the past year,” she said gently. “But you cannot let grief cloud your judgment. It’s time to grow up and make choices that are best for your daughter.”
Best for Ava. As if I didn’t spend every waking second doing exactly that.
Something inside me twisted, anger and shame, and that old, familiar helplessness.
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Not the truth. Not the fight. Not the fire I thought I’d finally found again.
Just silence.
My mother took it as agreement, or surrender, or both.
“Good,” she said, smoothing down her blouse. “I’m glad we understand one another.”
She turned toward the stairs.
“I’ll be upstairs,” she added.
And she walked away.
I stood alone in the quiet living room, hands shaking, heart aching, fury simmering underneath years of conditioning.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to cry.
I wanted to run after her and say she was wrong, that I was grown, that I didn’t need saving, that Alex was . . . good.
But I didn’t move.
I stayed frozen in place, caught between who she’d always told me I was and who I was trying to become.
Just like I had been as a stifled teenager.
Just like I promised myself I’d never feel again.
Feeling thoroughly criticized, I couldn’t even go back into the kitchen to say goodbye to Belle.
I just grabbed my sandwich and headed to my van to go pick up Ava from school.
Maybe my mom was right, maybe this was silly. Maybe I did need to take my life and Ava's life more seriously.
Yet, as I made my way to the school, my mind drifted to Ethan as it still so often did. What would he tell me?
What had he told me after so many fights like that?
He's told me that I deserved to shine, not just be polished. Shining came from within. I needed to find that light again.
And that's just what I was doing.