Chapter 18 Eleanor
ELEANOR
Afew days later, I sat in the van with both hands wrapped around the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth.
I’d known this was where the Grimm Reapers practiced. Belle had mentioned it in passing, usually right before adding something like, “We bleed glitter and adrenaline, babe.” But knowing that and actually pulling up to the building were two very different things.
Alex’s car was already parked two spaces over.
Of course it was. He was punctual, dependable, disgustingly sweet, and definitely the type of man who probably arrived early to make sure he got the best table at parent-teacher conferences.
I should go in.
I should open the door, stand up, breathe, and walk through those double doors.
Instead, I sat there like a terrified middle schooler waiting outside a slumber party she wasn’t sure she’d been invited to.
What if I made a fool of myself?
What if I fell flat on my face and Alex tried to be nice about it?
What if my mother’s voice was right and this wasn’t something “grown women” did?
I squeezed my eyes shut.
No.
No more letting her voice be louder than mine.
I took one deep breath, bag from the passenger seat, and forced myself out of the van.
The second I pushed open the rink doors, a wave of sensory nostalgia hit me so hard I almost stumbled.
The smell of popcorn and industrial floor polish.
The low thrum of early-2000s pop playing over ancient speakers.
Colored lights blinked over the glossy wooden floor.
The sharp, metallic whirr of wheels carving arcs in the rink.
I was nine years old again, holding Ethan’s hand as we skated in circles in this very roller rink. I was sixteen again, sneaking in with friends, cheeks flushed and heart wild from freedom. I was every version of myself I’d buried under adulthood and grief.
I swallowed hard.
“Eleanor?”
That voice, warm, bright, careful, slid straight through my nerves.
I turned.
And there he was.
Alex stood by the edge of the rink, skates already in hand, hair pushed back, eyes softening the moment he saw me. He smiled, it was a real one, one he didn’t give the world, just the people he trusted.
“Hey,” he said, walking toward me. “You made it. It’s not the park, but it’s much better for skating.”
Something in my chest fluttered painfully and beautifully all at once.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “I made it.”
He looked relieved. Actually relieved. Like he’d been hoping I would show up, not out of politeness or obligation, but because he wanted to see me.
“Ready?” he asked gently.
“No,” I admitted. “But also yes. But mostly no.”
He laughed with a warm and encouraging chuckle as he held out his hand.
“Then let’s start slow,” he said. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
I barely had time to take another breath before someone swooped toward me in a blur of pink wheels and sunshine energy.
“YOU must be Eleanor!”
I startled so hard I nearly dropped my skates.
She skated to a perfect stop in front of me, no wobble, no hesitation, just pure, effortless control.
Her pink roller skates gleamed, and her brown legs were showcased by the tiniest pair of athletic shorts I’d ever seen.
Her knee-high socks had pink sparkles embroidered into the stripes.
And her hair done in two perfect Afro puffs, each wrapped in sparkly pink scrunchies.
“Uh, yes,” I said, awed. “I’m Eleanor.”
She grinned, warm and radiant. “I’m Mel! Alex and Belle told me you'd be here today.”
Of course, he had.
“Welcome to Roll-O-Rama, home of the Grimm Reapers, home of family chaos, and home of the absolute best chili in the tri-county area. Come on.” She tugged gently on my wrist. “Let’s get you geared up.”
I followed, helplessly swept up in her orbit as she guided me toward the skate rental counter. She moved like she was dancing, hips swaying, arms loose, wheels whispering across the floor.
“Alex said you’re brand-new to skating,” she said, rummaging behind the counter with practiced ease.
“That obvious?” I muttered.
Behind me, Alex laughed softly. “You’re going to do great.”
I shot him a look over my shoulder, the warm, fluttering kind I didn’t know I had in me anymore.
Mel reemerged holding a pair of skates that looked . . . intimidatingly heavy.
“These should fit.” She plopped them onto the counter and bent to examine my socks. “Good thickness. No blisters today.”
She said it so solemnly, I almost snorted.
Then she helped me lace the skates, her fingers flying fast and confident, and stood back with a flourish.
“Alright.” She clapped once. “Let’s see you stand.”
I swallowed. Hard.
Alex stepped closer, one hand hovering near my elbow like a safety net.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
That helped more than I wanted to admit.
I pushed myself up and immediately felt gravity threaten mutiny.
“Whoa—whoa—no, no, I’ve got it,” I insisted as my knees wobbled like newborn deer.
Mel slid forward, stopping inches from me. “Okay, first rule of skating: don’t fight your knees.”
“That feels like bad advice,” I said through a tight smile.
“It works.”
Then she pushed off, gliding backward, her wheels humming over the rink floor as if she were weightless.
“Watch and learn,” she called.
And then she was moving. No, she was floating.
Smooth turns, swaying hips, arms fluid in the air. She rolled into a lazy spin, one foot crossing in front of the other, then danced her way through a curve like she was part of the music itself. Her socks sparkled. Her skates gleamed. She was pure motion.
I stood there, barely able to keep my feet under me, jaw somewhere near the floor.
“She’s really good,” I breathed.
“She’s incredible,” Alex said, smiling. “She grew up in this place. Literally. Her uncle owned it before she did.”
Mel skated back toward us in a stunning one-foot glide and stopped with no more than a whisper of friction.
She took a little bow. “Ta-da.”
I clapped awkwardly. “That was . . . amazing.”
She winked. “Give me a few practices, and I’ll have you doing it too.”
“Oh God.”
“You’ll be fine,” she said, patting my arm. “And you’ve got Prince Charming here to catch you if you fall.”
Alex choked. I turned bright red.
“Mel,” he hissed, mortified.
She just grinned. “I call ’em like I see ’em.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks, but before I could respond, Alex stepped a little closer, offering his hands.
“Ready?” he asked softly.
I nodded, my breath catching.
He steadied me as I pushed off, his palms warm around mine, his voice gentle in my ear.
“One step at a time. I’m right here.”
Once I got moving, something inside me, something old and buried and stubborn, snapped awake.
It wasn’t graceful, not at first.
I clung to Alex’s hands.
I wobbled.
I swore quietly under my breath when one skate tried to zoom ahead without the other.
But with every shaky glide, every steadying touch from Alex, every gentle “You’ve got it,” something shifted.
My body remembered this.
My legs remembered it.
I remembered it.
“Try letting go,” Alex said after a few minutes, voice warm and encouraging.
I swallowed. “Letting go sounds like a trap. Letting go sounds like falling.”
He chuckled. “Not if you trust yourself.”
I took a breath and let go.
At first, it felt like jumping off a cliff.
My knees wobbled dangerously. My arms flailed. I did a little panic-wiggle that probably looked like interpretive dance.
But then, my wheels caught rhythm. My body found balance. And suddenly, I was gliding.
Actually gliding.
The breeze from my own movement lifted my hair, cool and soft against my neck. The lights from the rink shimmered on the floor as I rolled faster, around the curve, through the glowing tunnel of colored bulbs overhead.
I wasn’t just skating.
I was flying.
I let out a laugh, bright, unrestrained, alive, and it echoed through the cavernous rink like music.
When I coasted into the half-wall, breathless and flushed and utterly exhilarated, Alex was there waiting. And the look on his face was pure awe and warm pride.
“You,” he said, voice low, “are unbelievable.”
My heart stuttered. “Alex—”
“No, really,” he said, stepping closer, eyes shining. “Look at you. You’re incredible.”
I felt myself glowing. Literally glowing. Heat simmered under my skin, not from skating, but from him, from being seen in a way I’d almost forgotten was possible.
Before I could catch my breath, Mel rolled up beside us, smirking like she’d been waiting for her cue.
“Well, well, well,” she purred. “Look who’s found her groove.”
I laughed, still panting. “I don’t know if I’d call it a groove.”
“I would,” Alex murmured.
That didn’t help my blushing situation.
“All right,” Mel said dramatically, hands on her hips. “Time for phase two.”
“Phase two?” I squeaked.
She wiggled her eyebrows. “Backwards skating.”
“Oh God.”
She demonstrated effortlessly rolling backward as smoothly as breathing, knees soft, hips loose, arms trailing in easy balance. She made it look like the simplest motion on earth.
“Start by making a C with your skates.”
I tried.
I failed. Immediately.
After a few minutes of me nearly reenacting every wipeout moment from a ‘90s skate video, Mel lifted her hands in surrender.
“Okay,” she declared, “you need a break, and I need to go check the chili. Don’t die.”
Her eyes flicked to Alex.
“And Prince Charming? Don’t let her die.”
Alex grinned. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
Mel pushed off toward the back, gliding like her skates were extensions of her body.
Then, because she was Mel, she hit a switch on the wall as she disappeared.
Instantly, the rink changed.
The overhead lights dimmed. The disco ball flickered to life in a wash of silver sparkles. Soft pink and purple lights drifted lazily across the floor. And a warm, poppy love ballad filled the air.
I stared.
“Really?” I muttered.
Alex laughed softly. “Subtlety isn’t one of Mel’s strong suits.”
I turned toward him, ready to tease, but the words died in my throat.
Because in the shifting disco lights, in that soft glow, with music swirling around us, Alex looked at me like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or kiss me.
And surprisingly, I wanted to kiss him, and the feeling in my belly told me I might want more.
The disco ball spun overhead, scattering little constellations across the hardwood rink. The lights softened everything in the room, my breath, the sharp edges inside my chest.
Alex held out his hand in invitation.
“You want to try another lap?” he asked, voice low and warm.
Still, I nodded.
He took my hand, gentle and warm fingers sliding against mine as he guided me back onto the floor. My heart thudded so loudly I was shocked he couldn’t hear it.
We skated slowly at first, wheels humming beneath us, our hands brushing together in a way that felt accidental and purposeful at the same time.
I could feel him watching me out of the corner of his eye.
Not judging.
Not assessing.
Just . . . seeing me.
We rounded a curve, the music turning sweeter, and my balance faltered.
Just a little.
My skate moved out from underneath me and my body lurched forward.
“Oh—!”
His arms were around me before I even understood I was falling.
Strong. Warm. Steady.
One hand firm around my waist. The other bracing my upper back. My body pressed against his, breath locked tight in my throat.
For one suspended, electric moment, we just stood there, wrapped up in each other, the world shrinking to the warmth of his chest and the gentle pressure of his hands.
My palms were flat against his chest. His heartbeat thudded under my fingertips. I tilted my head up.
He was already looking down at me.
And in the pink and purple glow of the rink lights, his eyes weren’t just kind.
They were . . . something more.
Something that made my knees feel unsteady in a way that had nothing to do with skates.
He didn’t move closer. He didn’t assume. But there was a softness in his gaze, an ache, almost, that said he wanted to.
For one dizzy second, I wanted to kiss him.
I wanted it badly enough that the thought burned through me.
I swallowed hard and stepped back, breaking the moment.
“I—um—” My voice cracked. Perfect. “I think I need . . . a drink. Water. Something.”
Concern flared in his eyes, immediate and gentle. “Hey. Yeah. Of course. Are you okay?”
I nodded quickly, even if part of me wasn’t.
“I’m fine,” I said, forcing a shaky smile. “Just . . . thirsty. And maybe overheated. And also maybe dying a little.”
He laughed softly, and God, the kindness in it made my chest ache.
“Let’s get you some water,” he said. “Come on. I’ve got you.”
He rested a hand lightly on the small of my back, nothing presumptuous, nothing forceful, just a quiet anchor.
As he guided me toward the benches, my heartbeat thudded wildly.
And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if running from the feeling was protection . . . or just another way of holding myself back.