Chapter 28 Eleanor
ELEANOR
Tech week was chaos. Beautiful, loud, joyful chaos.
Costume racks lined one side of the backstage hallway, the prop tables on the other, and kids swirled between them like a very excited, very off-key tornado. Fabric scraps, safety pins, glitter, lost shoes. It was a symphony of barely controlled madness.
And somewhere in the middle of it all . . . was Alex.
Unfortunately for my ability to concentrate, his prop table was directly across from my rolling costume rack.
We hadn’t planned it that way. But now that we were stuck staring at each other every time we looked up?
Yeah. It was a problem.
A delicious, ridiculous problem.
I knelt next to one of the little actors, hemming her dress while she explained earnestly why penguins should absolutely get to wear tiaras. Across the way, I could hear Alex explaining to another kid why we do not juggle the papier-mache “glass slippers,” even if you “totally could.”
Every time I glanced up, he was already looking at me. Every. Single. Time.
Not in a creepy way. In a way that made something warm unfurl low in my belly.
He’d smile, and I’d try to pretend like my face didn’t instantly heat up.
We were trying to keep things subtle. Invisible to the room full of excitable children and eagle-eyed volunteers.
But we were doing a terrible job.
I passed out a freshly adjusted vest to a kid who immediately ran off toward the stage. When I straightened, I found Alex walking toward me with a prop crown in one hand and a smug little smile on his face.
“You lost?” I asked softly.
“No,” he whispered back. “Just delivering royalty.”
He handed the crown to a kid, gave them a gentle pat on the shoulder, and then, when no one was looking, his fingers brushed mine.
Just a graze. Barely a second. But it short-circuited my brain all the same.
I turned back to my rack, pretending desperately that I was a professional adult who had not just been undone by a man touching me in public like he had a secret. A secret that felt sweet and bright and intoxicating.
I pinned a label onto a costume bag, humming to myself to stay grounded. It lasted maybe eight seconds before I felt his gaze again. I looked up. He was leaning on his prop table, arms folded, eyes warm like he was memorizing me.
The newness of it all made me feel . . . light and excited.
It was like I was nineteen again, sneaking into Columbus for a concert with Ethan, before life had been heavy and complicated.
Only this? This felt different. This felt like something blooming.
Alex shot me a wink that should honestly be illegal.
I bit my lip to hide the way I smiled back. Keeping this quiet was going to be impossible. And god . . . I didn’t even care.
By the time rehearsal wrapped for the night, backstage looked like someone had fired a ticker tape cannon into a thrift store.
Kids ran back and forth, swapping street clothes for costumes, volunteers hunted for missing shoes, and I was trying to gather half-zipped garment bags without losing track of which vest belonged to which kid.
Alex found me in the swirl of it all. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t say anything flirty out loud. But when he leaned one shoulder against the wall near my costume rack and smiled, slow and warm, I felt it like a hand sliding down my spine.
“You survived?” he murmured, eyes sweeping the chaos.
“Barely,” I whispered back. “I’ve sewn seventeen buttons tonight. I think I’m legally considered a sweatshop now.”
He laughed quietly, and the sound curled right around my ribs.
I tugged a hanger straight, trying to look busy and not like I was melting. “How’s the prop table?”
“Surprisingly intact,” he said. “Only one kid tried to juggle a slipper.”
“Progress.”
“Oh, and the fake pumpkin carriage fell off the stage.”
“Less progress.”
His grin widened. “Your braid came loose.”
I froze. “What?”
He reached out, not touching me, but close enough that I felt the heat of his fingers, racing a gentle path through the air near my cheek.
“It’s cute,” he said softly.
I had absolutely no business blushing this hard at a children’s theater.
Before I could say something equally soft or stupid or both, a door slammed open.
“EVERYONE!” Leo’s voice rang through the hallway like the battle cry of a tiny, enthusiastic general. He came bursting in, now in shorts and a superhero T-shirt, hair wild. “WE’RE GOING TO TWIST TREAT FOR ICE CREAM!”
Chaos erupted instantly. The kids screamed, volunteers took fortifying breaths, and someone tripped over a stray prop mushroom.
Ava trailed in behind him, headphones on, small and quiet and serious in a way that was very her.
“Do you want to go?” I asked, brushing a hand over her shoulder gently.
She shook her head. “No. I want to go home. It’s . . . too loud.”
I nodded immediately. “Okay, baby. Home it is.”
Sometimes I envied her clarity, her ability to listen to herself without guilt.
It was omething I was still learning how to do.
I caught Alex’s eye across the hall. He gave me a little nod and mouthed, Text me when you get home?
I nodded.
We slipped out before the excitement could rope us back in.
The moment we walked inside the house, my mother materialized out of thin air like she’d been waiting behind a piece of furniture.
“Well, how was rehearsal?”
Ava said a small hello as she slipped her shoes off.
"Those need to go up to your room," my mother reminded her. "How was rehearsal?" she asked again.
"Ava, I'm talking to you—"
Ava turned away from her mid-sentence and headed silently up the stairs.
“Ava,” my mother barked, “Come back down here!”
Ava didn’t answer. She didn’t even look back. Just walked down the hall and shut her bedroom door with a soft but decisive click.
My mother made an exasperated noise, something sharp and disapproving. “That girl . . . ”
“Mom,” I said softly, “she was overwhelmed. She needed quiet. That’s all.”
My mother sniffed and crossed her arms. “She needs discipline.”
I closed my eyes for one long second, steadied myself, and headed upstairs. She was a broken record when it came to Ava, and I was done listening.
I closed Ava’s door softly after checking on her. She was already curled under her blanket, headphones back on, completely at peace now that the world was quiet again.
I walked to my room, exhaled slowly, and texted Alex.
Eleanor: Home. How was ice cream?
A moment later, my phone buzzed. He sent a picture.
Leo was knocked out cold in the back seat of Alex’s Prius, mouth slightly open, a melted streak of strawberry ice cream down his shirt like an abstract painting. A sprinkle was stuck to his cheek.
I laughed—really laughed—and felt something in my chest loosen.
Eleanor: That’s the most relatable picture I’ve ever seen.
Eleanor: I wish I were there instead of in this stuffy old house.
I hesitated after sending it. It was honest. Maybe too honest.
The house was so quiet I could hear the old grandfather clock downstairs ticking. I glanced at my laptop on the desk. There was still time to get things done, not chores, not my mother’s expectations. My work.
I pulled out my sketchpad and markers and settled cross-legged onto the rug. Only one page left.
My phone buzzed again.
Alex: Everyone is significantly less sticky and in bed. What are you up to?
I snapped a picture of the illustration I was finishing. It was the little derby girl, all fire and confidence, racing forward with her hair trailing behind her.
Eleanor: Finishing the last page. Just one more.
I barely had time to set my phone down before it rang.
Alex.
My pulse jumped. I answered immediately. “Hey.”
He let out a low breath, warm even through the phone. “I just . . . needed to hear your voice before bed.”
My stomach fluttered, and I lay back against the pillows, smiling up at the ceiling like a lovesick teenager. “Oh.”
“And,” he continued, “I needed to tell you how unbelievably good your art is.”
My cheeks warmed. “Stop.”
“No,” he laughed softly. “Absolutely not. You’re ridiculously talented, Eleanor. Like, stupidly talented.”
I covered my face with my hand. “Okay, now you’re just being nice.”
“I’m being honest,” he said, voice softening. “And I’m proud of you. You’re finishing a book and doing all of this while raising Ava, rehearsals, dealing with everything at home . . . you’re kind of incredible.”
No one had said that to me in a long time. Not like that.
I swallowed. “My agent’s actually been shopping it around. There’s some interest. I’m hoping finishing the draft will . . . I don’t know. Help us get out of here.”
He went quiet for a moment, not heavy, just thoughtful. “You deserve a place that feels good. A place that feels like yours.”
His voice wrapped around me like a blanket. Gentle. Warm. True.
“I’d like to be closer to you,” I admitted softly, the truth slipping out before I could second-guess it. “You just . . . make everything feel better.”
I heard his breath catch.
Then, quiet and full of something bright:
“I feel the same.”
The words settled in my chest like an anchor and a promise all at once.
After we said our goodbyes, I settled back down at my desk. Before I went to bed, I emailed my agent the final pages. I was ready for the next steps. Ready to get this story out. Ready for opening night. Ready to try out for the Grimm Reapers. And more than ready for what was happening with Alex.