10. Not a Soloist #2
Scarlett looks at me, then back at Mom, smoothing the skirt of her dress. “Eleanor’s just been having a rough time, Mom. She won’t ruin Edward’s night.” She releases a short, awkward laugh, hoping to lighten the mood.
I stare out the window, jaw clenched, repeating in my mind: just get through the night. You can do this.
“Well, let’s not forget why Eleanor is having a rough time, sweetie,” Mom adds, her voice cool as ice.
I turn toward her reflection in the rearview mirror, rage simmering beneath my skin. “Then give me the pleasure of explaining. I didn’t sleep with Soren for more money or a better position. Sorry I have morals.”
She exhales sharply through her nose. “Well, your so-called morals have ruined your reputation. Don’t forget that I work with these dancers, and I hear the same rumors the rest of these companies do.
No wonder you still haven’t found another company to take you.
What have I always said about stray dogs, you foolish girl? ”
Scarlett shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Can we not do this tonight? Please?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard. If I say what I’m thinking, it’ll only make things worse. The silence that settles over us isn’t quiet. It’s screaming with everything we aren’t saying.
Perfectly trimmed trees and immaculate houses blur past the window. My palms are slick with sweat. I desperately hope that we aren’t going where I think we are.
I break the silence. “Are we… in Wexley?”
Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.
“Yes,” Mom answers without missing a beat. “Edward wanted a quiet night in, so we’re having dinner at my house.”
I sink back into my seat, eyes fixed on the window, my fingers curled, damp with nerves.
Mom and Scarlett shift easily into a conversation about what Mae—Mom’s personal chef—is making for dinner. Their voices blur into background noise as the houses grow larger, more extravagant. The bigger they loom, the smaller I feel.
It’s rare that Mom invites me here. I’ve only been twice, and both visits ended poorly. If it wasn’t for Edward, I doubt I’d be welcome at all.
When she became a private ballet coach for the elite, I got pushed aside since I couldn’t afford her.
She made it clear I wasn’t charity; I’d have to pay like everyone else.
And she certainly wasn’t thrilled when I made it known I didn’t want her as a coach anyway.
Since then, her house has been off-limits.
Once the money started rolling in, she bought a place in Wexley, one of the wealthiest cities in New York, and aligned herself with the snobs. Naturally, Edward and Scarlett fit right in. Polished, successful, presentable, they were the ones who belonged here. Not me.
Mom never misses a chance to show them off. It’s her favorite performance. Look at me! My husband may have walked out, but look at my children. Look how successful they are. Just like me!
But I never make the cut for that performance. I’m not one of her golden trophies. I’m more of an inconvenience. Something she’d rather keep behind closed doors.
Being here sets my nerves on edge. I feel like a rabbit in a den of wolves. And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, I’m not leaving that house tonight without getting torn apart.
The car slows as we turn onto a cobblestone driveway, each bump rumbling beneath the car.
Mom’s house—if you can even call it that—looms in front of us, tall and polished like something out of a luxury magazine.
The sprawling white brick exterior gleams under the golden hour sun, its massive black shutters pristine, and its porch pillars standing like guards at the gate.
The lawn is perfectly trimmed, not a single blade of grass out of place, and rose bushes line the walkway in carefully manicured rows, their blooms full and blood-red.
It’s the kind of place that screams perfection. It’s controlled, curated, and cold. Just like Mom.
Scarlett lets out a small hum of approval. “Emilio must’ve done the garden again. It looks beautiful.”
I stay quiet. My mother’s house has always been beautiful, but never warm. It’s a house that isn’t made to be lived in, but to be admired. And from the second we pull in, I know this house isn’t just a home to her. It’s her stage. And I’m cast in her production.
The car doesn’t come to a full stop before Mom unbuckles her seatbelt.
“Try not to slam the door,” she says over her shoulder as she steps out.
Scarlett follows, smoothing down her dress again like we’re about to walk into a photoshoot instead of dinner.
I stay put for a second longer, staring up at the house. My stomach churns. I feel like a kid again. Small, invisible, and already in trouble for something I haven’t done yet.
With a breath, I open the door gently, just as instructed, and step out. The scent of roses ambushes my senses. It’s strong, sweet, and almost nauseating. I trail behind them up the cobblestone path, every sharp click of my heels splintering the silence.
Scarlett is already at the front porch, laughing at something Mom says. Probably some inside joke I’m not privy to. She glances back at me, her smile fading momentarily before she looks away. Maybe I should’ve been nicer to her in the car.
I climb the last step and stand beside them. Mom turns the handle and pushes the grand double doors open with ease.
As the doors swing inward, cool air sweeps out, carrying with it the scent of lemon polish, lavender, and roasting meat. Inside, the marble floor gleams, and soft jazz plays from somewhere in the back.
I take one last look at the garden, the roses standing tall in their perfect lines, before stepping over the threshold.
“Scarlett,” Edward grins as he crosses the marble floors, arms already open. He pulls her into a tight hug and spins her in a circle like she’s still ten years old and not a fully grown woman in heels.
I was too preoccupied with the rose bushes to see his car parked outside.
She snickers, clinging to his shoulders. “Put me down before I break an ankle.”
He sets her gently on her feet with a warm chuckle and a kiss to her cheek. “You look amazing.”
“If busy and exhausted is what you call amazing.” She giggles. “But thank you.”
Edward shifts to me, his smile softening just a little. “Eleanor.”
“Edward,” I say, stepping forward as he pulls me in for an awkward side hug. It’s shorter and less dramatic than the one he gives Scarlett. I stiffen slightly. His cologne smells expensive, the kind that lingers too long, like his expectations.
“You look good,” he says, pulling back to look at me. “The dress suits you.”
“Thanks. It was all I had.”
He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t ask. He never does when it comes to things that actually matter. But it’s enough to capture Moms attention.
Her eyes scan me, looking up and down, analyzing every inch of my physique. “You actually do look good Eleanor.” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. “The bottom is a bit tight, but you don’t look horrible.” That’s probably the best compliment I’ve ever gotten out of her.
Mom, Edward, and Scarlett stare at me, and my cheeks grow hot. “Thanks. I’ve lost some weight.”
Scarlett studies me, her expression softening.
Mom dips her chin and walks past us. “Mae’s finishing dinner,” she calls over her shoulder, already disappearing into the sitting room. “Eleanor, you can help her set the table.”
Of course I can.
I follow the smell of roasted vegetables and rosemary chicken into the kitchen. The space is just as I remember: sleek, sterile, and expensive beyond belief. There are quartz countertops, gold-accented fixtures, and not a fingerprint in sight. It belongs inside of a magazine, not a home.
Mae stands at the island, plating roasted carrots and wiping away any imperfections on the plate. She wears a crisp white apron, and her silver hair is twisted into a neat bun. Her eyes lift when I enter, and her face softens with the kind of warmth I never get from my own mother.
“Eleanor,” she greets kindly. “It’s been a while.”
“It has,” I say, offering a small smile. “You look great, Mae.”
She waves me off. “No flattery here, my girl. Can you grab the silverware from the side drawer?”
I move to the drawer and grab forks, spoons, and knives.
“How have you been?” she asks lightly as she begins arranging the chicken on a porcelain platter.
I try to hide a wince. “Just keeping busy… Working at Forma and auditioning when I can.” I hope that’s enough information to move her attention elsewhere.
She knew the Eleanor who danced for the Metropolitan.
The girl who had purpose, direction, and certainty.
Not this version. Not the girl sitting in the back seat, pretending she’s still moving forward when most days she’s just trying not to fall apart.
I don’t want to say that I’m far more busy unraveling than anything else.
She nods, but I can tell she knows I’m withholding information. Even though I’ve only met her twice, Mae has an eye for detail. Thankfully she doesn’t push. This night is already weird enough.
I lay out the silverware in neat bundles. Forks, knives, spoons. Left, right, top. I can practically hear Mom in my head correcting the placement, even though it’s perfect.
“You’ve lost weight,” Mae voices softly after a beat.
My hands freeze as my eyes find hers. “Yeah.”
She doesn’t say it like Mom does. Though there’s no judgment in her voice, there’s also no praise. Just observation. Her eyes are kind, but I still feel like she sees through me.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she announces, turning back to the oven. “Why don’t you light the candles on the table?”
I nod, grab a lighter from the drawer, and make my way into the dining room.
The long oak table is already set with placemats and wine glasses.
Everything looks perfect. Just like the people who will sit around it.
Except for me. I don’t fit into their version of ‘family’.
There’s nothing I can do to earn a seat here.