25. No Leg to Stand On
No Leg to Stand On
Eleanor
The sound of beeping and raised voices drag me out of the heaviest sleep I’ve ever known.
My eyes are glued shut, my limbs are weighed down like cement. My mouth is dry as sandpaper, and my head throbs with every faint beat of the monitor beside me. Then pain blooms in my ankle, dragging a flood of memories along with it.
The fall.
The snap.
Nik.
The ambulance.
Surgery.
I lift a sluggish hand to my face, trying to rub away the fog the hospital drugs leave behind.
The voices outside my door grow louder, sharp enough to cut through my haze. I know that voice.
“You will let me in this instant!” My mother yells furiously.
“Ma’am, she just got out of surgery. She may not even be awake yet—” a nurse tries to explain.
“Surgery?” My mother’s screech rattles through me. “What do you mean, surgery?”
“I’m not at liberty to share her medical details. Please, if you could wait in the—”
The nurse’s words are cut off by the scrape of shoes and a hissed curse. The door slams open, ricocheting against the wall.
“Oh look.” My mother gestures toward me before turning to the nurse, her tone dripping with disdain. “She’s awake.”
The poor nurse’s eyes dart between us. “Really, ma’am, you should wait in the—”
“You will leave me with my daughter.” My mother’s voice snaps like a whip as she stalks into the room. “Now, move along.”
The nurse hesitates, looking to me for backup.
I force a nod, my voice rasping. “I—It’s f—fine.”
She gives me a pitying glance before slipping out, the door clicking shut behind her.
My mother stays where she is, arms crossed, her blouse crisp, pencil skirt immaculate, stilettos clicking against the linoleum floor. She doesn’t look like a mom at all, she looks like a prosecutor ready to eviscerate me on the stand.
“You have so much explaining to do.”
My throat burns with dryness, and I scan the table for a water cup. She notices before I can ask, snatching the plastic cup and shoving it at me. Water sloshes over the rim onto my gown, icy against my skin.
I gulp greedily, relief spreading through my raw throat, before setting it down with trembling fingers. I force myself to meet her eyes. “Explaining what? You saw what happened.”
Her fists curl tight at her sides. “I saw,” she says through clenched teeth.
“But I have no idea what happened. I tried to visit you in the dressing room, but apparently you’ve acquired some kind of bodyguard.
Then I tried calling, but you never answer your phone—so why even have one?
” Her voice climbs higher, sharp enough to cut.
“And now I find out you’ve had surgery? You’re going to explain everything.
Now.” Her tone is iron, leaving no cracks for escape.
I draw in a shaky breath, trying to push words through the fog in my head. “Achilles rupture. Third degree. They had to operate.” My brain throbs with each syllable, the weight of her presence pressing down harder than the pain in my ankle.
I wish I never let her in.
“Unbelieveable.” She shakes her head slowly, stilettos clicking as she steps closer to my bed. “How stupid do you have to be to let something like this happen?”
“Excuse me?” My voice cracks, smaller than I want.
Of all the times she could have chosen to see me—the moments I needed her most—she chooses now to call me stupid?
Heat builds in my chest, a tangle of anger, sadness, and a desperate, aching longing.
I want a mother. Someone to take my hand, to say I’ll be okay.
But that isn’t why she’s here. She didn’t come to comfort me. She’s come to destroy me.
“You heard me.” Her words slice through me. “What little I saw of your performance was garbage. Your épaulement was grotesque. Your bourrées were sloppy. Your pliés and cambrés were completely uncontrolled. I couldn’t tell if you were supposed to be a swan or a dying bird.”
Tears burn hot in my eyes, blurring the fluorescent lights above me. I blink furiously, swallowing them back. I know better than to let her see me cry. Tears are just another flaw for her to dissect.
“And then—” she leans forward, lips curling, “to fall on a simple fouetté.” She scoffs. “Humiliating. I felt ashamed to call you my daughter at that moment. But not as ashamed as I feel now knowing you’ve ended your career with a surgery. You weak, foolish girl.”
I gulp, trying to gather myself through the fog of lingering medicine. “The doctor recommended it. There was no other choice. I can still dance after physical therapy.”
She straightens. “Physical therapy?” Her nostrils flare. “Have I taught you nothing about strength? About control? Or did you toss it all aside when you came to this pathetic company?”
“It isn’t a pathetic company,” I say, my voice cracking. “I’ve made friends, built a life—”
She laughs bitterly. “Friends? A life? Eleanor, that’s not why you came here. You were meant to survive a season and then move on.” Her smile turns cruel and predatory. “Or did you imagine you had a chance with that coach of yours?”
My blood turns to ice. “Wh—what?”
Her grin widens, venom dripping from every word. “You think coaches protect their dancers? Let me answer that for you: no. You got distracted… by a man who can’t advance you, can’t make you more than a footnote. A complete waste of focus.”
“Nik isn’t like that,” I whisper, instantly regretting the words.
She barks a harsh laugh. “You really are stupid, Eleanor.” She strides toward the door.
“I’m done with this foolishness. When you get a grip and regain your focus, you may contact me.
But if you’re going to sit here and play the delusional child…
I want nothing to do with it. Destroy your life all on your own.
I want no part of it.” She storms out, leaving every bit of hurt behind.
With the click of the door, the sob I’ve been holding barrels out of me. All my life, I’ve wanted to make her proud, like Edward and Scarlett. To be just as successful and to finally earn her love. But now… I’ll never earn it. I’m as insignificant as the gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
And yet, beneath the pain, a strange sense of relief unfurls.
No longer do I need to be the girl who tries to please her.
No longer do I need to follow every rule, only to break them unintentionally.
No longer do I need to bottle up who I am—who I want to be—even if I still don’t fully know.
No longer do I need to judge myself harshly, trying to fit the perfect version she demands.
Now… I can figure out who I am.
And as daunting as that feels, it’s like a ton of bricks lifting from my shoulders.
It’s been one week since the fall.
One week since Nik confessed his love.
One week since the surgery.
One week since my mother rid me from her life.
One week of being home.
Seven days of lying in this bed, my leg confined in a splint, the walking boot sitting across the room like some kind of cruel joke.
Bored doesn’t even begin to cover it.
My phone buzzed relentlessly that first day, a steady stream of messages pouring in wishing me well, and praying for my healing. Gabriel and Dillon checked in almost every morning. Even Kasper and Russell sent emails, their tone more formal but still kind.
But Lily… she’s only texted me once.
And Nik… Not a single word.
His silence hurts more than the surgery scar stitched into my ankle.
I’ve thought about texting him first, wanting to pour out my heart, but it doesn’t feel right.
Everything I need to say has to be said in person.
Besides, my life is still a mess. I no longer have a leg to stand on—pun intended—and I have nothing to offer.
I can’t go to Nik like this. The same girl who fears weight, who lives in anxiety, who’s certain she’s unworthy.
He deserves better, even though I’m not sure where to begin.
I click through the TV channels, sick of the reruns. The walls feel like they’re closing in, and I’m going to go completely mad if I stay in this bed much longer.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Dillon’s name lights the screen.
I hit accept and put the phone to my ear. “Hey, Dillon.”
“Hey, Eleanor, how are you doing?” His voice is bright, muffled by other noise in the background.
I check the clock and realize the last show of the night for Swan Lake has just ended. “I’m alive,” I reply.
“Well, that’s the hard part, so you must be doing something right.” He chuckles. “Listen, are you busy?”
“Me…busy?” I echo.
“Yeah, right. Dumb question.” There’s a commotion behind him. “Can Gabriel, Lily, and I swing by? We want to see you,” he shouts over the noise.
I look around the apartment. Laundry piles in the bathroom, a clutter fills the coffee table; it’s a general sense of chaos. “My place is a mess,” I warn. “If you don’t mind that, then sure. I could use the company.”
“Mess can’t keep us away,” he says. “We’ll be there in twenty.” Then the call ends.
I let out a long breath, my heart doing a nervous little dance at the thought of finally seeing my friends. The friends I basically betrayed, my conscience reminds me.
Twenty minutes on the dot, the doorbell rings.
I scoot myself toward the door on my crutches and open it to find Dillon and Gabriel grinning like they’ve smuggled sunshine inside their jackets. They rush forward, then pause for a beat, taking me in.
Dillon steps through first and wraps me in a hug. “It’s good to see you.”
I awkwardly hug him around my crutch. “You too.”
Gabriel comes next, carrying a white plastic bag, hopefully filled with the cure for boredom. He squeezes me hard. “I’m glad you’re okay, Eleanor.”
“Thanks,” I manage, breathless from the hug.
Lily lingers in the doorway, face soft but guarded, like she isn’t sure she belongs in the room with me.
I search her eyes. “I missed you,” I whisper.
Tears prick at her lashes. “I’m so angry with you,” she whispers back, arms folded as if to hold herself together.
My throat closes. “I’m so sorry, Lily,” I say.