28. Wake-Up Call
Wake-Up Call
Eleanor
The buzzing on my nightstand is relentless. It drones over and over until I can’t take it anymore.
“Hello?” My voice is rough with sleep.
“Oh thank goodness.” Lily sobs, her voice breaking apart on the other end. “I didn’t think you were going to answer.”
I bolt upright, wide awake now. Panic prickles through me at the sound of her tears. “Lily, what’s wrong?”
She tries to hold back, but the sniffles keep spilling through the line.
I hold my breath, waiting.
“Irina,” she chokes, the name alone twisting my stomach. “She—she’s gone. She passed away.”
My hand flies to my chest, pressing against the frantic thud of my heart. “What?” The word comes out raw, stunned.
“She passed about four hours ago,” Lily hiccups.
“No,” I whisper, my ears ringing with the heavy, awful silence between her words.
The sound of her blowing her nose cuts through the line before she speaks again. “I’m calling—” Her voice cracks. “I’m calling because we can’t find Nik. Have you heard from him?”
A sinking feeling settles in my gut. “You can’t find him?”
“No. We’ve been calling for hours. His dad said he told him, but when we went to Nik’s house to check on him, he wasn’t there. My parents have been calling nonstop, and he still isn’t answering.” A fresh sob tears from her throat. “We’ve checked everywhere we can think of and nothing.”
I’m already swinging my legs out of bed, searching the floor for my walking boot. My ankle aches as I tighten the straps, but adrenaline burns hotter than pain. “I’ll help look.”
“No,” Lily protests quickly. “You’re in no shape to be out searching. I just wanted to know if he’d reached out to you.”
I grab my purse, my pajama top bunching beside it. “Well, I’m going whether you think I’m in shape or not. I have to at least try.” My voice turns into a whisper. “I can’t just sit here, Lily.”
“Okay.” Lily’s voice cracks with desperation. “Please be careful. And let me know if you find him… please.”
“I will,” I promise softly, and hang up.
I order a taxi with trembling hands, relief flooding me when one is only five minutes away. I grab my keys and step into the night. Snow crunches thick beneath my boot, the cold stinging sharp as a knife. But my mind is too full and my heart too urgent to feel anything but the need to find him.
The taxi’s headlights cut through the storm, and I climb in, exhaling as the heater wraps me in warmth.
“Where to?” the driver asks, his tone patient.
I pause, pulse hammering in my throat. Where would Nik go? I try to think, to reason, but my thoughts tangle like threads knotted too tightly to pull apart.
Then, quietly, something settles deep in my chest. Not reason. Not memory… just a pull, like something is guiding me.
I give the driver the address before I can question it.
He nods, shifts into gear, and the city blurs past as we speed into the night.
Twenty minutes later, the taxi stops in front of Hollingford Ballet Company. The building is dark, with only a few streetlights that throw a pale glow over the snow.
I thank the driver, pay him, and climb out as quickly as I can. The wind hits me and the cab vanishes into the night. Hollingford is eerie at this hour. There aren’t any cars, people, or sunlight. Only my breath, puffing out in white clouds, and the soft crunch of snow beneath my boot.
I walk my way toward the garden behind the building. After endless, treacherous minutes of slogging through the snow, I see him.
His head is bent, elbows on his knees. Snow dusts his coat, and he’s fumbling with a twig.
I fish my phone from my purse and text Lily.
Me: Found him.
I send it and slip the phone away, already walking toward him. My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. The only person I want to comfort right now is Nik.
As I get closer, my boot crunches louder in the snow. The ache in my ankle throbs, and I know I shouldn’t be walking on it, especially in these conditions. But nothing else matters to me right now.
Nik’s head snaps up and his gaze locks onto mine. He doesn’t move. His eyes are bloodshot and tear-streaked, a crease forming between his brows as I approach. “Do you really have no self-preservation skills?” he asks, voice rough.
I swallow, more nervous than I have been in weeks. “No,” I say, trying to laugh it off.
He doesn’t answer. He bends his head back down and continues to fumble with the twig.
I sit down on the stone bench beside him after brushing off the snow and the ache in my ankle eases a little.
He remains silent, and for a moment I wonder if I’m foolish for coming. But I know I won’t leave. Nik has been there for me in the thick of my mess, and I want to be here for him, too, however awkward and painful it might be.
We sit in silence, the wind our only companion. The temperature keeps dropping, and I curse myself for not changing before I left. My light pink pajama set, striped in white with neat little buttons, is fine beside a heater, but useless in the snow.
I cross my arms tighter, shivering.
Nik’s glance slides to me. “You really shouldn’t be out here. Not with your ankle the way it is.” He chastises softly.
“I didn’t want you to be alone,” I say through chattering teeth.
He shakes his head, pulls off his coat, and drapes it toward me. “Here.”
I take it, and the streetlamp reveals his face fully for the first time. A gash splits his lower lip, crusted with blood, and bruises darken along his jaw. My hand lifts instinctively, then falters halfway, afraid to hurt him.
“What happened to you?” I whisper, desperate to reach him, to comfort him.
He glances at my hand, frozen halfway between us. “Nothing.”
“That isn’t nothing, Nik.” My voice is pleading.
He snaps his head away, letting out a sharp, ragged exhale.
Lily is right. This isn’t the Nik I know. This cold, distant version of him is a stranger, and I have no idea how to reach him. I don’t know grief, or how to help someone drowning in it. All I have are my instincts, and they beg me to comfort him.
I set my hand gently against his back, careful and hesitant. “Nik,” I breathe into the cold.
He flinches, straightens his back, and turns to me. “You should go home, Eleanor.”
I try not to take it personally, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t sting. A little voice in my head insists he only likes me when I’m weak, sick, and distant. That maybe he won’t want this version of me, the one who wants to stay, and be strong enough for him too.
I shove that thought back. It isn’t true. Nik is steady, kind, and cares for people in ways I’ve never been shown. But tonight, the cracks of his pain bleed through, the weight of his grief pressing down like bricks. And I hate that I’m a part of what buries him.
Leaving him here alone is out of the question. “I’m not leaving,” I say, clutching his coat tighter around me.
Nik jolts to his feet, his bloodshot eyes locking on mine. “Fine. But we’re not staying out here—not while you’re wearing that.” His eyes drop to my flimsy pajamas. “My keys are in the right pocket,” he adds, nodding toward his coat.
I dig them out and pass them to him, pushing myself up a little awkwardly, trying to steady my weight on my boot.
We move toward the back door in silence. He slows his pace so I can keep up, though he never once reaches for me. He glances back every few steps, as if to make sure I’m there. But the look on his face is wary, as if my touch might scorch his skin.
The building’s warmth hits me at once, and I can finally breathe.
My lungs aren’t iced over anymore. We climb the steps to Studio B, and it takes me longer than I’d like, my hand gripping the banister to keep myself upright.
Nik waits, never offering a hand, but never moving ahead without me either.
He doesn’t bother turning on the lights in Studio B. Only the streetlamps outside spill a dim glow across the worn marley floors. Snow falls past the windows in heavy sheets, and I feel a surge of anxiety at the thought of being snowed in.
Nik sighs, his gaze fixing on the storm. “Looks like we’re not leaving anytime soon.” He lowers himself onto the floor by the window, eyes lost in the falling snow.
I linger in the center of the room, fumbling with my fingers. The heat presses in too close, so I shrug out of Nik’s coat and drape it over the podium, setting my purse beside it.
I draw in a breath, taking in the studio I haven’t seen in a month. I thought I’d feel longing, but there’s none. The familiar scent of rosin and sweat don’t thrill me anymore. It sours in my chest, tangled up with my mother and the eating disorder that still consumes me.
I turn toward the mirror, and grimace at my reflection. Wrinkled pajamas, snow clinging to my boot, hair knotted from the wind. But when I meet my own eyes, I don’t see the hollow sadness I expect. I’m still too thin, yes, but my face, once dulled, holds the faintest trace of glow.
A hollow tug lives in my gut, like something’s missing—a small, persistent emptiness. I push it aside for now and turn toward Nik. He’s still watching the snow, shoulders hunched, arms perched on his knees.
I can’t take his grief away or replace what he’s lost. Maybe I can’t fix anything big, but I can offer a sliver of what used to make him happy.
I step closer, but he doesn’t look at me. I extend my hand. “Dance with me?” I ask, my voice small and almost shy.
I know it might be a ridiculous move, but I’ll try anything.
His eyes lift to mine, then to my waiting hand. “You are literally in a boot from a dance-related injury,” he states, a wry smirk tugging one corner of his mouth. “And there’s no music.”
I swallow my embarrassment. “We don’t need music. I’m not asking you to be the Cavalier in the Nutcracker. I just want you to take my hand and do something that used to bring you joy, Nik.”
He studies my hand, then my face. His eyes soften. “Fine.” He takes my hand and rises from the floor.
We go to the center of the studio, and he slips one hand into mine while the other curls around my lower back.
“Put your feet on top of mine,” he murmurs in my ear.