One Last Shot: Chapter 1

“It’s time,” Papa says from the doorway of my bedroom.

I look up from my laptop where I’ve been preparing for the upcoming season by rewatching video footage of my ski racing from last winter.

Behind my father, an old picture of Mama hangs above my desk. She’s standing on the balcony of a little hotel overlooking Lake Hallstatt with her hands on her hips and a smile so bright that looking at it is equal parts beauty and pain. Her long dark hair frames her heart-shaped face, but her heavily lidded eyes look at me like they know I’m doing something wrong.

What would you have me do, Mama?

I take a fortifying breath, praying that I’m not making a deal with the devil. I may only be sixteen, but one thing I know for sure is that when things seem too good to be true, they generally are.

“Let’s go, Zaichik.” Papa still calls me Bunny, the nickname from my childhood that will not die.

As I follow Papa down the narrow staircase to the first floor, I take in the mismatched frames full of family pictures that still hang in the stairwell. They haven’t been updated since the horrific car crash that took Mama and my brother, Viktor, from us three years ago. In them, my mother is still young and vibrant. Viktor is still a high schooler who loved to torment his little sister.

As I do every day that I pass them, I wonder who they’d be today. Who we’d be—Papa and me—if they were still alive.

“Be grateful,” Papa reminds me as we leave the comfort of our small caretaker’s cottage to head down the path to the lawn that will lead us to the big house.

“I am.” I don’t mention the other emotions—the fear, worry, and regret.

I breathe in the flowers that line the path behind the big house. Above them, the imposing stucco walls of Whitehall glow in the fading light of the golden hour. For most of my life I’ve curled up on the cushioned window seat of my tiny bedroom, gazing across the lawn at Whitehall as the sun sets, watching the lights come on and the family inside come alive.

Those two boisterous boys were like cousins to me—until Mama and Victor died. Through that tragedy Sasha and I grew impossibly close, but now he and his older brother, Nikolai, are grown and gone most of the time. Niko spent the summer in London for an internship and is now back at university for his senior year. Sasha has been living in St. Petersburg and traveling all over Russia and Europe, playing professionally in the Kontinental Hockey League for the last year.

Having him home for the summer has been both torturous and heavenly. My feelings for him have been blossoming for years, but this summer it’s starting to feel like maybe he shares those feelings. The shared glances, the whispered secrets, the way he often can’t take his eyes off me. It’s like we’re sliding into new territory that I can’t quite name but am desperate to get to. But tomorrow he’s leaving to go back to his team and who knows how long it’ll be until I see him again.

From the patio, Papa opens the door that leads into the kitchen of Whitehall, rather than one of the many glass doors that lead into the grand sitting room at the back of the house.

Last year, when Sasha graduated from high school, Mr. Ivanov had a fancy party to celebrate. Even though we were guests that night, Papa still refused to enter the house through those glass doors that were cast wide open. Sasha had been insistent that I come in the same way as all the other guests, telling me that I was more important to him than anyone else who was there. But Papa claimed that the only doors the property’s caretaker should use are the garage door and the kitchen door. Old habits die hard.

We head through the kitchen and dining room, then into the massive two-story entryway. At the far end, we climb the wide wooden staircase up to the mezzanine, which we follow until we reach the doors of the library.

Mr. Ivanov sits at the ornately carved wooden desk like a king on a throne. Mama once told me never to trust a man like Mr. Ivanov—“duplicitous devil” was how she’d described him. I’m not sure why I shouldn’t trust him, he’s never done anything but try to help my family. Still, the warning hangs there over his head, reminding me to be alert.

“Petra, Leo. Come in.” Mr. Ivanov manages to direct one of his smooth smiles at me and Papa, but like always, the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

I feel Sasha’s presence as he ambles in behind us—a warmth spreads throughout my body and just as I’m about to turn around and smile at him, the look on Mr. Ivanov’s face stops me. His voice is about ten degrees cooler as he greets his son with a curt “Aleksandr.”

I’ve never understood Sasha’s relationship with his father, how the two of them are so detached from each other. Papa and I aren’t super close either, but that’s because I was always Mama’s shadow and Papa spent more time with Viktor. But Sasha’s only ever had his father, and I’ve long wondered if Mr. Ivanov resents his youngest son because his wife died during Sasha’s birth. Even though Sasha is my closest friend, I’ve never had the guts to ask his opinion on the matter.

“The paperwork is all ready?” my father asks.

“Yes, we just need to sign these two sheets here. You and I, with our children as our witnesses. I’ll have Gerta translate and notarize it in the morning.” He looks over at me, “Then you’ll be off to Switzerland for school. Are you excited?”

“Beyond excited,” I tell him. I swallow down all my concerns about being so far from home, about how this takes me even farther away from Sasha. But he’s going to be back in Russia again this year anyway, so I can’t let him factor into my decision. Instead, I tell his father, “I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s nothing,” he says, waving his hand in the air. To him, it probably is nothing—a tiny drop in the bucket that is his fortune.

“To me, it’s everything. Please, know how grateful I am.” I feel the heat creep into my cheeks because I can tell when Sasha’s eyes are boring into me, even when I can’t see him.

“You are very welcome,” Mr. Ivanov says smoothly. “Make us proud.”

“I will, sir.”

I hate pandering to his father like this when their relationship is so strained—it feels like a betrayal to Sasha—but this boarding school and the ski training it will provide me are my last hope at making the Austrian National Ski Team. I have two more years of high school, if I don’t make the team by the time I graduate, it’s unlikely I ever will. My high school coaches are good, but not good enough. The coach for that national team has told me as much. He said I am a promising skier but need more training. So I’m headed to the best school with the best ski training program I could get into.

I don’t know how my father will ever repay Mr. Ivanov, though Papa insists it’s doable. He says all I should worry about is my skiing and my academics, and leave the rest to him. As if I will be able to do that.

My father clears his throat and holds his hand out for the pen. There are two papers on the desk, and he bends to sign on the line above his name on both pages, and then hands me the pen to do the same. The Russian letters swim together, and I’m frustrated that I can’t read them. I speak four languages, but only read and write the three I’ve studied in school—German, French, and English. Still, I recognize my name and sign where I’m supposed to on both pages.

Before I push away from the desk, my eyes track to Sasha where he stands off to my side, but his eyes don’t meet mine. They’re too focused on the space where my denim miniskirt meets the back of my upper thighs. I’d give him shit for that if I wasn’t so thrilled and both our fathers weren’t here.

There was a time I worried he’d only ever think of me like a little sister, and then this summer happened. There have been so many moments like this one that have given me hope. And the longer his eyes are locked in place, the more that hope grows. Eventually he looks up, sees me noticing him staring, and quickly looks away.

Behind his desk, Mr. Ivanov takes the papers back. “Aleksandr,” he snaps as he holds the pen out to his son. If he’s embarrassed his father just caught him staring at my ass, he doesn’t show it.

Instead, he steps confidently up to the desk and the back of his left hand brushes against my hip as he passes me. I slow my breathing to calm my racing heart as I debate whether that was an accident or whether it was intentional. Sasha signs both papers, and Mr. Ivanov quickly pulls them out from under his son’s hand and signs them himself. He shuffles them together, opens a folder, and sets them inside.

Mr. Ivanov stands, and it’s obvious where Sasha gets his height, though it’s always amused me that the resemblance ends there. Whereas they both have fair skin, Sasha’s got eyes the color of steel and hair that’s nearly black like mine, while his father’s blond hair is graying with age and his blue eyes are so pale they’re almost lifeless. Both Niko and Sasha must take after their mother.

“I wish you the best at school, Petra,” Mr. Ivanov says and holds his hand out to shake mine.

“Thank you. I’ll work my hardest.” I sound like an idiot, but I’m not sure what else to say to this man with the eyes that refuse to thaw. Even his well wishes sound forced, like he doesn’t know how to show genuine emotion—which has me wondering why he’s helping me at all.

I want to feel the thrill of excitement from this amazing opportunity I’ve been given, but there’s a worry wriggling around in the deep recesses of my mind. I pray Papa hasn’t gotten in too deep.

Papa and I leave the library and head back toward the stairs. I glance over my shoulder once we’re in the hallway and find Sasha watching me walk away. I don’t have time to consider what that means because as we descend the stairs Papa tells me, “I have to go check in with Felix about a delivery of some fruit trees he’s ordered.”

The mention of our new gardener, who just started this summer, gives me pause. He’s in his twenties and stupidly attractive. I may have spent some of the early summer flirting with him—more out of boredom than anything—but I’ve been keeping my distance since Sasha’s been home. When he’s here, Sasha occupies all the space in my mind.

I’ve spent the last few years wishing I didn’t care about Sasha quite so much. He’s never seen me like I wanted him to—I was like a little sister or a best friend, but never more—until, I hope, now. Each time we’ve touched accidentally and not pulled away immediately in response, the way he looks at me sometimes, his eyes lingering on my body in a way they didn’t before. Or maybe they did, and he’s just not as good at hiding it this summer? Maybe at sixteen I’m finally old enough that he doesn’t need to hide it?

“All right,” I say to my father as we walk out the door. “I’ll see you back at the cottage, then.”

Papa turns right, toward the greenhouse, and I head down the crushed stone path between boxwood hedges that will lead back to our cottage. I’ve walked for less than a minute before the sound of crunching gravel behind me has me stopping. I turn to find Sasha.

The boy is a man now, he just keeps growing. He seems to have topped out at six foot three, but he has more muscle every time I see him. He stalks toward me, never as graceful on his feet as he is on his skates. His huge frame should be intimidating. I rarely feel safe around men, but Sasha has always been a protector. My protector.

He steps into my space, a hair too close to be considered polite distance, and those gray eyes are practically black in the fading light.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he says, as if I haven’t been dreading the day he returns to Russia and his hockey team.

“I know, I’ve been counting down the days.”

“Because you can’t wait to be rid of me?”

I consider being coy. I think about telling him I can’t wait for him to finally leave, then reaching out and sliding my hand down his chest. My entire body tingles at the thought, at how he might react to my mixed message. But I can’t do that to him. He doesn’t need teasing. Sasha needs unconditional love more than he needs anything else, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

“Because I hate it when you leave.” I can feel my lips turning down at the corners.

“Hey,” he says, reaching out and tilting my chin up so I’m looking at him instead of at my sandals. “I’m still very much here.”

“Yeah, for like twelve more hours.” I don’t know if this crushing sense of disappointment is just because he’s leaving, or because he’s leaving and I still don’t know if he feels the same way about me.

“I bet you’re not even going to miss me. You’ll be away at boarding school anyway,” he says with a small smile. “You’re going to love it.”

“I hope so.” So far, high school has been hell. The girls all hate me, and the guys pay way too much attention to me.

“Most importantly,” he says, “you’re going to be skiing all the time. This is your chance, Petra. Keep your eyes on the prize and don’t let anything distract you from your goals. You’re so close.”

I love skiing, but I do worry that getting to do it every day still won’t be enough to fill all the lonely voids in my life. “I know. I don’t do anything halfway. I’m one hundred percent committed.”

My eyes are focused on his face and I wonder if he knows I’m talking about him, too. The way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, he must.

He shifts his weight back and forth between his feet—he seems edgy or nervous around me lately. Then he takes a step closer. He’s only a breath away, and I reach up to rest my hand on his chest. I’m amazed at how solid he is, how beneath my hand his pecs feel like stone that’s been sitting in the sun all day. The man’s all muscle and radiates heat. But despite the way my body craves his, I still see the boy I’ve loved for years.

My eyes are locked on his, and his ragged breath meets my face in shuddering waves. His eyes do that thing they sometimes do where it looks like his irises are changing color—a swirling riot of different shades of gray—as they skim over my face and land on my lips. Then he extends one of his strong, capable hands and rests it on my hip, his calloused fingertips caressing a soft patch of bare skin above my waistband.

“I have something for you. A going away gift, of sorts.” He pulls away, just a small step. But his voice is a low, soft caress and the sound of it brings goose bumps to my skin in the same way I imagine it would if he trailed his lips along my neck. “Meet me at the treehouse in an hour?”

Our secret meeting spot is a treehouse that Mr. Ivanov had built for his boys when they were little. Back then, my brother Viktor was welcome there, but they always pulled the rope ladder up so I couldn’t join them. When they outgrew it, abandoning climbing trees in favor of organized sports, the treehouse became my hiding spot. The place I could find solitude for hours with snacks and a good book. The place I could cry when the girls at school were especially mean. The place I could plan out a future where I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t care what people thought about me.

It’s also where I went, despite the snow and freezing temperatures, when I first learned about the car crash. It was there that Sasha found me and held me while we both cried. It was the beginning of our friendship, where we turned the corner from neighbors to people who truly cared about each other. Over the years, we’ve continued to meet there frequently. It’s a refuge from a world that can often be too harsh.

His hand is still on my hip, the pads of his fingers resting on the skin of my lower back and his thumb gently stroking my stomach. “Yes,” I agree. “The treehouse at nine.”

“I’ll see you then,” he says and steps away. I turn and rush back to my house, knowing with utter certainty: Everything is about to change.

My hands are shaking from the anticipation and excitement as I scurry up the rope. The straw bag I’ve looped over my shoulder swings back and forth, continuously sliding forward and hitting my knees as I climb. When I’m close enough to the top, I use one hand to lift the bag onto the floor of the treehouse and climb in behind it. I only have a few minutes to get everything set up before Sasha gets here.

I spread the patchwork quilt over the dusty floor and take the candles out of the bottom of the bag. With only two small windows looking out into the leafy branches, the inside of the treehouse is pitch- black even though there’s still a little light in the sky. Not only will the candles be necessary if we want to see each other, I’m hoping to create a romantic atmosphere for our goodbye tonight.

This feels like our last chance.

If we leave this summer without acting on these feelings growing between us, we might never have the opportunity. He might meet someone in Russia, or I’ll meet someone at school. Our lives are already heading in opposite directions. If there’s nothing more than friendship to bind us together, I’m afraid he’ll just drift away from me. And I’ve lost too many people already, so I’m planning to hold on to him with the strength and love he deserves.

His head pops up through the hole in the floor as I’m on my hands and knees lighting the third and final candle. “What’s this?” He looks around with one of his unreadable expressions stitched across his face.

I push up so I’m standing on my knees, and I know my skirt is bunched up around my thighs because his eyes pause there for a moment, just like they lingered earlier. Then they move to my belly, focusing on that sliver of skin between the waistband of my denim skirt and the tight button-down sweater I’m wearing. I hope this is a good sign—with Sasha, it can be hard to tell.

“I wanted to be able to see you in this dark, old place.”

His half smile is a rare, hard- won victory. A relieved sigh escapes my lips.

“Well, are you coming in or just going to hang out on the ladder all night?” I ask.

The muscles in his arms flex as he plants his hands on the floor and pulls himself up into our secret room. The space is far too small for either of us to stand up in now that we’re fully grown, so he sits cross-legged on the blanket, facing me. I sit back on my heels, which puts us at eye level despite our height difference.

For a minute we just stare at each other, that awkwardness that didn’t used to exist suspended in the air between us. Then he reaches behind him. “Here.” The word is gruff, and he shoves a book I hadn’t noticed him arrive with into my hands. “I found it for you.”

I glance down at the book in question even though I know by his statement, by the pride in his voice, what it’ll be. “Oh my gosh, Sasha!” I gasp. “I can’t believe it.”

“Why would you even want a first edition of War and Peace in Russian? You don’t know how to read it.”

“I told you, it was my mother’s favorite book.” I glance at the slightly worn hardback cover again. “Mama had one just like this and she lost count of how many times she’d read it. It was practically falling apart. I don’t know what happened to it after she died. It’s like it disappeared off our bookshelf.”

His left eye twitches, which only happens when he’s lying about something. He pauses a beat too long. “Well, now you have your own copy.”

“Thank you,” I say as I hug the book to my chest and try to ignore my curiosity about whatever it is he’s hiding from me. Then I reach to the side and set it down at the edge of the blanket. When I turn back toward him, his eyes are focused on my body again. Somehow I don’t mind, even though I hate it when the boys at school ogle me like this. I wait for his eyes to drift up to my face.

His lips part like he’s going to say something, but no words come out. The look on his face is something akin to pain.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He swallows again. “Nothing.” His left eye twitches.

I scoot forward on my knees so we’re only a foot apart. “Sasha, you’re my best friend and I need you to stop lying to me.” There’s a palpable tension in the air, something electric that is snaking its way around us. If I reach out and touch him now, sparks will fly and we’ll both burst into flames. I want that—the thrill of touching him, the fire that would erupt between us—more than I’ve ever wanted anything. And it feels possible, within my grasp for the first time ever, because finally he seems to see me the same way I see him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask again, leaning in close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. I’m torn between wanting him so badly it hurts, and wanting to understand why he doesn’t even look like himself. He’s good at staying calm, wearing that mask that hides all his feelings. But this isn’t his normal mask. This is something else entirely.

He takes in the limited amount of space between us, his eyes sliding down and back up to my face. “Petra,” he says my name like he’s choking on the word, “nothing can happen between us.”

I’m so surprised by his response that I just blink at him, my lips parting slightly as I try to catch my breath. His eyes are on my mouth, just like they were in the garden earlier. His forehead is creased and his eyes crinkle at the corners. If that isn’t a look of longing, then I don’t know what is.

“Why are you doing this, Sasha?” I ask. He’s fighting something that is so obviously right.

“You’re a child.” The condescending tone hits me like a spray of ice water to my face. “I don’t see you like that.”

“Bullshit,” I say. The attraction that’s been growing while he’s been home this summer is clear as day, painted across his face, embedded in that hungry gaze. I know he loves me, and I know he could be in love with me if he let himself.

“I don’t feel that way about you, and if you don’t realize that, you’re a fool.”

His words don’t just sting, they crush. Sasha is trying to hurt me and I don’t understand why he, of all people, would do this. Especially when I can tell that he doesn’t mean it. His words are at odds with everything else . . . his body, his face, the emotion I see in his eyes. He’s in pain too.

“Why are you saying these things?” I whisper, trying to hold back the tears that are clouding my vision.

“Because you need to hear them. You’re playing a dangerous game, flirting with every man around you. You’re sixteen, but you look a lot older, and you’re going to get yourself into trouble one of these days.”

“You sound like all the jealous, catty girls at school. Is that what you are, Aleksandr? Jealous and catty?” When he doesn’t respond, I say, “I can’t help what I look like.”

“You need to be careful,” he says, his eyes bouncing all over my face like he’s cataloging every last detail.

“Oh.” The word is an icicle dancing between us. “You’re one of those.”

“One of what?”

“One of those people who thinks that instead of teaching boys to respect girls, we need to teach girls to be careful not to attract too much attention from boys.”

“No, I’m just someone who used to be your friend, but I don’t think we should be friends anymore.”

A literal knife piercing my pounding heart would do less damage than these words. He’s left a gaping hole in my chest, a wound so deep and fresh I can barely utter, “What?”

“You heard me.” There’s no expression on his face, his eyes are placid, his lips are flat. “This is goodbye.”

“Sasha.” The words are a whispered plea floating off my lips and falling on deaf ears. “No. I can’t lose you too.” This doesn’t even make sense.

Not once did I envision tonight ending this way. I would have done anything to keep his friendship, because there is no one in this world more important to me than him. I don’t understand why he’s doing this to us.

“You have no choice,” he says, and he’s never sounded more like his father in his life.

When he descends the ladder, I don’t for a second believe this is really the end, that this is really goodbye forever. We’re too close for that. He’s my best friend, and even if he doesn’t want anything more than that, he would never end our friendship like this.

Over nothing.

Would he?