“You’re going to get through this,” Jackson assures me as she hands me a fresh cup of coffee.
When I dip my nostrils over it to inhale the scent, it feels like my nose hairs are singed off. “Holy shit.” I draw back. “What’s in this?”
“It’s Irish Coffee. Seemed like the right kind of drink for today.”
I glance out at the mist that hangs over the tree tops. We’ve taken the chairlift up to the top of Blackstone Mountain and are planning to hike down.
“You’re getting me day drunk? I don’t know if flying up here last night was the best or worst idea I’ve ever had.”
She holds her mug in two hands as she sits in the Adirondack chair on the deck outside the upper lodge. The view will be spectacular if the sun burns off this mist. “Tell me everything,” she says.
My flight out of New York last night was much like my last one—full of nonstop tears. But this time I wasn’t crying because of what I was leaving behind, I was crying through the frustration of having been taken advantage of and lied to once again. I was crying for the life I thought Aleksandr and I were going to have together, only to find that it was all built on lies.
I tell her his side of the story and end with, “Lying is a deal breaker for me.”
“Shit, Petra. I don’t know what to say. On the one hand, it’s horrible that he knew details about your mom and his father, and about your mom and brother’s death that he didn’t tell you. It’s horrible that he deserted you the way he did, especially knowing how you felt about him. But on the other hand, he made sure you got to go to the boarding school you wanted, for the ski training you needed. He made sure your life didn’t get signed away in a marriage you weren’t ready for. And he did it because he loved you and wanted what was best for you.”
I take a big gulp of the Irish Coffee, expecting the whiskey to burn but it’s tempered by the sugar and the whipped cream. It goes down far too easy. “You can’t possibly be taking his side here.”
“I’m always on your side,” she assures me. “I just want to make sure you’re looking at this from all angles.”
“Are there really multiple angles here?” I glance down at my lap and am alarmed for a second to find myself in unfamiliar clothes. Everything I’m wearing is Jackson’s: her hiking boots, socks, leggings, and sweatshirt. Even the underwear and sports bra.
Because that’s what happens when you leave a party in a fancy dress and strappy heels and head to the airport, unsure of your destination. It might have made more sense to call Emily or Avery, but the thought of staying with someone who knew Aleksandr, who knew us together as a couple, had my stomach in too many knots. Instead, I called Jackson, who suggested I come up for a day or two.
I’m supposed to be back at the studio tomorrow. I still have to figure out what to do about that. And how to get all my stuff from Aleksandr’s back to LA. But these are future-Petra’s problems and more than I can handle right now.
“There are always multiple angles. Sometimes it’s just hard to see things from a different perspective when you’re standing at a fixed point. You and Aleksandr have a past together, like Nate and me. That’s part of what makes your current relationship so strong but it’s also something that can cause friction because when you’ve loved someone since you were a teenager there are bound to be dozens of mistakes and missteps—big and small—along the way.”
I take another gulp of coffee, draining it and setting it on the arm of the chair. “I’m going to need another one of these if you want me to start looking at this situation from Aleksandr’s perspective, my wise friend.”
Jackson whips her phone out of the pocket of her tunic-length, full-zip wool hoodie and taps her screen a few times. I take the moment to marvel at her in her element: dressed like she’s in an Athleta ad, building her dream ski resort one step at a time with the love of her life. I’m so happy for her I could burst. “Done,” she says triumphantly.
“Is Blackstone so fancy now that you can order food and drinks on an app and have it delivered on the deck?” I mean, I know she and Nate are working hard to make Blackstone a destination ski resort, but that feels next-level.
Her face lights up. “No, but that’s a brilliant idea. I’m going to talk to Nate about that possibility.”
“So . . .” I lead, “what just happened then?”
“I texted Lori, a friend of mine who runs this lodge, and asked if she could have someone bring another drink out for each of us.”
“Must be nice,” I tease.
“This life does have its perks.” She gives me a small smile. “But you know it wasn’t all wonderful getting here. Nate and I struggled a lot to make things right, and I pushed him away because he’d hurt me so badly when we were younger. I wonder if maybe that’s what you’re doing with Aleksandr too.”
“Jackson, when I look back at all the pain in my life . . . he’s responsible for a lot of it. And he lied about it all.”
Just then, a woman comes out of the lodge in a forest-green long sleeve polo with the Blackstone emblem embroidered on the chest. She’s holding two steaming to-go cups. Jackson thanks her and slips her a tip as she hands over our drinks.
“I fully understand that intent and impact are not the same thing,” Jackson says, her voice placating as she hands me a drink and nods her chin toward the trail we’ll take to hike down the mountain. I stand and follow her as she continues, “And I know how he’s made you feel, so I understand the impact. But don’t you think the intent matters too? He was trying to help you, all along he was shielding you from further pain and trying to make sure you got opportunities you badly wanted. Does that count for something?”
“He lied to me,” I say, hating how much I sound like a broken record player. I want her to be as angry at him as I am, and I hate that she doesn’t see this as something fatal to our relationship. “Even if I could get over that, how could I ever trust him again?”
“Do you trust me?” she asks before taking a sip of her drink.
“Of course I trust you.” I follow her around a boulder and onto the dirt bike path that will be open in summer. I’m hoping this is an easy walk down because these drinks are strong.
“But I lied to you. I lied about me and Marco, and I definitely lied about Nate . . .”
“You lied to me about your own life. Marco—protecting a friend. Nate—lying to yourself. Either way, zero impact on me.”
“And Aleksandr lied to you about his own life. These lies were not only about things that had happened to you, they were lies about things that had happened to him as well. And they were lies that were meant to protect and help you.”
I’m quiet as I let the truth of those words sink in.
“Are you sure you aren’t lying to yourself here a little too?” she asks. “I think he means a lot more to you than you’re telling me. And I think the reason you’re holding onto this lie, these lies, of his is because you’re looking for a reason to run. Feelings scare you, Petra. Especially the big kind of forever feelings.”
I step up next to her when we hit the switchback in the cluster of trees. “I told him I would give up the show and move back to New York to be with him.”
Jackson breathes in sharply, then coughs and clears her throat. She looks over at me. “You—what now?”
“Yeah, and that’s when he told me he’d been lying to me basically since I was thirteen.”
I think I’m pretty strong, but there are only so many times you can be screwed over by a man before you lose faith in the entire gender. And I think I’ve hit that low point I swore I’d never sink to, the point where I’m ready to give up on men altogether.
The worst part is, I can hear my own advice here—I know exactly the kind of things I’d say to a friend in the same situation. The best way to get over one guy is to get under the next one. You need some no-strings-attached sex. Or, If you’re truly over men, I know some incredible women I could set you up with.
Why didn’t I ever stop to think that people need time to grieve in a breakup situation like this? Nope, I was always ready to throw my friends into the arms of the next man they came across. Now that I’m in that situation, I can see how dismissive I was being of people’s very real and very hurt feelings. Luckily, Jackson is a better friend than me in this situation.
“Okay, now I’m floored,” she says. “And even more pissed at him. But also, I’m still hopeful that you’ll go back to New York . . . talk it out with him. Figure out a way forward. You deserve to be happy, Petra. Even though I don’t think you believe that, it’s true.”
“I deserve to be happy, yes. I don’t think I need a man to make me happy, though. That’s the part I don’t believe.”
She glances over at me and says, “Yeah, and I think you have put so much stock in that belief that maybe you’re sabotaging your own happiness here because it’s linked to a man.”
I think about that as we descend the mountain, my legs and glutes burning with the effort of walking downhill over a 1,500-foot elevation drop. I think about that as we drive back to Jackson and Nate’s house, and as I text Avery pleading with her to arrange to get my bags from Aleksandr’s and to meet me at JFK with them tomorrow when I fly through on my way to LAX. I think about them all night, when I can’t sleep because of the anger and the longing that are fighting against each other in my heart and mind. And in the morning, I know the truth of the matter is, I’m not sure. I’m not sure if Jackson is right, and I’m not sure how to figure it out.
It’s been six days since I left New York and I haven’t heard from him, nor have I contacted him. I guess it’s up to me to make this decision. There’s no way in hell I want Tony Gionetti anywhere near Stella, so I’ll do whatever I can to prevent that—whether Aleksandr and I are together or not.
I slip my phone from my pocketbook as I make my way through the crowded Laguna Beach restaurant. I pause in the bar area to send Alicia a message.
Petra: What is the most discreet way to turn the information you found over to law enforcement?
Alicia: I thought you’d never ask! I’ve got a guy.
Petra: What does that mean?
Alicia: It means I know and have worked with several officers. If someone walks by them on the street and hands them a package and says “Please deliver this to your supervisor,” they know it’s from me.
Petra: If this evidence wasn’t legally obtained, it’ll be useless though, won’t it?
Alicia: Girl! What makes you think it wasn’t legally obtained? No laws were broken in the process of gathering this evidence. There was no entrapment. Just a good, upstanding citizen—that’s me—turning in non-law-abiding folk.
Petra: Okay, good. Do you need me to do anything else?
Alicia: Just pay me for my time, beautiful.
Petra: Transfer coming at you.
The bubble pops up on the screen to let me know she’s typing, and then they disappear. Over and over.
I glance up while I wait and am surprised to find New York playing Anaheim above my head. It’s not that I didn’t know the first two games of the Stanley Cup finals were this week, it’s that I forgot they were in Anaheim, a city I have to drive through to get back to my place in Los Angeles. The camera zooms in on Number 4, with Ivanov clearly written across his back. He approaches an Anaheim player from behind and checks him right into the boards. Several Anaheim players surround him and punches are thrown before his New York teammates show up to protect him. It’s a huge brawl and by the time the referees break it up, Aleksandr is sporting a bloody nose and the most pissed-off look I’ve ever seen.
When the penalty is called and he’s sent to the penalty box, he doesn’t even try to pretend like he didn’t start that. That complete lack of sportsmanship is not like him at all. The programming cuts over to the two sportscasters who each take up their third of the screen with a big picture of Aleksandr in between them. I glance at the bartender, ready to ask him to turn up the volume quickly, but he’s halfway down the bar and not even looking in my directions. Shit. I don’t want to miss whatever they’re saying.
The remote is sitting about a foot away, so without thinking, I grab it. The volume rises so quickly everyone looks at the TV as if it must be some sort of national emergency. I drop the remote in my pocketbook as the bartender starts looking around to find it and turn the volume down.
“After two major penalties two nights ago, I thought Ivanov would be a bit more controlled,” one of the sportscasters says.
“Ivanov’s on some sort of rampage in this series. It’s like he’s a totally different player,” the other announcer says.
“Yeah, he’s known for his emotional control, and as a steady presence on the ice for his teammates. The only other time we’ve seen anything even approaching this was in that first playoff series against Philadelphia.”
“That was child’s play compared to this,” the other announcer adds. “We’re still waiting on word for whether he’s going to sign with New York again or with Los Angeles. I wonder if either team is having second thoughts after seeing him play like this these past two games?”
Wait, he’s still considering Los Angeles? That can’t be right. I’m sure he’s already told them no, especially given how we left things between us. There’d be no reason for him to move here at this point.
“I expect we’ll learn very soon where Ivanov is landing for the next few years . . . if this series and his poor sportsmanship don’t cost him his career.” The words carry out of the TV and circle around me, making my head spin.
“Yeah, depending on how this game and this series go, he could be looking at an early retirement.”
Above me, the camera zooms in on Aleksandr sitting in the penalty box. His helmet is on his knee, sweat drips off his hair and down his face. He’s looking down, but when the game starts again, he looks up to watch his team, and I’ve never seen a look like that on his beautiful, stoic face. It’s pure and utter rage. Whatever he’s this mad about—and I have a feeling I know what it is—he looks like he’s ready to kill someone out there on the ice.
Shit, what have I done?
I dash toward the front of the bar as quickly as I can, my phone to my ear, willing Avery to pick up. “Hey, Petra,” she half yells as I dig in my purse for the TV remote and half throw it to the host on my way out. “Are you at the game?”
“No,” I tell her, realizing that she’s probably at a bar in New York watching the game, “are you watching it?”
“Yeah, me and half of NYC.” A cheer goes up in the background, then a collective groan. A missed shot on goal, I suspect.
“Avery, I need your help. Is Tom with you?” I say as I burst onto the sidewalk and look around for the town car the studio sent me down here in. Perks of the president of the studio insisting I come down to meet with him in Laguna Beach where he lives. Apparently, his daughter has a violin recital tonight that he couldn’t miss. The exciting Friday nights of people married with kids.
“Yeah”—her voice gets serious and lower—“he’s right here. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me, but as you can see, Aleksandr is . . . not doing well.”
“Yeah.” Her voice is grim.
“Can I talk to Tom, please?”
There’s a pause, then, “What?” The word is barked through the phone and it surprises me so much that I pull it away from my face and look at it for a second before I open the door to the town car that’s just pulled up to the curb in front of me.
“Tom, it’s Petra.” I settle into the back seat as the car pulls away from the curb.
“I know.”
Oh. Okay. “I need your help.”
“Why in the world would I help the woman who wrecked my best friend? Have you seen him out there these last two games? YOU DID THAT.” I don’t know if he’s yelling at me because he can’t hear himself over the crowd, or if he’s just yelling at me.
Maybe I deserve that. I left. I made Avery go get my stuff. I didn’t call. I didn’t come back. I didn’t reach out to him, even though he was right outside of LA for the first two games of the series. You had other important priorities, I tell myself.
I really can justify anything, can’t I?
“I need to make it right. Can you help me get in to see him?”
Tom’s laugh is bitter and hysterical at the same time. “Into the Honda Center? Oh, that’s funny. I’m his lawyer, not his agent.”
“Right,” I say, feeling less desperate as the pieces of a plan start to emerge in my mind. “Can you give me his agent’s info?”
“Why would I do that?” he asks and behind him there’s another big groan from the crowd. “Oh good, Anaheim just scored a goal because we’re playing with five players on the ice for the next . . . three and a half minutes, thanks to Alex’s penalty.”
“That’s why, Tom. That’s why you need to give me his agent’s info—because I’m the only one who can keep him out of the penalty box. If you don’t let me help him now, he’s going to wreck his career, and it’s going to be on both our consciences.”
“Fine,” Tom bites out. “I’ll text you his info.”
“Thank you, Tom. Really.”
He disconnects the call with no response, and I’m not even sure if he heard me. More fences to mend later.
The contact comes through via text immediately.
“Excuse me,” I say to the driver. “I’m going to need you to drop me off at the Honda Center on your way back to LA.”
He glances at me quickly in the rearview mirror before his eyes shift back to the road. “You want me to . . . drop you off?” Is that skepticism or confusion making his question come out so slowly?
“Um,” I say as I glance down at the contact info on my phone.
“You don’t want me to wait for you?”
“No, but thank you. You get back to LA and go on with your night.”
“But . . .” He glances at me in the rearview mirror again, the lines at the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he tries to make sense of my request. “I was told to bring you back to LA.”
“Change of plans.” I shrug as I call Jameson Flynn, who, according to the contact info Tom sent me, is apparently Aleksandr’s agent. The phone rings four times, then goes to voice mail. I don’t leave a message. He’s probably screening his calls and doesn’t recognize my number. Instead, I send him a text message.
Petra: Hi Jameson, my name is Petra Volkova. Tom Sheppard, Alex Ivanov’s lawyer, gave me your number.
I pause for a moment to think of what I can say to get Jameson to help me get into that game. Is he even there? It’s the Stanley Cup finals—of course he’s there. I glance at the clock. It’s after 8:00 p.m. so I’m sure I’ve just missed the first intermission. I have to make it there in time for the second intermission, or this is all for naught.
“Can you go just a bit faster?” I ask the driver. “I really need to make it to this game before the end of the second period.”
“There’s no traffic. We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes,” he says as we cruise along the highway. Around us, the hills boast the green grass that’s only present in the winter and spring.
Petra: I know the way he’s playing tonight is . . . less than desirable. I need to talk to him before the next period begins. Can you please get me in to see him? It’s an emergency.
The bubbles pop up on the screen and at least I know he’s seen my text. I hold my breath while I wait for his response.
Jameson: I’m sorry, I don’t know you or how you know Alex . . . and you believe I would “get you in to see him” because . . .?
Suddenly, our relationship is not only a risk I want to take, it’s something I want to celebrate. But I don’t know how he’d feel about me telling his agent. I just have to hope that he’ll forgive me once I explain why I shared this information.
Petra: I’m his wife.
Jameson: Bullshit.
Petra: I’m not sure what I can tell you that will make you believe me. But I’m the only person who might be able to turn his game around. I assume you work on commission and want him to sign a new contract when this one is up?
I glance out the window as we head into Anaheim, and there’s nothing but sprawl. The sameness is killing me slowly. The same weather every day, the same low buildings everywhere I look, the same golden hillsides, the same clogged freeways, the same people drinking their green juice on their way home from yoga. We’re an hour out of LA and the sprawl just keeps going on and on, different cities and it all feels the same.
An hour outside of New York, I could be lounging on the beaches of Long Island, or visiting farms in quaint small towns upstate. I could be watching horse racing, or exploring outdoor gardens and art installations in the Hudson Valley. I miss the variety of landscape and people, as well as the fast-paced life of New York City—almost as much as I miss Sasha and Stella.
My phone buzzes in my hand, the repeated vibrations signaling an incoming phone call. It’s Jameson.
“Who’s the most important person in his life?”
Without even a moment of hesitation, I respond. “Stella.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you at the main entrance. How soon will you be here?”
I glance at my watch. Based on what the driver said about timing, I tell him, “Less than ten minutes.”
“How will I know who you are?”
“I’ll send you a picture,” I say, and he gives me a gruff Okay before he disconnects the call.
I open up the photos on my phone and pull up a photo I took of me and Aleksandr before the event last weekend. My smile is huge, my eyes are crinkling at the corners and you can barely see my baby blues through my lashes because I’m glancing sideways at the love of my life. I send the picture to Jameson but even after it’s been sent on its way, I can’t stop staring at the two of us. We were so happy. I almost told him I loved him that night, was just on my way to saying it when he dropped the bombshell about our parents and then all the other lies came tumbling out in its wake.
My heart aches, physically, when I consider how I’d walked out on him later that night. I just needed time and space to think about why he’d lied to me and if I could forgive him for it. And then I needed time and space to plan how I’d make my way back to him. I suppose I should have reached out sooner, let him know where my heart and mind were, but I wanted to be certain. I wanted to have my plan in place with no option to back down. I wanted to be one hundred percent committed so he’d know how serious I am, before saying anything.
After watching him self-destruct on the ice tonight, I pray I didn’t wait too long.
