Chapter 1 #2
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.”