Chapter 9 #2
Even though everything he’s saying goes against everything I want, I see the truth in his words.
I think about Petra all the time—what it could be like between us if she wasn’t so much younger and if she felt the same way.
I’d hoped that maybe now that she’s sixteen things might change between us, but with me headed back to Russia and her headed to Switzerland .
. . how much longer can I torment myself?
Maybe cutting things off between us entirely is the safest course of action.
She gets to go to chase her Olympic skiing dreams, and I can focus entirely on my hockey career instead of dividing my attention.
You’ll both be better off that way, I tell myself.
“I’ll say goodbye to her tonight.”
“A permanent goodbye,” my father says. “You need to break things off in a way that she won’t keep trying to revive the friendship.”
The knife in my stomach twists. The pain is unbearable and I haven’t even ended things yet. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to do this, but I have to do it anyway. I can’t marry her under these circumstances. She deserves better than this. “I understand.”
“Good,” my father says, “because if you try to see her again after this, I’ll have to tell her where the money for her schooling came from. And why.”
My eyes bulge at his words. Petra would leave school if she knew I was paying for it. She’d never accept a gift like that from me—I still can’t believe she accepted help from my father. “You wouldn’t.”
His eyes are ice. “Oh, son. I would.”
I thought it would be impossible to hate him more than I do, but I was wrong.
I turn and leave the room, trying to imagine what life without Petra will even feel like.
This boarding school and ski training is the only way for her to achieve her dreams, I remind myself. If you really do care about her, let her go.
I come around the bend in the garden, resolved that I won’t tell Petra about the marriage.
I’d have to reveal too much about the way our family’s history is intertwined, too much about my own feelings for her.
I’d have to tell her that her father apparently loves her so much he’s willing to do whatever it takes to help her achieve her dreams, but respects her so little he essentially sold her off to do so.
When I reach the top of the ladder, Petra is on her hands and knees, lighting a candle.
“What’s this?” I glance around the treehouse and notice other candles and a blanket she’s kneeling on.
The whole scene is very romantic, and I keep my face expressionless so she won’t see how this scene is everything I want, right when I know for sure I can’t have it.
Her skirt is bunched up around her thighs and I know my eyes pause there for a second, just like they lingered on her body earlier in the library.
I slide my gaze up to her belly, focusing on that sliver of skin between the waistband of her denim skirt and the tight button-down sweater she’s wearing. How am I going to say no to this?
“I wanted to be able to see you in this dark, old place,” she says.
In my momentary internal war with myself, I forgot I’d even asked her a question.
I give her a small smile because if I wasn’t here to end things, this would be a perfect scenario.
God, how I wish I could at least kiss her before having to back away, but that would make what I’m about to do even worse.
“Well, are you coming in or just going to hang out on the ladder all night?”
I plant my hands on the floor and pull myself up into our secret hideaway. It’s cramped up here now that we’re fully grown, so I sit cross-legged on the blanket facing her. I need to keep some distance so I can keep my head.
For a minute we just stare at each other. I’ve tried to hide my true feelings this summer, but they seem to have saturated the space anyway. She looks at me like she can read my mind.
I reach behind me and grasp the book I’ve brought her. “Here,” I say, shoving the book toward her. “I found it for you.”
“Oh my gosh, Sasha!” Her voice carries the notes of delight I’d hoped it would.
I spent too fucking long finding that book for her—months of searching through used book shops in half the cities in Russia.
I’ve had it since I came home a month ago, but wanted to give it to her as a going away present—something to remember me by.
She gazes at the cover like she’s soaking it in. “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.” This fact has made her a pawn in my father’s games.
“I told you,” she says, like I don’t listen to a word she says, “it was my mother’s favorite book.
” She glances at the cover again, then continues like she often does—giving me small snippets of information, doling them out like treats.
And like a fool, I collect them, hoping that one day I’ll have a complete picture of who she is and what makes her tick.
“Mama had one just like this and she lost count of how many times she’d read it.
It was practically falling apart. But I don’t know what happened to it after she died.
It’s like it disappeared off our bookshelf. ”
A shiver runs up my spine as the darkness surrounding us seeps into me.
I know exactly where that tattered book is.
I’ve seen one matching its description on a shelf in my father’s private study many times and thought nothing of it.
Another piece of her family he’s taken from her and she doesn’t even know it.
“Well, now you have your own copy.” My words are gruff, full of finality.
I shouldn’t be running all over Russia doing her bidding when I’m supposed to be focusing on my hockey career.
Half the reason I joined up in the KHL was to get the hell away so I could stop obsessing over her. It clearly didn’t work.