Chapter 17
Ghosts to Chase Away
Prague, Czechia
ZLATA
The room feels dark, the shadows on the walls as heavy as the deep red wine I swirl in my glass.
I’m glad Anna is out tonight; I wanted to watch the evening races from Saalbach properly, when I can savor them.
And I’m glad she isn’t here to witness me practically salivating over the sad, hot Austrian I deliberately dumped weeks ago.
Only he doesn’t look sad anymore, which shouldn’t bother me, but it does.
After Adelboden, I let myself believe I was the reason he found his drive again, that I’d somehow nudged him back into focus.
Now I’ve dumped him, and he’s gone and demolished the competition in both GS and slalom over one weekend, delivering his best skiing of the season.
I hate myself for thinking like this; I should be happy for him.
But some ugly, selfish part of me obviously hoped that our little breakup wouldn’t work quite that well in his favor.
It looks like I was just a fling after all.
Which is good, right? I haven’t hurt anyone; I shouldn’t be wishing for the opposite.
Fabio skied like the champion he is, and what’s more, he even seemed genuinely happy for his teammate.
He looked like he wouldn’t have minded Kern beating him, which didn’t happen in the end.
The commentators were amazed by this new version of Fabio Baier, talking about how the angry kid who used to smash his poles when someone beat him, teammate or not, seemed to be gone. They said he’d grown up.
I wish I could say the same about myself.
I take a sip of wine to chase away the bile rising in my throat as my mind circles back to my last therapy session. I’d been so sure my therapist would praise me for my decision to dump Fabio—for choosing to handle my messy life first, to get my head straight before jumping into a new relationship.
“It’s your choice, Zlata, and only you know why you did it,” she said, wise and slightly condescending as always.
“Just be careful you’re not sabotaging your chance at happiness and masking it as the need to do the right thing.
Because you do deserve to be happy, even when your mind’s not perfect, or your motivation isn’t entirely clean. You’ll never be perfect. Nobody is.”
I’ve spent days journaling, meditating, thinking it over from every angle.
Is it possible I was just scared of commitment? That I walked away from my one shot at happiness with a genuinely good guy because, deep down, I don’t believe I deserve it?
None of my previous relationships were as toxic as Peter, but none of them were good.
I’ve always seemed to fall for the wrong man, the complicated one, the one who needed fixing.
And I’ve spent enough time in therapy, learning about the little mysteries of the subconscious, to know that’s not a coincidence.
So is this it? The moment I finally meet a man who isn’t an ass, I run.
Too late for that thought now, isn’t it?
Fabio got dumped, and there is no universe in which a man would take me back after I broke up with him over text.
Definitely not now. When I met him, he was the sad Austrian whose life was falling apart.
Now he’s back in full focused-champion mode.
What could a Czech hobby racer possibly offer him now?
The doorbell rings, sharp and unexpected, cutting straight through the fog of my thoughts. It rings so hard it rattles the glass in the door. I jump, sloshing wine onto my fingers.
Nobody who likes you rings like that, my stomach says.
I wipe my hand on my leggings and go to the door anyway, more annoyed than afraid. Old habits make me glance through the peephole.
Peter.
He’s swaying a little in the harsh stairwell light, one hand jammed in his coat pocket, the other hovering near the bell again. His smile is broad and too loose, like it might slide off his face if he stops concentrating. Even through the door, I can tell he’s had a drink or five. Typical.
Of course. Saturday night, and my past is standing on the doormat.
I open the door on the chain, just enough to see him properly. “Peter. It’s late.”
“Zlatooo,” he drawls, relief pouring out of him. “There you are. Thought you’d ghosted Prague for good.”
“I live here,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
He leans closer, peering through the gap like we’re sharing a secret. “I came to talk,” he says. “To apologize. To give you what I owe. Can I come in? I’m freezing.”
The old reflex pops up—make it easy, don’t be rude. I look at him again. Glassy eyes, pink cheeks, swaying, yes. But not raging, not shouting. Just… sloppy.
I sigh and slide the chain off. “Five minutes,” I say. “Then I’m going back to my evening.”
He grins like he’s won something. “Perfect,” he says, and nudges the door wider with his foot as I step back.
Cold air and the sharp, sour smell of alcohol spill in with him as he stumbles across the threshold.
He shrugs off his scarf and drops it on the radiator like muscle memory, toeing his shoes halfway off without using his hands.
His jacket ends up on the back of a chair.
It’s unnerving how efficiently his body takes over the space I live in.
“You look amazing,” he says, turning back to me, eyes sweeping from my sweater to my bare feet. “Better than ever. I missed you.”
“Okay,” I say, because I have no idea what else to do with that. “Do you want water?”
He laughs. “Always the hostess,” he says. “No, I’m fine.” He wanders into the living room like it’s his, glancing at the TV. “Of course,” he snorts. “Ski races.”
“It’s Saalbach,” I say automatically. “Last GS before the Finals.”
He drops onto the end of the couch, sprawling. “You and your gates,” he says, shaking his head. “Come sit. I didn’t come to fight.”
I stay standing, the coffee table between us. I will not be ordered around in my own living room. “So why did you come?”
He lets his head tip back against the cushions, eyes half-closing. “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “About us. About how I… messed up. I wanted to say sorry. Properly. Not in some stupid text.”
It would have knocked me over a year ago. Now it lands and doesn’t quite penetrate. I fold my arms.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Thank you for saying it.”
His eyes snap open, like he didn’t expect it to be that easy. “That’s it?” he asks. “No yelling? No tears?”
“I’ve done plenty of both over the years,” I answer. “They didn’t change much.”
He watches me for a long moment, trying to locate the old Zlata inside this one. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling between them.
“We were perfect together,” he says, softer now. “You remember? Parties, trips, every other couple wanting to be like us. You in that red dress on New Year’s Eve, fuck.” He shakes his head, smiling at the memory. “Nobody looked like you; everybody envied me.”
Something in my chest tightens, but it’s nostalgia, not longing. “People liked the picture,” I say. “That doesn’t mean we were good for each other.”
He frowns. “You make it sound like I was some monster.”
“I didn’t say that. And I don’t think you’re a monster,” I say. “I think we were a bad mix. For me, at least.”
He lets that sit, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He’s waiting for me to soften it, throw in a joke at my own expense. I don’t.
“So what,” he says eventually, the edge creeping in. “You’re too good for me now? Little Zlata grew a spine and decided she’s above the stupid DJ?”
“I didn’t say that,” I reply. “I’m saying I don’t want to be with you. That’s different.”
His mouth twists. “Since when do you talk like that?” he scoffs. “‘Different,’ ‘bad mix.’ Therapist vocabulary.”
“Yes,” I say. “My therapist’s good.”
He barks a humorless laugh. “Right. How much are you paying her to tell you I’m the villain?”
“She’s not telling me anything,” I say. “She’s asking questions. I’m the one answering.”
That, weirdly, seems to bother him more than anything. His gaze flicks to the notebook on the coffee table, the pen lying across it.
“And writing shit down, too?” he says. “Journaling, right? You and your little self-help projects.” His eyes cut back to the TV for a second, where Fabio is standing in the start gate, helmet on, focused. “Still playing your kids’ races on weekends?”
“Yes,” I answer. “And I’m racing better than ever.”
He snorts but stops himself, like he remembers the agenda: “I never truly appreciated that. Is that it?”
It didn’t land the way he expected. I feel almost sorry for him. However small this might feel, I know that for him, saying this feels like a self-help miracle.
“You didn’t,” I admit. “But it was wrong of me to ask that of you. Now I know, it’s real to me and it’s enough.”
He stares, incredulous, obviously me trying to be nice just backfired. “You hear yourself?” he demands. “Since when is ‘to me’ enough? I worked my ass off to get us into real places, meet real people. This—he gestures around the room—this is basically my place. I helped you get it.”
“You asked your friend about an empty flat,” I correct. “And shouted at me for an hour, when you learned I was serious about taking it and moving out.”
His eyes flash. “Wow,” he says. “Look at you. Miss Independent. Must be nice. Someone finally fucked you properly, is that it?”
The words hit like a slap before the slap. I go very still. A month ago, this would’ve sent me into a hole of shame I wouldn’t crawl out of for days.
Now I hear the sentence and, under the rage, I hear something else: desperation. A man realizing the old levers don’t work.
“My sex life is not up for discussion,” I say, each word careful. “And if you talk about my body like that again, you’re leaving immediately.”