Chapter 8 #4
I wonder sometimes what Petra’s childhood was like.
She never talks about it and evades questions when they are asked.
I know the bare minimum: her American mother and Russian father met and married in Russia, and settled down in Austria where she grew up.
Her mother and older brother died in a tragic accident when she was thirteen.
I know a ton about her years skiing on the World Cup circuit, which is where she met and became good friends with Jackson.
But I wonder who she was before she became this Wonder Woman-like goddess who is fiercely protective of her friends, yet doesn’t really know how to show us she loves us.
“Oh God.” Lauren sighs. “You really will spoil them, won’t you? You’ll probably come over and do their makeup, and take them out to fancy restaurants, and make them have these big dreams about what they can do in life.”
“Pretty much,” Petra says and takes another sip of her martini.
“And Sierra will be the one they come to when they need advice, or when they’re mad at their parents and need a sympathetic ear.
And we should let her take them shopping for all their bras and panties, because did you know the girl has a lingerie collection to rival a Victoria’s Secret model? ”
“Really?” Lauren says, one eyebrow arched as she looks at me with amusement. “Do tell.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I just like pretty underwear. So I collect it.” I don’t really know why they don’t know this about me, it’s not like it’s a secret. “Why is it such a big deal?” I ask Petra.
“You’re like the quintessential good girl. The girl next door. The good one,” she emphasizes.
“You are repeating yourself,” I inform her. She’s using the word good like it’s a bad quality.
“You just . . .” Petra looks to Lauren for backup.
“I think you already made your point,” Lauren says, but she doesn’t disagree with Petra.
“So let me get this straight,” I say, grabbing my cocktail. “You think I’m too much of a Goody Two-shoes to have a collection of sexy lingerie?”
“I don’t even know what a Goody Two-shoes is,” Petra says and I’m pretty sure she’s playing up her accent, “but if it means you seem too virtuous and well-behaved to also strut around in sexy underwear, then yes.”
I give Lauren a questioning look.
“I mean, I’m a little surprised too. But more power to you,” she says, raising her glass and clinking it with mine.
“Now let’s use that sexy lingerie collection to get you properly fucked,” Petra says, bringing her glass up to join ours. “Are you going to see that guy you met last weekend again?”
“Yeah, we have a date tomorrow. He’s taking me to dinner.”
“Good,” Petra says, the word rolling off her tongue like a purr.
“How are you feeling about dating again?” Lauren asks as she brushes her long red hair behind her shoulder, her voice gentle because she understands that this is hard. Unlike Petra, she knows what it’s like to get your heart broken.
“Honestly, I don’t even know. I’m still so angry about what Peter did to me. I was so blindsided by it, I just don’t know how I could trust anyone again. I don’t really think I can even trust myself.”
“Did you really love him?” Lauren asks, and when my head spins toward her in surprise, she rushes on with, “Hear me out. You were engaged to the man for over a year, but neither of you seemed in a hurry to set a wedding date. And when he cheated on you, you were, and still are, rightfully pissed. But never once have you expressed that you were certain Peter was the one, or that you don’t know how you’ll live without him. You don’t seem heartbroken.”
“I don’t know why we didn’t set a date,” I tell my friends.
“I felt like every time I brought it up, Peter had a good reason for not settling on a specific time. And I was afraid if I pushed too hard . . .” I haven’t told my friends about my mom’s family’s ridiculous curse.
Jackson is the only other person in my life who knows.
How do I explain this without explaining that I was afraid I’d cause it to come true for me too?
To my right, Petra perks up. “Hon, if you were afraid that insisting on setting a date over a year after getting engaged was going to result in you and Peter breaking it off, then that marriage was never meant to happen.”
I take a drink of my margarita and let the combination of the sweetness and saltiness wash down my protests that it was just the curse I was afraid of.
Because if our relationship was strong enough in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to worry about some stupid family curse that I don’t even believe in, right?
“Well, I think going out with Jared tomorrow night’s a good first step in walking away from that relationship,” I tell my friends.
They both agree that this is the right attitude, and I only wish that I believed my date with Jared would somehow help anything.
That little text exchange we shared in the entryway before he left was cute—the kind of thing that the old me would have run through her mind over and over, seeing it as a hopeful sign that he was really into me.
But I’ve hardly heard from him since—just a quick text telling me (not asking) what time he was going to pick me up on Saturday.
I don’t quite feel like I can trust him. Or anyone, for that matter.