Chapter 25 #2
I step into a dark corner of the crowded room and pull my phone out of my clutch.
It’s been buzzing like crazy, but I’m surrounded by the who’s who of the television industry and I haven’t had a second to check it until just now.
When I see seventeen missed texts from Morgan, my stomach flips over.
We have a massive wedding tomorrow in Salt Lake City—a relatively famous “influencer” who is getting married in a small, private ceremony at the Salt Lake Temple with a lavish, huge reception in Temple Square.
Almost everyone on my staff has been working crazy hours in my absence to make sure everything goes off without a hitch.
And that red circle with a seventeen inside it glares at me like a big warning sign.
But when I open the texts, it’s just a series of details and confirmations about Aleksandr’s event next weekend.
The first message is an apology that she’s sending them by text, but she’s having some sort of problem with our email and for me not to worry, she’s already working with tech support on it.
Which is probably why she’s sending these messages after 8:00 p.m. her time.
I send off a quick, grateful reply and then put the phone back in my clutch just as Charley walks up.
“It’s about to start,” she says. “Let’s grab our seats.”
A waiter passes with champagne, and Charley tries to hand me one, but I decline. Adding champagne to my nervous stomach would be like lighting a dumpster on fire.
One hour later my stomach has settled itself, the knots of unease slowly untangled as each minute passed.
The episode was fucking brilliant. My guest was an amazing woman who, as a child, had escaped the genocide in Rwanda in the backpack of a South African journalist who hiked through the central plateau with that little child hidden in his camera bag for three days.
He not only saved her from death, but he gave her a life.
He died shortly after she graduated from college, and she dedicated her life to helping others as he’d helped her.
The international relief organization she’d founded is now the fourth largest in the world, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never meet a more inspiring person.
Personally, I’ve never looked better or sounded smarter than in this interview and somehow, watching it, everything looked so natural.
No hint of the exhaustion I was experiencing at the time we filmed.
Any mistakes or awkwardness were edited out.
It was one hour of TV perfection. Exactly the kind of show I’d watch.
The kind I’d want my daughters to see. I wonder what Aleksandr and Stella thought of it?
My phone has been vibrating silently in my bag throughout the entire show.
I can only imagine I have a slew of texts on the group chat with Lauren, Jackson, and Sierra, and probably a few from Aleksandr too.
I’d rather be watching this episode with any of them than stuck here in this fancy party.
So ironic, since this is very much my scene.
Or was. Now I want to be surrounded by people who truly love me, not just people who adore me.
Charley puts her hand on my forearm as Dave, one of the network executives, stands with a champagne glass in hand. All chatter that’s been buzzing around the room in the sixty seconds since the show ended comes to a grinding halt.
“Petra,” he calls out, and waves me over to him.
I leave my clutch behind and cross to the front of the room. A passing waitress discreetly hands me a champagne flute and I smile at her gratefully.
“Darling,” Dave says to me as I approach, “you’ve done it.” The room erupts in cheers and applause. “This show is smart and interesting and compelling, and it was a delight to watch.” More applause. “You were a delight to watch.”
I glance at him, then at Charley in her seat next to my empty one.
“I think most of the credit goes to Charley, actually. This show is her baby. The vision, the concept, the guests, that was all her.” I raise my glass to her, and she smiles, tilting her chin down in a thoughtful nod.
I stretch my arm out to her and cup my hand toward myself a few times until she gets up and crosses over to us.
Next to me, I get the feeling that Dave is bristling at the interruption to his speech, but I don’t even look at him because I don’t really care.
I take Charley’s hand in mine when she reaches me and whisper, “Feminism is a team effort.” Then I turn to Dave and give him my most winning smile.
“To Petra and to Charley,” he says as he holds up his champagne flute, and the room is on their feet, clapping and cheering.
I want to bask in the moment. I want to think about my career. I want to absorb the energy and excitement that’s surrounding me. But I can’t.
Even with everyone rushing up to us and congratulating me, all I feel is an aching emptiness.
I want Sasha here to share in this success.
I’ve sacrificed everything for this show, to meet this goal that I thought was going to make me feel so powerful and fulfilled.
But Maritza Delaney’s words from a few days ago are ringing through my head: “I’m a woman who has chosen my own happiness over anyone else’s expectations and that, I believe, is what makes me a feminist.”
But I’ve done the opposite, haven’t I? I didn’t want to leave Aleksandr and Stella behind in New York.
I left because I’d agreed to film this show, and because I was scared to admit the depth of my feelings.
I was scared to give up the show—it was my opportunity to promote the valuable work women are doing in this world.
Leaving to come do this show felt like I was living out my feminist ideals, fighting for women everywhere rather than giving everything up for a man.
But what did I really give up? My own happiness?
I think back to how Maritza rhetorically asked, “What is feminism if it’s not unapologetically going after what you want?”
When I was in New York, it was easy to wonder if what I was feeling was just “in the moment” feelings that would pass when I left.
But this time away from them has made me more confident than ever that those feelings are real.
That it could actually work between Aleksandr and me, and that I could—even already do—love Stella like a daughter.
What am I even doing here in LA?
What feels like hours later, the party is winding down and I make it back to my chair, anxious to grab my stuff and head home.
I want to read my messages from my friends.
I’m hoping that Aleksandr and Stella sent me a video message after watching the show.
I know I won’t be able to call them because it’s almost three in the morning on the East Coast, but I’m aching to see their faces, hear their voices.
I open my clutch and slip my phone out, anxious to read my messages as I walk out to the car I know is waiting to take me home. But the most recent one, the one that came through only minutes ago, has my breath escaping my lips in a low hiss.
Alicia
Girl, I have BIG questions.