Epilogue
PETRA
Fifteen Months Later
St. John, US Virgin Islands
“I got it!” Jackson gasps as she comes running through the open doors of the house to the pool out back.
Sierra, Lauren, and I look up from the lounge chairs we’re relaxing on under umbrellas. For the past twenty minutes we’ve been the judges for our significant others’ diving competition, where each dive has gotten more ridiculous because they’re nothing if not competitive.
“Got what?” Sierra asks, then groans as she pushes herself up to a full sitting position.
She folds her legs under her so she’s sitting crisscross with her adorable baby belly resting on her thighs.
The girl is glowing, her skin radiant and her long blond hair piled into a messy bun on top of her head; she looks like she’s going to have this baby any minute, even though she’s not due for another two and a half months.
Jackson pulls a rolled-up magazine out from behind her back and walks around the pool to bring it over to us.
I’m splayed across the cover in a white pantsuit with the black letters of the Vogue masthead above me.
I’m sitting with my knees spread out, the heels of nude Louboutins pegged over the rungs of a black stool.
One of my hands is resting on the stool between my legs and the other on my hip as I lean forward.
The low-cut blazer shows a tasteful amount of cleavage, and my dark curls fan out over my shoulders.
My lips match the red soles of my shoes.
Even though I’ve seen the photo before, and knew this was coming, it still takes me by surprise. “How . . .?”
“I only had to go to two stores to find it,” Jackson says excitedly.
“Three,” Nate coughs out from behind her, “but who’s counting?”
She rolls her eyes before turning toward him. “Obviously not you.”
Nate’s got two six-packs in his hands and heads toward the built-in cooler of the outdoor bar area on the opposite side of the pool.
Jackson sits down on the foot of my lounge chair, her ankles crossed and knees pressed together.
Her white empire waist dress falls around her baby bump.
Jackson’s only a month behind Sierra, but she barely looks pregnant.
She was so sick for the first four months of her pregnancy that she actually lost weight, and now she just has the perfect little belly—enough that you can tell she’s pregnant, but you’d never guess she’s so far along.
“What’s that say over the photo?” Lauren asks. She sets her margarita on the table beside her lounge chair and leans over toward Sierra so she can see the magazine better.
“Unstoppable Power, Meet Sex Appeal,” Jackson says.
I roll my eyes. “I begged them not to go with that,” I tell my friends. I hate the way it makes it seem like the two things are exclusive, like it’s an anomaly to be powerful and have sex appeal.
When water drips over my head, I look up in time to see Sasha’s lips descending toward my forehead.
“It’s out,” he says, a bit of awe in his voice, as he rains wet kisses across my hairline. We knew the magazine was releasing this weekend, but I’d honestly hoped to avoid it, and the spotlight, given that we would be away on our vacation.
Besides, this article is coming out on the heels of news that Tony Gionetti is going to prison for the next twenty-five years, and that’s the news I really care about.
CeCe claims she’s absolutely appalled at her soon-to-be ex-husband’s crimes, and is begging us to let her be a part of Stella’s life.
Sasha and I are still considering whether that would be good for Stella or not.
I reach up and run my fingers through his longer locks.
Every member of his team refused to cut their hair this entire season, and even though they lost in the semifinals over a month ago, he still hasn’t cut it.
Half the time he’s got it up in a man bun, which isn’t a look I thought I liked until I saw it on him.
Jackson makes a dramatic show of flipping to the article, then clears her throat.
“Petra Ivanova has a face that you just know you’ve seen somewhere, even if you can’t quite place her.
But these days, the number of people who aren’t sure how they know her is dwindling.
With an Emmy award-winning talk show under her belt, the former Olympic skier, model, and event planner opened up to Vogue about some of the challenges her newfound fame has brought.
‘I really value my privacy, and privacy for my family,’ Ivanova tells me when we meet for coffee on the terrace of the penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park that she shares with her husband, hockey player Alex Ivanov, and their seven-year-old daughter.
‘I know that with my career and my husband’s career, it’s not realistic to believe we can remain out of the public eye, but we used to at least be able to walk down the street without being recognized. ’”
Sierra runs her hand up and down my leg like she’s soothing me. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I know that famous people problems are not real problems.”
“Petra, acknowledging that you wish you had more privacy in life doesn’t make you a bad person, or ungrateful,” Lauren says. “You didn’t agree to do the show because you were looking to become a household name.”
“Yeah, but what did she think would happen after everyone found out how fabulous she is?” Jackson teases as she swats my knee with the magazine.
Behind me, Sasha chuckles. “Right? That’s what I’ve been telling her all along.” He rests his hands on my shoulders and gives me a supportive squeeze.
I already know I’m awesome, but for those moments when the doubt or anxiety creep in, or on days like today where it starts to feel like maybe it’s too much—too invasive, too taxing, too overwhelming—it’s good to have a support group who believes in me as much as, or more than, I believe in myself.
“Oh, wow.” Jackson sighs as she holds the magazine back up. “They reference ‘The Kiss.’”
“Oh God,” I groan, rolling my eyes back as I tilt my head up to look at Sasha.
It may have been one of the best moments of my life, but I’ve been forced to live it on repeat, nonstop for the last year.
Everyone remembers it. Everyone brings it up.
It’s the romantic grand gesture that will not die.
“You made the whole freaking world fall in love with you that day, you know?”
He raises his eyebrows and gives me a small shrug.
“Let’s hear it,” Sierra says, leaning toward Jackson so she can see the print. “Ooh, they included a photo of it too.”
Lauren reaches across the space between our lounge chairs and takes my fingertips in hers as Jackson reads, “Maybe it’s true that there was a time that the two could walk down the street together incognito, but that all changed a year ago when New York clinched the Stanley Cup in game seven of the finals.
The team celebrated on the ice as each player took his turn skating a lap around New York’s home rink with the Cup hoisted high above his head.
Quietly and without ceremony, Alex Ivanov skated away from his teammates, over to the side of the rink.
There, he kissed his hand and pressed it up against the glass in front of a beautiful woman wearing his jersey.
On the other side, she kissed her fingers in return, and held them up against his.
Fans near her caught the moment on video and everyone realized she was wearing a wedding ring. His wedding ring, as it turns out.
“Despite his long tenure on the team and his role as team captain, Ivanov mostly stayed out of the public eye, preferring to lead quietly by example. That all changed the night he skated over to his wife instead of basking in winning the Stanley Cup. But the two are secretive about their marriage. Ask them how long they’ve been married and they’ll tell you ‘a while’ .
. .” Jackson trails off and looks up at me.
“Do they only care about your marriage? What about your career?”
“Calm your outrage,” Sierra says. “I’m sure it’s all in there. They’re just starting out with how everyone first learned who Petra was.”
“That’s bullshit,” Jackson says. “Her show had already aired and been picked up for a second season before that even happened.”
Sasha is running his thumb up and down my neck—our secret signal that one of us is ready to leave.
“It’s all in there. Aleksandr and I have both read it,” I say, nodding up at my husband, “so while this is all new and fun for you, I’m getting bored of hearing about myself. I think we’ll go get ready for dinner.”
“We don’t need to leave for”—Lauren looks at her phone—“almost two hours.”
“Yeah, but I’m hot and sweaty and you know how long it takes for me to wash this hair,” I point to the rat’s nest of curls currently pulled back into a ponytail as I stand.
“Uh huh,” Sierra nods, her lips between her teeth like she’s trying not to laugh. “You go have fun ‘getting ready.’”
We turn to walk back into the house at the same time they all burst out laughing.
“They definitely know we’re leaving to have sex,” he says as he clasps my hand in his, “and I couldn’t care less.”
“Finally alone,” Sasha breathes into my neck as he pulls me up against him. We’ve only made it three steps into our bedroom.
“If I’d known you were trying to get me alone, I’d have made an excuse to come inside much sooner.” Thank goodness for our sign, I think as I run my hand through his hair. I can’t believe how sexy I find him with this shoulder-length hair.
“I’m always trying to get you alone.” He nips at my neck, grazing his teeth along the length of my skin until his lips are at my earlobe.
“Does that mean you don’t like hanging out with my friends?” I ask. This isn’t the first time we’ve all hung out together, and every time I’m thankful for how at ease he seems with my friends’ husbands. But this is the first time we’ve gone away on vacation together.