Page 11 of One Last Shot

“I wouldn’t have to go to bed early if you’d let me stay at Harper’s,” Stella complains as she stomps her foot on the bathroom rug. It’s hard to take her seriously in her fuzzy pink bathrobe with her wet curls hanging heavy around her face.

“Harper invited you to spend the night this weekend, not tonight. Besides, you’re not going to bed early,” I say again. “You’re going to bed at the exact time you always do.”

“But you’re making me go to bed before your company comes over. That’s not fair. I want to meet her. You let me stay up late and say ‘hi’ when Mr. Shepherd comes over.”

“That’s different,” I say as I hang her towel on the back of the door. “Do you want braids tonight?”

“No, I want to meet your friend who is going to help us. If she was your best friend when you were little, did she know my papa too?”

Stella is much more comfortable talking about her parents than I am. Growing up, my big brother was my idol. As adults, he was my best friend. And not having him around now makes it hard to talk about him through the lump in my throat every time he comes up in conversation. “I don’t know if she’s going to help us yet, Stella. That’s what I’m going to talk to her about. And yes, your dad knew Petra too.”

“Then I should get to meet her.” Stella presses her lips together as she waits for my response. Someday, this kid is going to be a ruthless CEO.

“Maybe another time,” I say. With any luck, Petra will agree to my ruse and will be around for a while.

“At least tell me what she looks like. Is she beautiful?” Stella grabs a comb and two rubber bands from the top drawer of the bathroom vanity and casually hands them to me like she didn’t just tell me she didn’t want braids.

“Yes, she’s very beautiful.” There’s no point in lying about Petra’s beauty. She was gorgeous when she was a teenager, and if it’s possible, she’s gotten even more gorgeous over time. Now, she has the look of a woman who knows what she wants and how to get it, and this is my favorite version of Petra that I’ve seen.

Stella climbs up on the counter of the vanity and sits cross-legged with her back to me, but she’s studying me carefully in the mirror. “Why was your best friend a girl?”

Why am I having this conversation with a child?

“I don’t know, she just was,” I say as I use the comb to part her hair down the middle and brush half of it to one side. “She lived in a little house in my backyard called the caretaker’s cottage.”

“Why was it a little house? Is she small like a fairy?”

I can’t help but laugh at the inner workings of the six-year-old mind. “No, it was a normal house, just small compared to mine, I guess. Her dad took care of my family’s property and her mom was a teacher at the school your dad and I went to. Petra went to school there too.”

“Was she your age, or Papa’s age?”

“Neither. She’s three years younger than me, so she was five years younger than your dad.”

Her eyebrows scrunch up and her nose twitches, a classic Stella thinking face. I divide the hair into three equal-sized sections and then begin braiding them as I watch her think about this.

“But why was she your best friend if she was so much younger?” she asks. “That would be like my best friend being a three-year-old.”

“Good subtraction.” We’ve been working on extra math lately. “But she wasn’t my best friend when I was your age,” I say, considering how much to tell her.

“Why not?”

“I was good friends with her older brother. We played hockey together.”

As I tie the elastic around the end of her first braid, she looks at me in the mirror like I haven’t answered her question at all—which I haven’t. Petra’s family’s story is riddled with tragedy, and I’m not sure how much is appropriate to share with someone Stella’s age who has her own family trauma.

“But then, why did you become friends with her?” She is nothing if not persistent.

I move to the other side of her head and divide that hair into three. “Her brother and mom died in a car accident,” I tell her. “She and I became closer when that happened.”

“Like how my mom and dad died?” she asks, and I nod. “If she’s your best friend, how come I haven’t met her before?”

“She was my best friend when I was a kid. Sometimes you grow apart from people as you get older.”

“Does that mean Harper and I won’t be friends when we’re older?”

I groan internally. This parenting thing is hard work. Constantly worrying about the right way to explain things, trying to help shape this little person into a strong and resilient young woman. Why did I think I could do this? Not that there was another choice, but I worry that I’m failing her every day.

“No, not necessarily. Look at your mom and Harper’s mom. They were friends since they were kids, and maybe you and Harper will be too.”

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