Page 19 of One Last Shot

CHAPTER6

PETRA

“Twice in one week,” Emily smiles as she slips into the seat next to me. “I haven’t seen this much of you since I visited you in Park City, what was it, three years ago?”

“That sounds right,” I say, taking a sip of my sangria.

“Are you drinking wine?” Emily laughs. “With fruit in it?”

I tend to like my alcohol neat, the way I grew up seeing my Russian family and friends drink it. Beer and wine are a last resort, and don’t even get me started on fruity cocktails.

I roll my eyes. “I know. This is such a Sierra drink.” This tapas bar Emily recommended only serves beer, wine, and sangria, so I went with the house specialty since they’re supposedly known for it. My best friend Sierra loves drinks like this, and I constantly give her shit about it.

“How’s Sierra doing?” Emily asks, fondness softening her voice. She and Sierra have very similar personalities—extremely sweet and constantly wanting to think the best of everyone. Emily likes Jackson and Lauren too, but I think Sierra is her favorite.

“She’s off traveling the world with her boyfriend.”

“Wait, what? I thought Sierra was engaged?”

“Long story. But her fiancé cheated on her and now she is dating Jackson’s younger brother.” I tell her a bit about how that all happened.

“Wow, that sounds so unlike Sierra,” Emily says, and she could not be more right.

“Yes, and I’ve honestly never known her to be happier. It’s like once she accepted that not everything goes according to plan, she was able to really start living her life, and she’s loving it.”

“And Jackson is back in New Hampshire now?” Emily asks. Jackson is my oldest and best friend. We met when we were twenty and both competing on the World Cup alpine skiing circuit. She raced for the US and I raced for Austria, and despite being each other’s competition, we became fast friends. In fact, she’s the only one from my ski days that I still keep in touch with. The only one from any previous part of my life, except Emily, actually.

“Yep, back in New Hampshire, married, and running her own ski resort. Well, her and her husband’s.”

“Oh yes, I remember that delicious hottie from the photos you posted from their wedding. You were a stunning bridesmaid, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“So Jackson moved back to New Hampshire and got married, Lauren’s married with twins, right?” she asks and I nod. “And Sierra’s traveling the world with her boyfriend. Are you all alone in Park City?”

“Of course I’m not all alone,” I scoff, even though it does sometimes feel like that. “I mean, Lauren’s still there, but yeah, the twins keep her kind of busy. But work keeps me plenty busy too.”

Besides, Jackson and Nate will be in Park City this weekend for a ski getaway now that their resort is closed for the season. And she was just out for Sierra’s birthday a few months ago, so it’s not like I don’t see her.

“Petra,work is not life,” she slowly repeats the mantra she’s always held dear.

“You know me.” I shrug, lifting the wine glass toward my lips.

There’s nothing I want more in life than to let my successes prove all the naysayers wrong. All those times I finished in the top three and stood on a World Cup podium holding my skis up—that was a big screw you to all the annoying boys who said I’d never be fast enough. And the years I modeled, every magazine I was in and every runway I walked down—that was for the girls in my high school who told me my lips were too big and eyes were too wide for my face, and called me a gazelle because of my skinny legs, and made fun of my chest because I was already a D cup by freshman year. When I left New York to start my own event planning company, that was to prove to my mentor Patrice—who said I would never make it without her company’s name backing my work—that I could not only survive, but thrive. This TV show I’m set to start filming next month, this is for the scared teenager I once was, who couldn’t imagine surviving without her mom, much less envision herself thriving the way I am now.

I. Don’t. Rest.

“I worry about you, you know,” she says as she takes her glass of sangria from the bartender.

“Worry if you want”—I shrug—“but you’re wasting your time and energy. I’m doing something I love and I’m wildly successful at it. I’m happy, Emily. You don’t need to worry.”

She tilts her head slightly, appraising me. I don’t crack under her gaze. Am I really happy? Sure, I’m happy enough. Am I satisfied with my life? Yes, absolutely. Is something missing? That’s a question I refuse to consider.

“If you say so,” she says. “So, how much longer are you in town?”

“A couple more days, max. I was supposed to leave today, actually. But that supersecret client I was telling you about hired me to plan a party for him and I needed to stay a few more days to find a venue.”

“Can you tell me who he is?” Emily asks, one eyebrow raised slightly.

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