Page 3 of One Last Shot

My eyes are focused on his face and I wonder if he knows I’m talking about him, too. The way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, he must.

He shifts his weight back and forth between his feet—he seems edgy or nervous around me lately. Then he takes a step closer. He’s only a breath away, and I reach up to rest my hand on his chest. I’m amazed at how solid he is, how beneath my hand his pecs feel like stone that’s been sitting in the sun all day. The man’s all muscle and radiates heat. But despite the way my body craves his, I still see the boy I’ve loved for years.

My eyes are locked on his, and his ragged breath meets my face in shuddering waves. His eyes do that thing they sometimes do where it looks like his irises are changing color—a swirling riot of different shades of gray—as they skim over my face and land on my lips. Then he extends one of his strong, capable hands and rests it on my hip, his calloused fingertips caressing a soft patch of bare skin above my waistband.

“I have something for you. A going away gift, of sorts.” He pulls away, just a small step. But his voice is a low, soft caress and the sound of it brings goose bumps to my skin in the same way I imagine it would if he trailed his lips along my neck. “Meet me at the treehouse in an hour?”

Our secret meeting spot is a treehouse that Mr. Ivanov had built for his boys when they were little. Back then, my brother Viktor was welcome there, but they always pulled the rope ladder up so I couldn’t join them. When they outgrew it, abandoning climbing trees in favor of organized sports, the treehouse became my hiding spot. The place I could find solitude for hours with snacks and a good book. The place I could cry when the girls at school were especially mean. The place I could plan out a future where I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t care what people thought about me.

It’s also where I went, despite the snow and freezing temperatures, when I first learned about the car crash. It was there that Sasha found me and held me while we both cried. It was the beginning of our friendship, where we turned the corner from neighbors to people who truly cared about each other. Over the years, we’ve continued to meet there frequently. It’s a refuge from a world that can often be too harsh.

His hand is still on my hip, the pads of his fingers resting on the skin of my lower back and his thumb gently stroking my stomach. “Yes,” I agree. “The treehouse at nine.”

“I’ll see you then,” he says and steps away. I turn and rush back to my house, knowing with utter certainty:Everything is about to change.

* * *

My hands are shaking from the anticipation and excitement as I scurry up the rope. The straw bag I’ve looped over my shoulder swings back and forth, continuously sliding forward and hitting my knees as I climb. When I’m close enough to the top, I use one hand to lift the bag onto the floor of the treehouse and climb in behind it. I only have a few minutes to get everything set up before Sasha gets here.

I spread the patchwork quilt over the dusty floor and take the candles out of the bottom of the bag. With only two small windows looking out into the leafy branches, the inside of the treehouse is pitch- black even though there’s still a little light in the sky. Not only will the candles be necessary if we want to see each other, I’m hoping to create a romantic atmosphere for our goodbye tonight.

This feels like our last chance.

If we leave this summer without acting on these feelings growing between us, we might never have the opportunity. He might meet someone in Russia, or I’ll meet someone at school. Our lives are already heading in opposite directions. If there’s nothing more than friendship to bind us together, I’m afraid he’ll just drift away from me. And I’ve lost too many people already, so I’m planning to hold on to him with the strength and love he deserves.

His head pops up through the hole in the floor as I’m on my hands and knees lighting the third and final candle. “What’s this?” He looks around with one of his unreadable expressions stitched across his face.

I push up so I’m standing on my knees, and I know my skirt is bunched up around my thighs because his eyes pause there for a moment, just like they lingered earlier. Then they move to my belly, focusing on that sliver of skin between the waistband of my denim skirt and the tight button-down sweater I’m wearing. I hope this is a good sign—with Sasha, it can be hard to tell.

“I wanted to be able to see you in this dark, old place.”

His half smile is a rare, hard- won victory. A relieved sigh escapes my lips.

“Well, are you coming in or just going to hang out on the ladder all night?” I ask.

The muscles in his arms flex as he plants his hands on the floor and pulls himself up into our secret room. The space is far too small for either of us to stand up in now that we’re fully grown, so he sits cross-legged on the blanket, facing me. I sit back on my heels, which puts us at eye level despite our height difference.

For a minute we just stare at each other, that awkwardness that didn’t used to exist suspended in the air between us. Then he reaches behind him. “Here.” The word is gruff, and he shoves a book I hadn’t noticed him arrive with into my hands. “I found it for you.”

I glance down at the book in question even though I know by his statement, by the pride in his voice, what it’ll be. “Oh my gosh, Sasha!” I gasp. “I can’t believe it.”

“Why would you even want a first edition ofWar and Peacein Russian? You don’t know how to read it.”

“I told you, it was my mother’s favorite book.” I glance at the slightly worn hardback cover again. “Mama had one just like this and she lost count of how many times she’d read it. It was practically falling apart. I don’t know what happened to it after she died. It’s like it disappeared off our bookshelf.”

His left eye twitches, which only happens when he’s lying about something. He pauses a beat too long. “Well, now you have your own copy.”

“Thank you,” I say as I hug the book to my chest and try to ignore my curiosity about whatever it is he’s hiding from me. Then I reach to the side and set it down at the edge of the blanket. When I turn back toward him, his eyes are focused on my body again. Somehow I don’t mind, even though I hate it when the boys at school ogle me like this. I wait for his eyes to drift up to my face.

His lips part like he’s going to say something, but no words come out. The look on his face is something akin to pain.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He swallows again. “Nothing.” His left eye twitches.

I scoot forward on my knees so we’re only a foot apart. “Sasha, you’re my best friend and I need you to stop lying to me.” There’s a palpable tension in the air, something electric that is snaking its way around us. If I reach out and touch him now, sparks will fly and we’ll both burst into flames. I want that—the thrill of touching him, the fire that would erupt between us—more than I’ve ever wanted anything. And it feels possible, within my grasp for the first time ever, because finally he seems to see me the same way I see him.

“What’s wrong?” I ask again, leaning in close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. I’m torn between wanting him so badly it hurts, and wanting to understand why he doesn’t even look like himself. He’s good at staying calm, wearing that mask that hides all his feelings. But this isn’t his normal mask. This is something else entirely.

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