Page 33 of One Last Shot

“I wish,” I say.Do I tell her about Aleksandr and Stella?No, not yet. “I just have to finish up the planning I’m doing in New York and I’ll fly home Saturday morning. Maybe we can grab dinner that night and catch up?”

“We’re just settling in tonight, and we’re meeting up with Lauren and Josh tomorrow night, so dinner Saturday would be great. And I can’t wait to ski with you on Sunday!” It’s not a squeal because that’s not Jackson’s style—she’s one of the most composed, competitive, and caring people I know—but there’s true excitement in her voice.

“Same. Seriously, I have no one to ski with in Park City since you moved away.” With Jackson and I having both been professional skiers, it’s hard to find anyone else who skis at our level. And even though she traveled for most of the winter when she was working for the National Ski Team, we got to ski together any time she was home.

“You need to find new friends who are as passionate about skiing as you are.”

“Easier said than done.” Most of the time when I meet people on the mountain who are truly exceptional skiers, they are pros who are just passing through as they travel to different mountains every week or so. I’ve met a lot of great people that way, but there’s no one I can call up to ski with except for Lauren’s husband Josh, who was also on the National Ski Team at one point.

“Hey,” she says, clearly shifting the conversation. “What’s this big news you said you had?”

For a split second I panic, thinking she’s talking about Aleksandr. Then I remember that I was going to tell her about the show.

“This is still top secret,” I tell her as I amble down the sidewalk, in no hurry to get back to my hotel room alone.

“Oh, my favorite kind of secret.” She laughs.

“No, seriously. I signed all kinds of paperwork and I’m only allowed to tell immediate family. Which basically means you’re the only one who can know.” Jackson is pretty much a sister to me and she’s also a vault. On the rare occasion I’ve ever said anything about my past, she’s held those secrets close, not even sharing them with our other best friends, Sierra and Lauren. Or, as far as I know, with her husband Nate.

“I’m honored,” she says, a tiny hint of teasing in her voice.

“About a year ago, I planned a wedding for the daughter of this really famous television producer. Seriously, this woman is a total badass.” I tell her a bit about the shows she’s produced and even Jackson, who isn’t easily impressed, is impressed. “I worked pretty closely with her through the planning process, and right before the wedding, she said she was going to keep me in mind for the right TV opportunity. I assured her I had no interest in television work.”

“Too much objectification?” Jackson asks.

“Yeah, pretty much anywhere a camera is involved.” I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me. She knows exactly how I feel about the way the media treats women. “Anyway, she was persistent. She’s contacted me with opportunities a couple times and each time I’ve emphatically said ‘no.’ And then a couple months ago she called me with something totally different. A talk show about the female experience in America. The chance to interview women with extraordinary stories from all walks of life. And something about that really spoke to me.”

“I’ll bet. That’s right up your alley,” Jackson agrees. “So did you audition?”

“Yes, I flew to LA a couple months ago for the audition, and then I didn’t hear anything for a while, so mentally I moved on. Then a couple weeks ago she called and offered me the job. I really had to think about it. When I left New York, I swore I was never stepping in front of a camera again. But this ... this feels worth it.”

“Wow. So what’s this entail? Do you have to move to LA?”

“Yes, for the next few months. We’ll film the entire first season in about six weeks, and then I need to stay in LA for the publicity and promotion. I’ve been assured that after that, I should be able to just fly back and forth for filming. I’m going to tell my events team about it next week, and we’ll figure out a plan for running my business while I’m in LA.”

“This is a lot to process,” Jackson says. “You’ve been so private since you stopped modeling. But good, you’re finally back to being yourself. This is such a great opportunity, I’m really happy for you.”

“I went back and forth about it for a while, but can you imagine? I get to talk to all kinds of women about the exceptional lives they’ve lived, the things they’ve overcome to get where they are. And I get to promote them and their successes. That’s the dream, right there. I’m not relishing the idea of being in the spotlight again, but if it helps me empower and maybe inspire other women, I’ll do it. In fact, the more I think about it, the more excited I am!”

“I can’t wait to hear more about this when I see you on Saturday,” Jackson says. She sounds distracted, and as I hear Nate’s voice in the background, I know why. Even though they’ve been back together for over a year and married for a few months, it still feels like they’re playing catch-up for all the years they lost between their epic breakup and their reunion.

“Okay, I’ll let you go,” I say. “Looking forward to seeing you soon.”

“Me too. Love you,” she says.

“You too,” I say. I hang up as I’m approaching the doors of my hotel. But instead of turning and going in, I keep walking toward Midtown. I’m too keyed up to go up to my room and relax, so I figure I’ll just walk until some of this anxious energy dissipates. And maybe the fresh air and the time to think will help me figure out what to do about Aleksandr and Stella.

* * *

Riding the elevator the sixteen floors to Aleksandr’s apartment is starting to feel normal, which is surreal considering that five days ago I didn’t know he was in New York or that he had a six-year-old niece who I’m actually going to miss. But I have to get back to my life, I can’t stay here forever.

When the doors open, he’s waiting for me in the living room, sitting there casually on one of the couches with one foot resting on the opposite knee and aSports Illustratedin his hands. His eyes lock on mine and he studies my face like he’s trying to figure out how I’m feeling about things after last night’s conversation. Or was it a fight? His face is as impassive as mine, each of us refusing to let the other know how we’re feeling right now.

“Thanks for stopping by,” he says. There’s no tone to decipher in his voice. It’s neither a heartfelt statement nor a sarcastic one, but rather the type of bland comment I’d make at the beginning of a meeting with a new client.

“I wanted to say goodbye to Stella,” I reply. Even though he already knows this from my texts earlier today, I feel the need to remind him that I’m here for her, not for him. “And I brought some pictures of the possible party locations I visited today.”

I don’t like fighting with Aleksandr. I never have. When I was a teenager, I relished arguing with him because it was the only way I could see the cracks in his calm exterior, but it was always lighthearted teasing, seeing if I could get him worked up. That’s not what this is—on my part, this is actual anger about how he didn’t step in and protect Stella from her uncle.

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