Page 53 of One Last Shot

“Yes! I’m going to get straight hair today!” Her excitement is rolling off her in waves.

“You know,” she says, “my hair is curly too. But more wavy than curly, and I’d love to have your beautiful, perfect curls.”

Stella eyes Emily’s straight hair. “Your hair isn’t always straight?”

Emily pulls her phone out. “Nope. Here, let me show you a picture.” She opens her social media and scrolls back to a picture I remember her posting this past winter when she was on a yacht in the Caribbean with some friends. I remember her makeup-free, curly haired look and how carefree and happy she seemed in the pictures. Emily squats down next to Stella to show her the pictures. “See, this is what my hair looks like when I don’t do anything to it.”

“It’s beautiful,” Stella says.

“Yep, because curly hair is awesome. And if I had your perfect curls, I don’t think I’d straighten my hair very often. Don’t forget that!” she says as she stands back up.

“Thank you,” I whisper as I hug her goodbye. I love how she instinctively knows we need to empower the next generation to love themselves, to not listen to all the bullshit about how you need to look a certain way in order to be loved, accepted, or desired. And I love that her modeling priorities these days reflect that, how she’s working to change that industry from the inside out.

We walk half a block to the car, and Sasha holds the door open for Stella to climb in first. When I move to step in behind her, he stretches his arm out and rests his hand on the roof of the car, blocking the door. “Is everything okay?”

I look up at him, the confusion likely evident on my face. “Yeah, why?”

He dips his head toward mine and my heart speeds up. “You just called me Aleksandr several times.”

“That’s your name.”

“You only use that name when you’re mad at me.”

I pause, then let out a small and silent laugh. “Maybe you’re right. But apparently I’m the only one who calls you Sasha. To everyone else, you’re Alex. That just sounds wrong to me, so I will probably always call you Aleksandr in front of other people.”

“Okay.” His nod is curt.

“Do I really call you Aleksandr when I’m mad?”

“So far as I’ve noticed.” He moves his arm out of the way and gestures me into the car, then closes the door and goes around to the other side to sit behind the driver.

When he gets in the car, I glance at him over Stella’s head, and the desire that runs through my veins is reminiscent of being sixteen again.

“How soon after our hair appointment am I going to Harper’s?” Stella asks as the driver pulls away from the curb. “I can’t wait for her to see me with straight hair!”

Sasha and I share a look. I think we’ve both just realized that we’ll be alone together tonight. My body visibly shudders as a wave of longing moves through me. This is so very dangerous.

* * *

“What are you crazy kids going to do with your night off?” Sofia jokes as Stella and Harper take off at a run into the depths of the apartment.

“Probably sleep,” Sasha responds with a shrug, his voice sounding like he’s bored just thinking about not having Stella around for the night.

I shrug too. “I probably should have made plans or something, but this has been a busy week,” I say. “Just having time to relax sounds great.”

“Well, enjoy the quiet,” she says as the sound of the girls’ laughter in the background rises to a shockingly high decibel level. We lock eyes, and I can tell we’re both thrilled we could make this sleepover happen.

I glance over at Sasha, whose face remains stoically placid. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, and I hate that. I hope he sees how happy Stella is and is himself happy that he allowed this. Or got roped into it. Whichever.

Sasha doesn’t respond to Sofia’s comment. “I will,” I tell Sofia, not wanting to speak for Mr. Silent standing next to me.

He’s quiet in the elevator ride down to the car, and silent as we climb into the backseat of the car next to each other. He doesn’t speak as the driver—who I now know is called Daniel, but who has never said more than a handful of words to me despite the number of times I’ve been in this car over the last week—pulls into traffic and heads back to Sasha’s apartment.

I cast a glance at him out of the corner of my eye, but he’s facing the front, focused on the back of Daniel’s headrest or looking out the front window. I can’t tell what he’s thinking any more than I can tell what he’s looking at. I glance down at my phone in my lap, wondering if maybe I should plan on going out tonight. He looks ... angry? Tired? Like he wants solitude? But also, it feels like there’s a nervous energy just below the surface, pulsing between us. He shifts slightly away from me, toward the door on his side of the car.

He’s always been a hard one to read. Gentle and quiet, even though you’d think the opposite to look at him. His tight mastery over his emotions and his actions is one of the things that drew me to him. As someone seemingly without a filter, prone to spitting out the first thing that came to my mind, I always marveled at his ability to control everything about himself. Maybe it’s my age or that I don’t like to play games, but I find that now I’m tired of having to work so hard to understand him, to know what he’s feeling.

My phone buzzes in my lap and I glance down to find a message on the group chat I have with my best friends.

---