Page 87 of One Last Shot

“I really think you should talk to someone. I’d offer to watch the girls for you, but since I’m going to be gone the next couple months, I’m useless. But,” I say, an idea forming in my mind as it comes out my mouth, “Morgan used to nanny during the summers in college, didn’t she? And hasn’t she babysat for you before?”

“She has,” Lauren says, but I can tell by her voice that she doesn’t like asking for help, even if it’s from her cousin.

“Why don’t you see if she could watch the girls while you talk to someone? Her work schedule is totally flexible, so it doesn’t matter if it has to be during the day.”

Lauren gives me a small smile that doesn’t touch her sad eyes, but it’s a start.

“If that doesn’t work out, I’ll help you think up another plan, okay? I really want to make sure you get the help you need to navigate this in a way that’s going to be good for you, Josh, and the girls.”

Lauren folds into me and I wrap my arms around her small frame, trying really hard not to imagine this same situation playing out between me and Aleksandr if we tried to make things work between us.Things already work, even with a child in the mix, I remind myself.

But I can’t shake the niggly feeling that what Lauren is experiencing is, if not the norm, still totally normal. Once the newness and the lust fade, is this what you’re left with—chasing your husband’s affections, begging for his spare moments, hoping he’ll be the father you thought he’d be?

I promised myself a long time ago that I’d never put a man and his needs before my own, that I’d always be first string in my own life. I can’t go through the kind of hurt I’ve been through before, or the kind I’m seeing Lauren go through right now.

I just can’t.

* * *

I’ve never known the kind of bone-weary exhaustion that I’m experiencing. Even back in my modeling days, when it felt like all I ever did was go from photoshoots to runways to parties, over and over again—running on caffeine and too little food—I wasn’t this tired.You were also almost a decade younger,I remind myself,you had more energy then.

I collapse onto my couch, wondering how I can simultaneously feel so fulfilled and so empty at the same time. The show is amazing. The crew, the guests, the whole experience—it has completely blown away my expectations. It’s so much better than I could have even imagined. And my company is doing well. Morgan has really stepped up in my absence, the junior event planners are doing amazing. Finding the time to fit in meetings and calls, and making sure that no balls get dropped has been a challenge, but things could not be going better. And yet ...

I’m running on empty.

I’m lonely.

I’m missing Sasha and Stella more than I thought possible.

Even so, I’m holding him at a distance, afraid to trust him with my heart. I know we need to have some important conversations: about why he cut me out of his life when we were teenagers, about how to move forward from here. But I can’t seem to bring myself to talk to him about these things over the phone, especially not when I’m this tired all the time.

I pull up our text thread and rewatch the video Stella sent me earlier.

I miss you so much, Petra. Look what Dada and I made.The camera flips, and it shows me a calendar on her wall. There are three weeks’ worth of redX’s on it, and on the last day it says in big red letters: PETRA! She flips the camera back to herself.I can’t wait to see you. How long will you stay?

I open the camera on my phone to record a video reply and am appalled at the dark circles under my eyes, the way my skin looks sallow and my eyelids look droopy—all the things my “TV makeup” hides are so obvious now that I’ve washed my face. Ugh. I don’t want to document myself looking like this. Even though I know Stella won’t care, I don’t really want Sasha to see me like this either. It’s vain and stupid, this hesitance I’m feeling, but I hate being vulnerable in any way.

I’ll film a reply to her tomorrow, after the hair and makeup people on set have had their way with me. I’m sure I can find a few moments alone in my dressing room to record and send it. I pull up the Reminders on my phone and set it for tomorrow so I don’t forget. No matter how good my intentions are , I’m juggling too many balls and liable to drop them all if I rely on my memory.

I scroll back to Sasha’s last text above Stella’s video.

Aleksandr: Call me tonight if you have a minute.

My finger hovers over the call button on the screen, but I hesitate to touch it. I’m not sure I have the energy for a conversation. Especially not if it’s as tense as the last conversation we had. How have I only talked to him once in the last week and a half? I feel simultaneously awed that the time is passing so quickly, and ashamed that I haven’t made time for him. But where would I find the time, exactly? Right now, when I can barely keep my eyes open and it’s almost midnight his time?

I hit the button to initiate the call, then put the phone on speaker and set it next to me on the cushion as I stretch out on the couch.

“’Lo?” Aleksandr’s voice is groggy when he answers his phone with a half-word.

“Hey there. I’m sorry I’m calling so late.”

“’S fine,” he says.

“No, it’s not. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“I said to call me tonight when you have a minute,” he says, his voice functioning appropriately now that he’s waking up. “I wanted to talk to you, I don’t care what time it is.”

“Being in different time zones sucks. It makes it even harder to talk to you and impossible to talk to Stella.” When I get up in the morning, she’s already at school. When I get home from work, she’s already long asleep.

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