Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Page 31
“But they’re both so old,” I say.
“Trina’s forty-three. You can get pregnant at forty-three. Maddie’s mom just had a baby and she’s forty-three.”
“True . . .”
“What if it’s a boy?”
Daddy with a son. It’s a startling thought. He’s not exactly sporty, not in a traditional male sense. I mean, he likes to go biking and he plays doubles tennis in the spring. But I’m sure there are things he’d want to do with a son that he doesn’t do with us because no one’s interested. Fishing, maybe? Football he doesn’t care about. Trina cares more than he does.
When my mom was pregnant with Kitty, Margot wanted another sister but I wanted a boy. The Song girls and their baby brother. It would be nice to get that baby brother after all. Especially since I won’t be at home and have to hear it crying in the middle of the night. I’ll just get to buy the baby little shearling booties and sweaters with red foxes or bunnies.
“If they named him Tate, we could call him Tater Tot,” I muse.
Two red blotches appear on Kitty’s cheeks, and just like that, she looks as young as I always picture her in my head: a little kid. “I don’t want them to have another baby. If they have a baby, I’ll be in the middle. I’ll be nothing.”
“Hey!” I object. “I’m in the middle now!”
“Margot’s oldest and smartest, and you’re the prettiest.” I’m the prettiest?? Kitty thinks I’m the prettiest? I try not to look too happy, because she’s still talking. “I’m only the youngest. If they have a baby, I won’t even be that.”
I put down my computer. “Kitty, you’re a lot more than the youngest Song girl. You’re the wild Song girl. The mean one. The spiky one.” Kitty’s pursing her lips, trying not to smile at this. I add, “And no matter what, Trina loves you; she’ll always love you, even if she did have a baby which I don’t think she will.” I stop. “Wait, did you mean it when you said I was the prettiest?”
“No, I take it back. I’ll probably be the prettiest by the time I get to high school. You can be the nicest.” I leap off the couch and grab her by the shoulders like I’m going to shake her, and she giggles.
“I don’t want to be the nicest,” I say.
“You are, though.” She says it not like an insult, but not exactly like a compliment. “What do you wish you had of mine?”
“Your nerve.”
“What else?”
“Your nose. You have a little nubbin of a nose.” I tap it. “What about me?”
Kitty shrugs. “I don’t know.” Then she cracks up, and I shake her by the shoulders.
I’m still thinking about it later that evening. I hadn’t thought of Daddy and Trina having a baby. But Trina doesn’t have any children, just her “fur baby” golden retriever Simone. She might want a baby of her own. And Daddy’s never said so, but is there a chance he’d want to try one more time for a son? The baby would be eighteen years younger than me. What a strange thought. And even stranger still: I’m old enough to have a baby of my own.
What would Peter and I do if I got pregnant? I can’t even picture what would happen. All I can see is the look on Daddy’s face when I tell him the news, and that’s about as far as I get.
* * *
The next morning, on the way to school in Peter’s car, I steal a look at his profile. “I like how you’re so smooth,” I say. “Like a baby.”
“I could grow a beard if I wanted to,” he says, touching his chin. “A thick one.”
Fondly I say, “No, you couldn’t. But maybe one day, when you’re a man.”
He frowns. “I am a man. I’m eighteen!”
I scoff, “You don’t even pack your own lunches. Do you even know how to do laundry?”
“I’m a man in all the ways that count,” he boasts, and I roll my eyes.
“What would you do if you were drafted to go to war?” I ask.
“Uh . . . aren’t college kids given a pass on that? Does the draft even still exist?”
I don’t know the answers to either of these questions, so I barrel forward. “What would you do if I got pregnant right now?”
“Lara Jean, we’re not even having sex. That would be the immaculate conception.”
“If we were?” I press.
He groans. “You and your questions! I don’t know. How could I know what I would do?”
“What do you think you would do?”
Peter doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you wanted to do.”
“Wouldn’t you want to decide together?” I’m testing him—for what, I don’t know.
“I’m not the one who has to carry it. It’s your body, not mine.”
His answer pleases me, but still I keep going. “What if I said . . . let’s have the baby and get married?”
Again Peter doesn’t hesitate. “I’d say sure. Yeah!”
Now I’m the one frowning. “‘Sure’? Just like that? The biggest decision of your life and you just say sure?”
“Yeah. Because I am sure.”
I lean over to him and put my palms on his smooth cheeks. “That’s how I know you’re still a boy. Because you’re so sure.”
He frowns back at me. “Why are you saying it like it’s a bad thing?”
I let go. “You’re always so sure of everything about yourself. You’ve never been not sure.”
“Well, I’m sure of this one thing,” he says, staring straight ahead. “I’m sure I’d never be the kind of dad my dad is, no matter how old I am.”
I go quiet, feeling guilty for teasing him and bringing up bad feelings. I want to ask if his dad is still reaching out to make amends, but the closed-up look on Peter’s face stops me. I just wish he and his dad could fix things between them before he goes to college. Because right now, Peter is still a boy, and deep down, I think all boys want to know their dads, no matter what kind of men they are.
* * *
After school, we go through the drive-thru, and Peter’s already tearing into his sandwich before we’re out of the parking lot. Between bites of fried chicken sandwich, he says, “Did you mean it when you said before that you couldn’t picture marrying me?”
“Trina’s forty-three. You can get pregnant at forty-three. Maddie’s mom just had a baby and she’s forty-three.”
“True . . .”
“What if it’s a boy?”
Daddy with a son. It’s a startling thought. He’s not exactly sporty, not in a traditional male sense. I mean, he likes to go biking and he plays doubles tennis in the spring. But I’m sure there are things he’d want to do with a son that he doesn’t do with us because no one’s interested. Fishing, maybe? Football he doesn’t care about. Trina cares more than he does.
When my mom was pregnant with Kitty, Margot wanted another sister but I wanted a boy. The Song girls and their baby brother. It would be nice to get that baby brother after all. Especially since I won’t be at home and have to hear it crying in the middle of the night. I’ll just get to buy the baby little shearling booties and sweaters with red foxes or bunnies.
“If they named him Tate, we could call him Tater Tot,” I muse.
Two red blotches appear on Kitty’s cheeks, and just like that, she looks as young as I always picture her in my head: a little kid. “I don’t want them to have another baby. If they have a baby, I’ll be in the middle. I’ll be nothing.”
“Hey!” I object. “I’m in the middle now!”
“Margot’s oldest and smartest, and you’re the prettiest.” I’m the prettiest?? Kitty thinks I’m the prettiest? I try not to look too happy, because she’s still talking. “I’m only the youngest. If they have a baby, I won’t even be that.”
I put down my computer. “Kitty, you’re a lot more than the youngest Song girl. You’re the wild Song girl. The mean one. The spiky one.” Kitty’s pursing her lips, trying not to smile at this. I add, “And no matter what, Trina loves you; she’ll always love you, even if she did have a baby which I don’t think she will.” I stop. “Wait, did you mean it when you said I was the prettiest?”
“No, I take it back. I’ll probably be the prettiest by the time I get to high school. You can be the nicest.” I leap off the couch and grab her by the shoulders like I’m going to shake her, and she giggles.
“I don’t want to be the nicest,” I say.
“You are, though.” She says it not like an insult, but not exactly like a compliment. “What do you wish you had of mine?”
“Your nerve.”
“What else?”
“Your nose. You have a little nubbin of a nose.” I tap it. “What about me?”
Kitty shrugs. “I don’t know.” Then she cracks up, and I shake her by the shoulders.
I’m still thinking about it later that evening. I hadn’t thought of Daddy and Trina having a baby. But Trina doesn’t have any children, just her “fur baby” golden retriever Simone. She might want a baby of her own. And Daddy’s never said so, but is there a chance he’d want to try one more time for a son? The baby would be eighteen years younger than me. What a strange thought. And even stranger still: I’m old enough to have a baby of my own.
What would Peter and I do if I got pregnant? I can’t even picture what would happen. All I can see is the look on Daddy’s face when I tell him the news, and that’s about as far as I get.
* * *
The next morning, on the way to school in Peter’s car, I steal a look at his profile. “I like how you’re so smooth,” I say. “Like a baby.”
“I could grow a beard if I wanted to,” he says, touching his chin. “A thick one.”
Fondly I say, “No, you couldn’t. But maybe one day, when you’re a man.”
He frowns. “I am a man. I’m eighteen!”
I scoff, “You don’t even pack your own lunches. Do you even know how to do laundry?”
“I’m a man in all the ways that count,” he boasts, and I roll my eyes.
“What would you do if you were drafted to go to war?” I ask.
“Uh . . . aren’t college kids given a pass on that? Does the draft even still exist?”
I don’t know the answers to either of these questions, so I barrel forward. “What would you do if I got pregnant right now?”
“Lara Jean, we’re not even having sex. That would be the immaculate conception.”
“If we were?” I press.
He groans. “You and your questions! I don’t know. How could I know what I would do?”
“What do you think you would do?”
Peter doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you wanted to do.”
“Wouldn’t you want to decide together?” I’m testing him—for what, I don’t know.
“I’m not the one who has to carry it. It’s your body, not mine.”
His answer pleases me, but still I keep going. “What if I said . . . let’s have the baby and get married?”
Again Peter doesn’t hesitate. “I’d say sure. Yeah!”
Now I’m the one frowning. “‘Sure’? Just like that? The biggest decision of your life and you just say sure?”
“Yeah. Because I am sure.”
I lean over to him and put my palms on his smooth cheeks. “That’s how I know you’re still a boy. Because you’re so sure.”
He frowns back at me. “Why are you saying it like it’s a bad thing?”
I let go. “You’re always so sure of everything about yourself. You’ve never been not sure.”
“Well, I’m sure of this one thing,” he says, staring straight ahead. “I’m sure I’d never be the kind of dad my dad is, no matter how old I am.”
I go quiet, feeling guilty for teasing him and bringing up bad feelings. I want to ask if his dad is still reaching out to make amends, but the closed-up look on Peter’s face stops me. I just wish he and his dad could fix things between them before he goes to college. Because right now, Peter is still a boy, and deep down, I think all boys want to know their dads, no matter what kind of men they are.
* * *
After school, we go through the drive-thru, and Peter’s already tearing into his sandwich before we’re out of the parking lot. Between bites of fried chicken sandwich, he says, “Did you mean it when you said before that you couldn’t picture marrying me?”
