Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Page 58
There are some things I didn’t include, like the ticket stub from our first real date, the note he wrote me that said, I like you in blue. Those things are tucked away in my hatbox. I’ll never let those go.
But the really special thing I’ve included is my letter, the one I wrote to him so long ago, the one that brought us together. I wanted to keep it, but something felt right about Peter having it. One day all of this will be proof, proof that we were here, proof that we loved each other. It’s the guarantee that no matter what happens to us in the future, this time was ours.
When he gets to that page, Peter stops. “I thought you wanted to keep this,” he said.
“I wanted to, but then I felt like you should have it. Just promise you’ll keep it forever.”
He turns the page. It’s a picture from when we took my grandma to karaoke. I sang “You’re So Vain” and dedicated it to Peter. Peter got up and sang “Style” by Taylor Swift. Then he dueted “Unchained Melody” with my grandma, and after, she made us both promise to take a Korean language class at UVA. She and Peter took a ton of selfies together that night. She made one her home screen on her phone. Her friends at her apartment complex said he looked like a movie star. I made the mistake of telling Peter, and he crowed about it for days after.
He stays on that page for a while. When he doesn’t say anything, I say, helpfully, “It’s something to remember us by.”
He snaps the book shut. “Thanks,” he says, flashing me a quick smile. “This is awesome.”
“You’re not going to look at the rest of it?”
“I will, later.”
Peter says he should get back home so he can pack for Beach Week, and before we go back downstairs, I ask him again if he’s okay, and he assures me that he is.
* * *
After Peter leaves, Margot comes up to my room and helps me pack. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, arranging my suitcase, and she’s passing me piles. I’m still feeling worried about Peter, so I’m glad to have her company to take my mind off things.
“I can’t believe you’re already graduated,” Margot says, folding a stack of T-shirts for me. “In my head you’re still the same age you were when I left.” Teasingly she says, “Forever sweet sixteen, Lara Jean.”
“Almost as grown-up as you now, Gogo,” I say.
“Well, you’ll always be shorter than me, at least,” she says, and I throw a bikini top at her head. “Pretty soon we’ll be packing you up for college.”
I stuff a curling iron into the pocket of my suitcase. “Margot, when you first went to college, what did you miss most about home?”
“Well, you guys, obviously.”
“But what else? Like, what were the unexpected things you missed?”
“I missed giving Kitty a kiss good night after she’d had a bath and her hair was clean.”
I make a snorty sound. “A rare occasion!”
Margot takes her time, thinking about what else. “I missed a good hamburger. Hamburgers taste different in Scotland. More like . . . meat loaf. Meat loaf on a bun. Hmm, what else? I missed driving you guys around. I felt like the captain of a ship. I missed your baked goods!”
“Which ones?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“Which ones did you miss the most?”
“Your lemon cake.”
“If you’d told me, I would’ve sent you one.”
Smiling, she says, “I’m pretty sure sending a cake overseas is exorbitantly expensive.”
“Let’s make one now,” I say, and Margot kicks her legs up happily.
* * *
So we go downstairs and that’s what we do. Kitty is asleep; Daddy and Trina are in their bedroom with the door closed. As much as I love Trina, that’s a strange thing to get used to as well. Daddy’s door was never closed. But I suppose he needs his time too, time where he’s not a dad. Not even for sex, but just to talk, to take a breath. But also for sex, I guess.
Margot’s measuring flour when I ask, “Did you have on music when you and Josh first did it?”
“You made me lose count!” Margot dumps all the flour back in the canister and starts over again.
“Well, did you?”
“No. Nosy! I swear, you’re worse than Kitty.”
I roll a lemon around on the counter to warm it up before I start squeezing. “So it was just . . . silent?”
“It wasn’t silent. There was the sound of someone mowing their lawn. And his mom had the dryer going. Their dryer is really loud. . . .”
“But his mom wasn’t home, right?”
“No way! I couldn’t do that. My roommate brought someone home once and I pretended to be asleep, but honestly, I was trying not to laugh. The guy was a heavy breather. He was a moaner, too.”
We both giggle.
“I hope my roommate doesn’t do that.”
“Just set up ground rules in the beginning. Like who can use the room when, that kind of thing. And just remember that you should try to be understanding, because Peter will be visiting a lot, and you don’t want to use up her goodwill.” She pauses. “You guys haven’t had sex yet, right?” Quickly she adds, “You don’t have to say if you don’t want to.”
“No,” I say. “I mean, not yet.”
“Are you thinking about it?” Margot asks, trying to sound casual. “Because of Beach Week?”
I don’t answer her right away.
I hadn’t been thinking about it, not Beach Week specifically, anyway. The thought of Peter and me having sex in the future, for it to be as commonplace as us going to the movies or holding hands—it’s a little strange to imagine. I just wouldn’t want it to be less special, after we do it. I want it to always be a sacred thing, not something to take for granted because everybody else does it, or because we’ve done it before. I suppose anything can become ordinary or commonplace if you do it enough times, but my hope is that this never is. Not for us. “I think I definitely want music,” I say, straining lemon juice into a glass measuring cup. “That way if I’m a heavy breather or he’s a heavy breather, we won’t really know. And it’ll be more romantic. Music makes everything more romantic, doesn’t it? One second you’re walking your dog in the suburbs, and then you put on Adele, and it’s like you’re in a movie and you’ve just had your heart brutally broken.”
But the really special thing I’ve included is my letter, the one I wrote to him so long ago, the one that brought us together. I wanted to keep it, but something felt right about Peter having it. One day all of this will be proof, proof that we were here, proof that we loved each other. It’s the guarantee that no matter what happens to us in the future, this time was ours.
When he gets to that page, Peter stops. “I thought you wanted to keep this,” he said.
“I wanted to, but then I felt like you should have it. Just promise you’ll keep it forever.”
He turns the page. It’s a picture from when we took my grandma to karaoke. I sang “You’re So Vain” and dedicated it to Peter. Peter got up and sang “Style” by Taylor Swift. Then he dueted “Unchained Melody” with my grandma, and after, she made us both promise to take a Korean language class at UVA. She and Peter took a ton of selfies together that night. She made one her home screen on her phone. Her friends at her apartment complex said he looked like a movie star. I made the mistake of telling Peter, and he crowed about it for days after.
He stays on that page for a while. When he doesn’t say anything, I say, helpfully, “It’s something to remember us by.”
He snaps the book shut. “Thanks,” he says, flashing me a quick smile. “This is awesome.”
“You’re not going to look at the rest of it?”
“I will, later.”
Peter says he should get back home so he can pack for Beach Week, and before we go back downstairs, I ask him again if he’s okay, and he assures me that he is.
* * *
After Peter leaves, Margot comes up to my room and helps me pack. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, arranging my suitcase, and she’s passing me piles. I’m still feeling worried about Peter, so I’m glad to have her company to take my mind off things.
“I can’t believe you’re already graduated,” Margot says, folding a stack of T-shirts for me. “In my head you’re still the same age you were when I left.” Teasingly she says, “Forever sweet sixteen, Lara Jean.”
“Almost as grown-up as you now, Gogo,” I say.
“Well, you’ll always be shorter than me, at least,” she says, and I throw a bikini top at her head. “Pretty soon we’ll be packing you up for college.”
I stuff a curling iron into the pocket of my suitcase. “Margot, when you first went to college, what did you miss most about home?”
“Well, you guys, obviously.”
“But what else? Like, what were the unexpected things you missed?”
“I missed giving Kitty a kiss good night after she’d had a bath and her hair was clean.”
I make a snorty sound. “A rare occasion!”
Margot takes her time, thinking about what else. “I missed a good hamburger. Hamburgers taste different in Scotland. More like . . . meat loaf. Meat loaf on a bun. Hmm, what else? I missed driving you guys around. I felt like the captain of a ship. I missed your baked goods!”
“Which ones?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“Which ones did you miss the most?”
“Your lemon cake.”
“If you’d told me, I would’ve sent you one.”
Smiling, she says, “I’m pretty sure sending a cake overseas is exorbitantly expensive.”
“Let’s make one now,” I say, and Margot kicks her legs up happily.
* * *
So we go downstairs and that’s what we do. Kitty is asleep; Daddy and Trina are in their bedroom with the door closed. As much as I love Trina, that’s a strange thing to get used to as well. Daddy’s door was never closed. But I suppose he needs his time too, time where he’s not a dad. Not even for sex, but just to talk, to take a breath. But also for sex, I guess.
Margot’s measuring flour when I ask, “Did you have on music when you and Josh first did it?”
“You made me lose count!” Margot dumps all the flour back in the canister and starts over again.
“Well, did you?”
“No. Nosy! I swear, you’re worse than Kitty.”
I roll a lemon around on the counter to warm it up before I start squeezing. “So it was just . . . silent?”
“It wasn’t silent. There was the sound of someone mowing their lawn. And his mom had the dryer going. Their dryer is really loud. . . .”
“But his mom wasn’t home, right?”
“No way! I couldn’t do that. My roommate brought someone home once and I pretended to be asleep, but honestly, I was trying not to laugh. The guy was a heavy breather. He was a moaner, too.”
We both giggle.
“I hope my roommate doesn’t do that.”
“Just set up ground rules in the beginning. Like who can use the room when, that kind of thing. And just remember that you should try to be understanding, because Peter will be visiting a lot, and you don’t want to use up her goodwill.” She pauses. “You guys haven’t had sex yet, right?” Quickly she adds, “You don’t have to say if you don’t want to.”
“No,” I say. “I mean, not yet.”
“Are you thinking about it?” Margot asks, trying to sound casual. “Because of Beach Week?”
I don’t answer her right away.
I hadn’t been thinking about it, not Beach Week specifically, anyway. The thought of Peter and me having sex in the future, for it to be as commonplace as us going to the movies or holding hands—it’s a little strange to imagine. I just wouldn’t want it to be less special, after we do it. I want it to always be a sacred thing, not something to take for granted because everybody else does it, or because we’ve done it before. I suppose anything can become ordinary or commonplace if you do it enough times, but my hope is that this never is. Not for us. “I think I definitely want music,” I say, straining lemon juice into a glass measuring cup. “That way if I’m a heavy breather or he’s a heavy breather, we won’t really know. And it’ll be more romantic. Music makes everything more romantic, doesn’t it? One second you’re walking your dog in the suburbs, and then you put on Adele, and it’s like you’re in a movie and you’ve just had your heart brutally broken.”
