Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Page 6
“A meet-cute is when the hero and heroine meet for the very first time, and it’s always in a charming way. It’s how you know they’re going to end up together. The cuter the better.”
“Like in Terminator, when Reese saves Sarah Connor from the Terminator and he says, ‘Come with me if you want to live.’ Freaking amazing line.”
“I mean, sure, I guess that’s technically a meet-cute. . . . I was thinking more like It Happened One Night. We should add that to our list.”
“Is that in color or black-and-white?”
“Black-and-white.”
Peter groans and falls back against the couch cushions.
“It’s too bad we don’t have a meet-cute,” I muse.
“You jumped me in the hallway at school. I think that’s pretty cute.”
“But we already knew each other, so it doesn’t really count.” I frown. “We don’t even remember how we met. How sad.”
“I remember meeting you for the first time.”
“Nuh-uh. Liar!”
“Hey just because you don’t remember something doesn’t mean I don’t. I remember a lot of things.”
“Okay, so how did we meet?” I challenge. I’m sure that whatever comes out of his mouth next will be a lie.
Peter opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. “I’m not telling.”
“See! You just can’t think of anything.”
“No, you don’t deserve to know, because you don’t believe me.”
I roll my eyes. “So full of it.”
After I turn off the movie, Peter and I go sit on the front porch, drinking sweet tea I made the night before. It’s cool out; there’s still enough bite in the air to let you know it isn’t quite full-on spring yet, but soon. The dogwood tree in our front yard is just beginning to flower. There is a nice breeze. I think I could sit here all afternoon and watch the branches sway and bow and the leaves dance.
We still have a little time before he has to go help his mom. I would go with him, mind the register while he moves around furniture, but the last time Peter brought me, his mom frowned and said her store was a place of business, not a “teenage hangout.” Peter’s mom doesn’t outwardly dislike me, and I don’t even think she inwardly dislikes me—but she still hasn’t forgiven me for breaking up with Peter last year. She’s kind to me, but there’s this distrust, this wariness. It’s a let’s-wait-and-see kind of feeling—let’s wait and see when you hurt my son again. I’d always imagined I would have a great, Ina Garten–type relationship with my first boyfriend’s mom. The two of us cooking dinner together, sharing tea and sympathy, playing Scrabble on a rainy afternoon.
“What are you thinking about?” Peter asks me. “You’ve got that look.”
I chew on my lower lip. “I wish your mom liked me better.”
“She does like you.”
“Peter.” I give him a look.
“She does! If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t invite you over for dinner.”
“She invites me over for dinner because she wants to see you, not me.”
“Untrue.” I can tell this thought has never occurred to him, but it has the ring of truth and he knows it.
“She wishes we’d break up before we leave for college,” I blurt out.
“So does your sister.”
I crow, “Ha! So you’re admitting your mom wants us to break up!” I don’t know what I’m being so triumphant about. The thought is depressing, even if I already suspected it.
“She thinks getting serious when you’re young is a bad idea. It has nothing to do with you. I told her, just because it didn’t work out with you and Dad, it doesn’t mean it’ll be like that for us. I’m nothing like my dad. And you’re nothing like my mom.”
Peter’s parents got divorced when he was in sixth grade. His dad lives about thirty minutes away, with his new wife and two young sons. When it comes to his dad, Peter doesn’t say much. It’s rare for him to even bring him up, but this year, out of the blue, his dad has been trying to reconnect with him—inviting him to a basketball game, over to his house for dinner. So far Peter’s been a stone wall.
“Does your dad look like you?” I ask. “I mean, do you look like him?”
Sullenly he says, “Yeah. That’s what people always say.”
I put my head on his shoulder. “Then he must be very handsome.”
“Back in the day, I guess,” he concedes. “I’m taller than him now.”
This is a thing that Peter and I have in common—he only has a mom and I only have a dad. He thinks I got the better end of the deal, losing a mom who loved me versus a dad who is alive but a dirtbag. His words, not mine. Part of me agrees with him, because I have so many good memories of Mommy, and he has hardly any of his dad.
I loved how after a bath, I would sit cross-legged in front of her and watch TV while she combed the tangles out of my hair. I remember Margot used to hate to sit still for it, but I didn’t mind. It’s the kind of memory I like best—more of a feeling than an actual remembrance. The hum of a memory, blurry around the edges, soft and nothing particularly special, all kind of blending into one moment. Another memory like that is when we’d drop Margot off at piano lessons, and Mommy and I would have secret ice cream sundaes in the McDonald’s parking lot. Caramel and strawberry sauce; she’d give me her peanuts so I had extra. Once I asked her why she didn’t like nuts on her sundae, and she said she did like them, but I loved them. And she loved me.
But despite all of these good memories, memories I wouldn’t trade for anything, I know that even if my mom was a dirtbag, I’d rather have her here with me than not. One day, I hope Peter will feel that way about his dad.
“What are you thinking about now?” Peter asks me.
“My mom,” I say.
Peter sets down his glass and stretches out and rests his head in my lap. Looking up at me, he says, “I wish I could’ve met her.”
“She would’ve really liked you,” I say, touching his hair. Hesitantly, I ask, “Do you think I might get to meet your dad some day?”
A cloud passes over his face, and I wish I hadn’t brought it up. “You don’t want to meet him,” he says. “He’s not worth it.” Then he snuggles closer to me. “Hey, maybe we should go as Romeo and Juliet for Halloween this year. People at UVA go all out for Halloween.”
“Like in Terminator, when Reese saves Sarah Connor from the Terminator and he says, ‘Come with me if you want to live.’ Freaking amazing line.”
“I mean, sure, I guess that’s technically a meet-cute. . . . I was thinking more like It Happened One Night. We should add that to our list.”
“Is that in color or black-and-white?”
“Black-and-white.”
Peter groans and falls back against the couch cushions.
“It’s too bad we don’t have a meet-cute,” I muse.
“You jumped me in the hallway at school. I think that’s pretty cute.”
“But we already knew each other, so it doesn’t really count.” I frown. “We don’t even remember how we met. How sad.”
“I remember meeting you for the first time.”
“Nuh-uh. Liar!”
“Hey just because you don’t remember something doesn’t mean I don’t. I remember a lot of things.”
“Okay, so how did we meet?” I challenge. I’m sure that whatever comes out of his mouth next will be a lie.
Peter opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. “I’m not telling.”
“See! You just can’t think of anything.”
“No, you don’t deserve to know, because you don’t believe me.”
I roll my eyes. “So full of it.”
After I turn off the movie, Peter and I go sit on the front porch, drinking sweet tea I made the night before. It’s cool out; there’s still enough bite in the air to let you know it isn’t quite full-on spring yet, but soon. The dogwood tree in our front yard is just beginning to flower. There is a nice breeze. I think I could sit here all afternoon and watch the branches sway and bow and the leaves dance.
We still have a little time before he has to go help his mom. I would go with him, mind the register while he moves around furniture, but the last time Peter brought me, his mom frowned and said her store was a place of business, not a “teenage hangout.” Peter’s mom doesn’t outwardly dislike me, and I don’t even think she inwardly dislikes me—but she still hasn’t forgiven me for breaking up with Peter last year. She’s kind to me, but there’s this distrust, this wariness. It’s a let’s-wait-and-see kind of feeling—let’s wait and see when you hurt my son again. I’d always imagined I would have a great, Ina Garten–type relationship with my first boyfriend’s mom. The two of us cooking dinner together, sharing tea and sympathy, playing Scrabble on a rainy afternoon.
“What are you thinking about?” Peter asks me. “You’ve got that look.”
I chew on my lower lip. “I wish your mom liked me better.”
“She does like you.”
“Peter.” I give him a look.
“She does! If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t invite you over for dinner.”
“She invites me over for dinner because she wants to see you, not me.”
“Untrue.” I can tell this thought has never occurred to him, but it has the ring of truth and he knows it.
“She wishes we’d break up before we leave for college,” I blurt out.
“So does your sister.”
I crow, “Ha! So you’re admitting your mom wants us to break up!” I don’t know what I’m being so triumphant about. The thought is depressing, even if I already suspected it.
“She thinks getting serious when you’re young is a bad idea. It has nothing to do with you. I told her, just because it didn’t work out with you and Dad, it doesn’t mean it’ll be like that for us. I’m nothing like my dad. And you’re nothing like my mom.”
Peter’s parents got divorced when he was in sixth grade. His dad lives about thirty minutes away, with his new wife and two young sons. When it comes to his dad, Peter doesn’t say much. It’s rare for him to even bring him up, but this year, out of the blue, his dad has been trying to reconnect with him—inviting him to a basketball game, over to his house for dinner. So far Peter’s been a stone wall.
“Does your dad look like you?” I ask. “I mean, do you look like him?”
Sullenly he says, “Yeah. That’s what people always say.”
I put my head on his shoulder. “Then he must be very handsome.”
“Back in the day, I guess,” he concedes. “I’m taller than him now.”
This is a thing that Peter and I have in common—he only has a mom and I only have a dad. He thinks I got the better end of the deal, losing a mom who loved me versus a dad who is alive but a dirtbag. His words, not mine. Part of me agrees with him, because I have so many good memories of Mommy, and he has hardly any of his dad.
I loved how after a bath, I would sit cross-legged in front of her and watch TV while she combed the tangles out of my hair. I remember Margot used to hate to sit still for it, but I didn’t mind. It’s the kind of memory I like best—more of a feeling than an actual remembrance. The hum of a memory, blurry around the edges, soft and nothing particularly special, all kind of blending into one moment. Another memory like that is when we’d drop Margot off at piano lessons, and Mommy and I would have secret ice cream sundaes in the McDonald’s parking lot. Caramel and strawberry sauce; she’d give me her peanuts so I had extra. Once I asked her why she didn’t like nuts on her sundae, and she said she did like them, but I loved them. And she loved me.
But despite all of these good memories, memories I wouldn’t trade for anything, I know that even if my mom was a dirtbag, I’d rather have her here with me than not. One day, I hope Peter will feel that way about his dad.
“What are you thinking about now?” Peter asks me.
“My mom,” I say.
Peter sets down his glass and stretches out and rests his head in my lap. Looking up at me, he says, “I wish I could’ve met her.”
“She would’ve really liked you,” I say, touching his hair. Hesitantly, I ask, “Do you think I might get to meet your dad some day?”
A cloud passes over his face, and I wish I hadn’t brought it up. “You don’t want to meet him,” he says. “He’s not worth it.” Then he snuggles closer to me. “Hey, maybe we should go as Romeo and Juliet for Halloween this year. People at UVA go all out for Halloween.”
