Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Page 70
“I think that’s a thousand percent the right attitude.” Trina warms her hand on her tea mug. “So that’s why you broke up with him?”
“No, not entirely. Peter’s mom told me he was talking about transferring to UNC next year. She wanted me to break up with him before he messed up his life for me.”
“Damn! Peter’s mom is kind of a bitch!”
“She didn’t use those exact words, but that was the gist of it.” I take a sip of tea. “I wouldn’t want him to transfer for me either. . . . My mom used to say not to go to college with a boyfriend, because you’ll lose out on a true freshman experience.”
“Well, to be fair, your mom never met Peter Kavinsky. She didn’t have all the facts. If she had met him . . .” Trina lets out a low whistle. “She might’ve been singing a different tune.”
Tears fill my eyes. “Honestly I regret breaking up with him and I wish I could take it all back!”
She tips up my chin. “Then why don’t you?”
“I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me for hurting him like that. He doesn’t let people in easily. I think I’m probably dead to him.”
Trina tries to hide a smile. “I doubt that. Look, you’ll talk to him at the wedding tomorrow. When he sees you in that dress, all will be forgiven.”
I sniffle. “I’m sure he’s not coming.”
“I’m sure he is. You don’t plan a man’s bachelor party and then not show to the wedding. Not to mention the fact that he’s crazy about you.”
“But what if I hurt him again?”
She wraps both her hands around her mug of tea and takes a sip. “You can’t protect him from being hurt, babe, no matter what you do. Being vulnerable, letting people in, getting hurt . . . it’s all a part of being in love.”
I take this in. “Trina, when did you figure out that you and my dad were the real thing?”
“I don’t know. . . . I think I just—decided.”
“Decided on what?”
“Decided on him. On us.” She smiles at me. “On all of it.”
It’s so crazy to think that a year ago, she was just our neighbor Ms. Rothschild. Kitty and I would sit on our stoop and watch her run to the car in the morning and spill hot coffee all over herself. And now she’s marrying our dad. She’s going to be our stepmom, and I’m so glad for it.
40
THE AIR SMELLS LIKE HONEYSUCKLES and summer days that go on and on. It is the perfect day to get married. I don’t think there’s any place prettier than Virginia in June. Everything in bloom, everything green and sunny and hopeful. When I get married, I think I might like it to be at home too. We woke up early, and it seemed like there would be plenty of time, but of course we’re running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Trina is flying around the upstairs in her silky ivory robe that Kristen bought her. Kristen bought pink ones for us bridesmaids, with our names embroidered in gold on the front pocket. Trina’s says The Bride. I’ve got to hand it to Kristen. She’s annoying but she has vision. She knows how to make things nice.
Trina’s photographer friend takes a picture of all of us in our robes, Trina sitting in the middle like a very tan swan. Then it’s time to get dressed. We compromised on Kitty’s tuxedo—she’s wearing a white short-sleeved button-down shirt, a jaunty plaid bow tie, and pants that hit at her ankle. Her hair is in Swiss Miss braids, tucked under and pinned up. She looks so pretty. She looks so . . . Kitty. I compromised by putting baby’s breath in my hair but no flower crown. I also compromised on my vision of fairy nightgowns for Margot and me. Instead we are wearing vintage 1950s floral dresses that I found on Etsy—Margot’s is cream with yellow daisies, and mine has pink flowers and straps that tie at the shoulder. Mine must have been owned by a short person, because we didn’t even have to alter it, and it hits at the knees, right where it’s supposed to, .
Trina is a beautiful bride. Her teeth and dress look very white against her tanned skin. “I don’t look silly, do I?” She casts a nervous look in my direction. “Too old to wear white? I mean, I am a divorcée.”
Margot answers before I can. “You look perfect. Just perfect.”
My older sister has a way of sounding right. Trina’s whole body relaxes, like one big exhale. “Thank you, Margot.” Her voice goes tremulous. “I’m just . . . so happy.”
“Don’t cry!” Kitty screeches.
“Shh,” I tell her. “Don’t scream. Trina needs serenity.” Kitty’s been a nervous bundle of energy all day; it’s like her birthday and Christmas and first day of school combined.
Trina fans her armpits. “I’m sweating. I think I need more deodorant. Kitty, do I smell?”
Kitty leans in. “You’re good.”
We’ve already taken a hundred pictures today, and we’ll take hundreds more, but I know this one will be my favorite. Us three Song girls flocked in tight around Trina, Margot dabbing at Trina’s eyes with a tissue, Kitty standing on a footstool fussing with Trina’s hair, Trina’s arm around me. We’re smiling so big. Things are ending, but they are beginning, too.
As for Peter, there’s been no word. Every time a car comes down our street, I go to the window to see if it’s him, but it never is. He isn’t coming, and I don’t blame him one bit. But still I hope, because I can’t help but hope.
* * *
The backyard is covered in Christmas lights and white paper lanterns. Granted, there’s no wall of roses, but it still looks lovely. All of the chairs are set up; the runner is rolled out in the middle for Trina to walk down. I greet guests as they come in—it’s a small group, under fifty people. The perfect size for a backyard wedding. Margot’s sitting with Grandma, Nana, and Trina’s dad and sister in the first row, keeping them company while I walk around saying hello to our neighbors the Shahs, Aunt Carrie and Uncle Victor, my cousin Haven, who compliments my dress. Throughout it all, I keep my eyes trained on the driveway, waiting for a black Audi that doesn’t come.
When “Lullaby” by the Dixie Chicks begins to play, Kitty, Margot, and I get into our places. Daddy walks out and stands on the groom’s side, and we all look toward the house, where Trina is making her way toward us. She is resplendent.
“No, not entirely. Peter’s mom told me he was talking about transferring to UNC next year. She wanted me to break up with him before he messed up his life for me.”
“Damn! Peter’s mom is kind of a bitch!”
“She didn’t use those exact words, but that was the gist of it.” I take a sip of tea. “I wouldn’t want him to transfer for me either. . . . My mom used to say not to go to college with a boyfriend, because you’ll lose out on a true freshman experience.”
“Well, to be fair, your mom never met Peter Kavinsky. She didn’t have all the facts. If she had met him . . .” Trina lets out a low whistle. “She might’ve been singing a different tune.”
Tears fill my eyes. “Honestly I regret breaking up with him and I wish I could take it all back!”
She tips up my chin. “Then why don’t you?”
“I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me for hurting him like that. He doesn’t let people in easily. I think I’m probably dead to him.”
Trina tries to hide a smile. “I doubt that. Look, you’ll talk to him at the wedding tomorrow. When he sees you in that dress, all will be forgiven.”
I sniffle. “I’m sure he’s not coming.”
“I’m sure he is. You don’t plan a man’s bachelor party and then not show to the wedding. Not to mention the fact that he’s crazy about you.”
“But what if I hurt him again?”
She wraps both her hands around her mug of tea and takes a sip. “You can’t protect him from being hurt, babe, no matter what you do. Being vulnerable, letting people in, getting hurt . . . it’s all a part of being in love.”
I take this in. “Trina, when did you figure out that you and my dad were the real thing?”
“I don’t know. . . . I think I just—decided.”
“Decided on what?”
“Decided on him. On us.” She smiles at me. “On all of it.”
It’s so crazy to think that a year ago, she was just our neighbor Ms. Rothschild. Kitty and I would sit on our stoop and watch her run to the car in the morning and spill hot coffee all over herself. And now she’s marrying our dad. She’s going to be our stepmom, and I’m so glad for it.
40
THE AIR SMELLS LIKE HONEYSUCKLES and summer days that go on and on. It is the perfect day to get married. I don’t think there’s any place prettier than Virginia in June. Everything in bloom, everything green and sunny and hopeful. When I get married, I think I might like it to be at home too. We woke up early, and it seemed like there would be plenty of time, but of course we’re running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Trina is flying around the upstairs in her silky ivory robe that Kristen bought her. Kristen bought pink ones for us bridesmaids, with our names embroidered in gold on the front pocket. Trina’s says The Bride. I’ve got to hand it to Kristen. She’s annoying but she has vision. She knows how to make things nice.
Trina’s photographer friend takes a picture of all of us in our robes, Trina sitting in the middle like a very tan swan. Then it’s time to get dressed. We compromised on Kitty’s tuxedo—she’s wearing a white short-sleeved button-down shirt, a jaunty plaid bow tie, and pants that hit at her ankle. Her hair is in Swiss Miss braids, tucked under and pinned up. She looks so pretty. She looks so . . . Kitty. I compromised by putting baby’s breath in my hair but no flower crown. I also compromised on my vision of fairy nightgowns for Margot and me. Instead we are wearing vintage 1950s floral dresses that I found on Etsy—Margot’s is cream with yellow daisies, and mine has pink flowers and straps that tie at the shoulder. Mine must have been owned by a short person, because we didn’t even have to alter it, and it hits at the knees, right where it’s supposed to, .
Trina is a beautiful bride. Her teeth and dress look very white against her tanned skin. “I don’t look silly, do I?” She casts a nervous look in my direction. “Too old to wear white? I mean, I am a divorcée.”
Margot answers before I can. “You look perfect. Just perfect.”
My older sister has a way of sounding right. Trina’s whole body relaxes, like one big exhale. “Thank you, Margot.” Her voice goes tremulous. “I’m just . . . so happy.”
“Don’t cry!” Kitty screeches.
“Shh,” I tell her. “Don’t scream. Trina needs serenity.” Kitty’s been a nervous bundle of energy all day; it’s like her birthday and Christmas and first day of school combined.
Trina fans her armpits. “I’m sweating. I think I need more deodorant. Kitty, do I smell?”
Kitty leans in. “You’re good.”
We’ve already taken a hundred pictures today, and we’ll take hundreds more, but I know this one will be my favorite. Us three Song girls flocked in tight around Trina, Margot dabbing at Trina’s eyes with a tissue, Kitty standing on a footstool fussing with Trina’s hair, Trina’s arm around me. We’re smiling so big. Things are ending, but they are beginning, too.
As for Peter, there’s been no word. Every time a car comes down our street, I go to the window to see if it’s him, but it never is. He isn’t coming, and I don’t blame him one bit. But still I hope, because I can’t help but hope.
* * *
The backyard is covered in Christmas lights and white paper lanterns. Granted, there’s no wall of roses, but it still looks lovely. All of the chairs are set up; the runner is rolled out in the middle for Trina to walk down. I greet guests as they come in—it’s a small group, under fifty people. The perfect size for a backyard wedding. Margot’s sitting with Grandma, Nana, and Trina’s dad and sister in the first row, keeping them company while I walk around saying hello to our neighbors the Shahs, Aunt Carrie and Uncle Victor, my cousin Haven, who compliments my dress. Throughout it all, I keep my eyes trained on the driveway, waiting for a black Audi that doesn’t come.
When “Lullaby” by the Dixie Chicks begins to play, Kitty, Margot, and I get into our places. Daddy walks out and stands on the groom’s side, and we all look toward the house, where Trina is making her way toward us. She is resplendent.
