Always and Forever, Lara Jean (27 page)

“Hi!” I say, cheerfully, as if I weren’t just contemplating backing away before he saw me. I come over and he gives
me a one-armed hug, because he’s still holding the carrot. “Have you seen Peter?” I ask him. “This is the house he’s staying in.”

“Nah, we just got here.” John looks tan, his hair is bleached from the sun, and he’s wearing a worn blue-and-white-checked shirt and khaki shorts. “Where are you staying?”

“Really close to here. What about you?”

“We got a house in Duck.” He smiles and then offers me his carrot. “Want a bite?”

I laugh. “No thanks. So where did you decide on for school?”

“William and Mary.” John holds his hand up for a high five. “So I’ll see you there, right?”

“Actually . . . I’m going to Chapel Hill. I got in off the wait list.”

John’s jaw drops. “Are you serious? That’s awesome!” He pulls me in for a hug. “That’s amazing. It’s actually the perfect place for you. You’re going to love it there.”

I’m looking toward the kitchen door, thinking of how I can gracefully exit this conversation, when Peter strolls into the kitchen with a beer in his hand. He stops short when he sees us. I’m cringing inside, but he just grins and shouts, “McClaren! What up!” They do a guy hug, where they pull each other in and then just kind of bump into each other. When they back away, Peter’s eyes linger on the carrot in John’s hand. Every day, Peter’s made himself a carrot-and-berry protein shake, and I just know he’s
smarting over John taking one. He’s counted out exactly how many carrots he needs for the rest of the week.

“Lara Jean was just telling me she got into Carolina,” John says, resting his back against the countertop. “I’m so jealous.”

“Yeah, you always wanted to go there, right?” Peter’s eyes are still on the carrot.

“Ever since I was a kid. It was my top choice.” John gives me a playful nudge. “This girl snuck in there like a thief in the night. Took my spot right out from under me.”

Smiling, I say, “Sorry about that.”

“Nah, I’m just kidding with you.” John takes a bite of his carrot. “I really might transfer, though. We’ll see.”

Peter puts his arm around my waist and takes a swig of beer. “You should. We could all go to a Tar Heels game together.” He says it genially enough, but I can hear the tension underneath.

John doesn’t miss it either. “For sure,” he says. Then he polishes off the rest of his carrot and tosses the stem into the sink. “I want you guys to meet my girlfriend, Dipti. She’s around here somewhere.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and sends her a text.

We’re still standing around when she finds us. She is taller than me, sporty-looking, shoulder-length black hair, dark skin, maybe Indian. She has a nice white smile and one dimple. She’s wearing a silky white romper and sandals. I’m regretting my decision to wear a
UVA
T-shirt of Peter’s and cutoffs. We introduce ourselves, and then she
hops up on the countertop and asks, “So how do you guys know each other?”

“McClaren was my
BFF
back in middle school,” Peter says. “They used to call us Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Who do you think was Butch and who do you think was the Sundance Kid, Dipti?”

She laughs. “I don’t know. I never saw that movie.”

“Butch was the main guy.” Peter points to himself. “And the Sundance Kid over there”—he points to John—“he was the sidekick.” Peter cracks up, and I’m cringing inside, but John just shakes his head in his good-natured way. Peter grabs John’s bicep. “Yo, have you been working out?” To Dipti he says, “This kid used to have spaghetti arms and read all day, but now look at him. He’s a stud.”

“Hey, I still read,” John says.

“When Peter and I first got together, I thought maybe he didn’t know how to read,” I say, and John doubles over laughing.

Peter laughs too, but not as heartily as he was a second ago.

*  *  *

When it gets late, Peter says I should just stay over instead of going back to my house. I say no, because I don’t have my toothbrush or any of my things, but really, I’m just annoyed with him for the way he acted in front of John.

On the walk back to my house, Peter says, “Dipti seems cool. Good for McClaren. Doubt they’ll stay together, though. They’ll probably visit each other once and be broken up by Christmas, if that.”

I stop walking. “That’s a lousy thing to say.”

“What? I’m just being honest.”

I face him, and salty beach wind whips my hair around my face. “Okay, if you’re ‘just being honest,’ then maybe I will be too.” Peter raises an eyebrow and waits for me to continue. “You acted like a jerk tonight. Insecurity is not a good look on you, Peter.”

“Me?” Peter makes a derisive sound. “Insecure? About what? McClaren? Please. Did you see how he just went into my fridge and ate my carrots?”

I start walking again, faster. “Who cares about your carrots!”

He jogs to catch up with me. “You know I’m trying to get in shape for lacrosse!”

“You’re ridiculous, do you know that?” We are now standing in front of my house. Angry walking sure gets you places in a hurry. “Good night, Peter.” I turn on my heel and start walking up the steps, and Peter doesn’t try to stop me.

THE NEXT MORNING, I WAKE
up unsure if Peter and I are in a fight. Last night felt like a fight, only I’m not sure if he’s mad at me or if I’m supposed to be mad at him. It’s an unsettling feeling.

I don’t want to be mad at him. I leave for Korea on July 1. We don’t have time to get into dumb fights over carrots and John Ambrose McClaren. Every second we have left together is precious.

I decide to make him French toast as a peace offering. His favorite breakfast food, besides donuts, is French toast. In the kitchen I find a box of sugar in the cabinet, milk, half a loaf of bread, a couple of eggs, but no cinnamon. The cinnamon is essential.

I take Pammy’s car keys and drive to the little market near our house, where I buy a shaker of cinnamon, butter, a dozen eggs, and a new loaf of white bread, because I figure I might as well make toast for Peter’s whole house while I’m at it. At the last second, I throw in a bag of carrots.

Everyone at his house is still asleep, and the place looks even worse than it did the night before. Beer bottles all over the place, empty bags of chips strewn about, bathing suit trunks drying on furniture. Dirty dishes are piled high in the
sink, and I have to wash a bowl and a spatula caked in old egg in order to start cooking.

Because the bread is fresh, my first few pieces end up disintegrating in the egg mix, but I get the hang of it on the third try, dipping the bread for only a few seconds before I drop it in the frying pan.

The boys drift downstairs, and I keep frying more French toast. Every time the stack dwindles, I add more. Peter’s the last one down, and when I offer him a piece, one of the good crispy ones, he shakes his head and says he’d better not, because of his diet. He doesn’t meet my eyes as he says it. He just doesn’t want to eat something I made.

After breakfast I don’t stick around, and again Peter doesn’t try to stop me. I drive back home and wake up Chris, who is still in last night’s clothes. “I have a piece of French toast for you downstairs,” I say. I brought her the piece I saved for Peter.

*  *  *

There’s a cookout that night, at a house a few streets down from ours. Our house brings tubs of neon-yellow potato salad and all the wine coolers we have left. Since it’s the last night, we are emptying out the fridge.

Out on the deck, I end up in a conversation with Kaila and Emily Nussbaum, one of Genevieve’s friends. I’ve barely seen Genevieve at all this week, because she’s here with her church friends, and her house is a mix of people from other schools.

Emily asks me, “So are you and Kavinsky really going to stay together?”

Right this second?
I have no idea, seeing as how we’ve barely said two words to each other all night. Of course I don’t say that. Whatever I say to Emily will get right back to Genevieve. Gen might have moved on, but she would surely still take pleasure in Peter and me being in a fight. I say, “Yes, we’re staying together.
UNC
and
UVA
aren’t that far.”

Kaila sucks up rum and Diet Coke out of her straw, giving me a sidelong look. “You know, you’re an interesting girl, Lara Jean. You seem shy and kind of babyish at first, but you’re actually very confident. That was a compliment, by the way.”

“Thanks,” I say. If someone is giving you a compliment, I don’t think they should have to tell you they’re giving you one; it should probably be obvious to the person receiving it. I take a sip of the drink Chris made me, and I nearly spit it out because she made it so strong. She called it a grown-up Shirley Temple, whatever that means.

“I can see why Kavinsky likes you,” Kaila says. “I hope it works out.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Emily puts her feet up on my chair and says, “If Blake broke up with me, I would freak out. I would be absolutely devastated.”

“Well, you guys are super intense. You’ll probably get married right after college.”

“No way,” Emily says, but she’s obviously pleased.

“Y’all are going to the same school. It’s different.” Kaila regards me. “I don’t think I could ever do long distance.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“I like seeing my man every day. I don’t want to wonder what he’s up to. Like, am I a possessive person? Yes. But also, I don’t want to have to play catch-up at the end of the day. I need to be a part of his daily life and he needs to be a part of mine.” She crunches ice with her teeth.

That’s what happened with Margot and me when she went to college. The distance came slowly, like seawater filling up a boat, without us even realizing it. Before you know it you’re underwater. We made it through, but we’re sisters. Sisters always find their way back to each other. I don’t think it’s the same for boyfriends. The thought of it happening to Peter and me fills me with such sadness. How will we ward it off? By talking every day? Visiting at least once a month? He said it himself—his life is going to be so busy and so full because of lacrosse. He’s already changing, with his healthy diet and his workouts. And we’re fighting, and we never fight, not really. Not the kind of fights you can’t take back. So what now? How do we negotiate this next step?

I stay a few more minutes, and when Emily and Kaila start talking about whether or not to rush a sorority, I make my escape to find Peter. Between this conversation and last night’s fight, I just want him close, while we’re still in the same vicinity. I find him standing around with a bunch of guys who are building a bonfire. He already seems so far away, and I want so badly for things to feel normal between us again. I take big sip of my grown-up Shirley Temple, for
courage. Our eyes meet, and I mouth,
Do you want to go?
He nods. I start to head back inside, and he follows me.

As I take another sip of my grown-up Shirley Temple, he asks, “What are you drinking?”

“Something Chris made me.”

He takes the red Solo cup from me and tosses it in the trash on our way out.

Our walk back to my house is pretty quiet, except for the sound of the ocean waves. I don’t think either of us knows what to say, because whatever is wrong between us, we both know it wasn’t John Ambrose McClaren, or the carrots.

As we make our way down the street, I hear Peter’s subdued voice. “Are you still mad about last night?”

“No.”

“Okay, good,” he says. “I saw the carrots you bought in the fridge. Sorry I didn’t eat your French toast.”

“Why didn’t you? I know it wasn’t because of your diet.”

Peter rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know what my problem was. I’ve just been in a weird mood.”

I look over at him; his face is obscured by the dark. “We only have a little bit of time before I leave for Korea. Let’s not waste it.” Then I slide my hand in his, and he squeezes it.

The house is completely empty, for the first time all week. All the other girls are still at the party, except for Chris, who ran into somebody she knows through Applebee’s. We go up to my room, and Peter takes off his shoes and gets in my bed. “Want to watch a movie?” he asks, stretching his arms behind his head.

No, I don’t want to watch a movie. Suddenly my heart is racing, because I know what I want to do. I’m ready.

I sit down on the bed next to him as he says, “Or we could start a new show—”

I press my lips to his neck, and I can feel his pulse jump. “What if we don’t watch a movie or a show? What if we . . . do something else instead.” I give him a meaningful look.

His body jerks in surprise. “What, you mean like now?”

“Yes.” Now. Now feels right. I start planting little kisses down his throat. “Do you like that?”

I can feel him swallow. “Yes.” He pushes me away from him so he can look at my face. “Let’s stop for a second. I can’t think. Are you drunk? What did Chris put in that drink she gave you?”

“No, I’m not drunk!” I had a little bit of a warm feeling in my body, but the walk home woke me right up. Peter’s still staring at me. “I’m not drunk. I swear.”

Peter swallows hard, his eyes searching mine. “Are you sure you want to do this now?”

“Yes,” I say, because I really, truly am. “But first can you put on Frank Ocean?”

He grabs his phone, and a second later the beat kicks in and Frank’s melodious voice fills the room. Peter starts fumbling with his shirt buttons and then gives up and starts to pull my shirt up, and I yelp, “Wait!”

Peter’s so startled, he jumps away from me. “What? What’s wrong?”

I leap off the bed and start rummaging through my suitcase.
I’m not wearing my special bra and underwear set; I’m wearing my normal every day cappuccino-colored bra with the frayed edges. I can’t lose my virginity in my ugliest bra.

“What are you doing?” he asks me.

“Just wait one second.”

I run to the bathroom and change out of my old bra and underwear and put on the lacy ones. Then I brush my teeth, look at my face in the mirror. This is it. I, Lara Jean Song Covey, am about to lose my virginity to Peter K.