“Don’t let it be too late,” Margot says, and I know she’s not just talking about me and Peter.
I’ve been tiptoeing around the subject of Josh because of everything that’s happened with us. I mean, Margot’s forgiven me, but there’s no sense in rocking the boat. So these past couple of days I’ve stayed silently supportive and hoped that was enough. But Margot leaves for Scotland again in less than a week. The thought of her leaving without at least talking to Josh doesn’t feel right to me. We’ve all been friends for so long. I know Josh and I will mend things, because we’re neighbors, and that’s how it goes with people you see a lot. They mend, almost on their own. But not so for Margot and Josh, with her so far away. If they don’t talk now, the scar will only harden over time, it will calcify, and then they’ll be like strangers who never loved each other, which is the saddest thought of all.
While Kitty’s putting on her boots, I whisper to Margot, “If I talk to Peter, you should talk to Josh. Don’t go back to Scotland and leave things like this with him.”
“We’ll see,” she says, but I see the hope that flares in her eyes, and it gives me hope too.
2
MARGOT AND KITTY ARE BOTH asleep in the backseat. Kitty’s got her head in Margot’s lap; Margot’s sleeping with her head back and her mouth wide open. Daddy is listening to NPR with a faint smile on his face. Everyone’s so peaceful, and my heart is thumping a million beats a minute just in anticipation of what I’m about to do.
I’m doing it now, this very night. Before we’re back at school, before all the gears shift back to normal and Peter and I are nothing more than a memory. Like snow globes, you shake them up, and for a moment everything is upside down and glitter everywhere and it’s just like magic—but then it all settles and goes back to where it’s supposed to be. Things have a way of settling back. I can’t go back.
I time it so that we are one stoplight from Peter’s neighborhood when I ask Daddy to drop me off. He must hear the intensity in my voice, the necessity, because he doesn’t ask any questions, he just says yes.
When we pull up to Peter’s house, the lights are on and his car is in the driveway; so is his mom’s minivan. The sun is just going down, early because it’s winter. Across the street, Peter’s neighbors still have their holiday lights up. Today’s probably the last day for that, seeing as how it’s a new year. New year, new start.
I can feel the veins in my wrists pulsing, and I’m nervous, I’m so nervous. I run out of the car and ring the doorbell. When I hear footsteps from inside, I wave Daddy off, and he backs out of the driveway. Kitty’s awake now, and she’s got her face up against the back window, grinning hard. She sends me a thumbs-up and I wave back.
Peter opens the door. My heart jumps like a Mexican jumping bean in my chest. He’s wearing a button-down I’ve never seen before, plaid. It must have been a Christmas present. His hair is mussed on top, like he’s been lying down. He doesn’t look so very surprised to see me. “Hey.” He eyes my skirt, which is poofing out from under my winter coat like a ball gown. “Why are you so dressed up?”
“It’s for New Year’s.” Maybe I should’ve gone home and changed first. At least then I would feel like me, standing at this boy’s door, proverbial hat in hand. “So, hey, how was your Christmas?”
“Good.” He takes his time, four whole seconds, before he asks, “How was yours?”
“Great. We got a new puppy. His name is Jamie Fox-Pickle.” Not even a trace of a smile from Peter. He’s cold; I didn’t expect him to be cold. Maybe not even cold. Maybe just indifferent. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Peter shrugs, which seems like a yes, but he doesn’t invite me in. I have this sudden sick-to-my-stomach fear that Genevieve is inside—which quickly dissipates when I remember that if she were inside, he wouldn’t be out here with me. He leaves the door ajar as he puts on sneakers and a coat, and then steps onto the porch. He closes the door behind him and sits down on the steps. I sit next to him, smoothing my skirt around me. “So, what’s up?” he says, like I’m taking up his precious time.
This isn’t right. Not what I expected at all.
But what, exactly, did I expect from Peter? I’d give him the letter, and he’d read it, and then he’d love me? He’d take me in his arms; we’d kiss passionately, but just kissing, just innocent. Then what? We’d date? How long until he grew bored of me, missed Genevieve, wanted more than I was prepared to give, bedroomwise and also just lifewise? Someone like him could never be content staying at home and watching a movie on the couch. This is Peter Kavinsky we’re talking about, after all.