“No. I . . . I just don’t understand why you’re acting this way. I want to at least give UNC a real chance. I want to give myself a chance.” My eyes well up with tears, and it’s hard to speak. “And I think you should want that for me too.”
Peter flinches like I’ve hit him. This bed is small, but it feels like he’s so far away from me right now. I ache inside, wanting to go to him. But I can’t.
Silently he puts his shirt back on. “I think I’m gonna go,” he says. Then he gets up, walks out the door, and leaves. I wait for the front door to shut before I start to cry.
35
AS WE PACK UP THE car that morning, I keep thinking Peter might show up to take me home, but he doesn’t, and I don’t reach out to him, either. I ride back up to Virginia with the girls.
I don’t hear anything from Peter until the next day. I get a text that says:
I’m sorry for last night. I was a dick.
We’re gonna make this work, I promise.
I have to do some stuff for my mom but can I see you later?
I text back:
Yes.
He texts back:
I really am sorry.
I love you.
I’m starting to text back, I love you, too, when my phone rings. It’s Peter’s house number, and I answer it eagerly.
“I love you, too,” I say.
There is surprised silence on the other end, then a little laugh to cover it up. “Hi, Lara Jean. This is Peter’s mom.”
I am mortified. “Oh! Hi, Mrs. Kavinsky.”
She wants me to come over and chat with her. She says Peter isn’t home, that it’ll be just the two of us. She must have sent him out to run errands for her so she could ask me over. What can I do but go?
I put on a yellow sundress and lipstick, brush my hair, and drive to Peter’s house. She answers the door with a ready smile on her face; she’s wearing a gingham blouse and Bermuda shorts. “Come on in,” she says.
I follow her into the kitchen, and she says, “Lara Jean, would you like something to drink? Sun tea?”
“Sure,” I say, climbing onto a stool.
Peter’s mom pours me a glass of sun tea out of a plastic frosted pitcher. She hands me the glass and says, “Thank you for coming over here to visit with me, just us girls. There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”
“Sure,” I say again. My skin is prickling.
She takes my hands in hers. Her hands are cool and dry; mine suddenly feel clammy. “Peter’s been through a lot, and he’s worked so hard. I’m sure you know how disappointing it was for him when his dad didn’t come to graduation.” Her eyes search mine, and I nod. “He pretends he doesn’t care, but he’s hurting inside. He came back from Beach Week talking about transferring to UNC for his sophomore year. Did you know that?”
I can feel all the blood rush to my face. “No, I didn’t know that. He . . . he hasn’t said a word to me about it.”
She nods, as if she suspected as much. “If he were to transfer, he wouldn’t be able to play for a year. That means he wouldn’t keep his athletic scholarship. Out-of-state tuition is very expensive, as I’m sure you know.”
It is. Daddy said it would be all right, that Margot only has two more years of college, and Kitty has ages before it’s her turn. But I know it’s expensive. And I know, even though we don’t talk about it, that my dad makes more money than Peter’s mom does.
“Peter’s dad says he wants to contribute, but his dad isn’t someone to be depended on. So I can’t count on him.” She pauses delicately. “But I’m hoping I can count on you.”
I rush to say, “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll tell Peter not to transfer to North Carolina.”
“Honey, I appreciate that so much, I really do, but it’s not just transferring that I’m worrying about. I’m worried about his mind-set. When he gets to UVA, he needs to be focused. He’s going there to be a student athlete. He can’t be driving down to North Carolina every weekend. It just isn’t practical. You’re both so young. Peter’s already making big life decisions based on you, and who even knows what’s going to happen with you two in the future. You’re teenagers. Life doesn’t always work out the way you think it’s going to work out. . . . I don’t know if Peter ever told you this, but Peter’s dad and I got married very young. And I’d—I’d just hate to see you two make the same mistakes we did.” She hesitates. “Lara Jean, I know my son, and he’s not going to let you go unless you let him go first.”
I blink.
“He’d do anything for you. That’s his nature. He’s loyal to his very core. Unlike his father.” Mrs. Kavinsky looks at me with sympathetic eyes. “I know you care about Peter and you want what’s best for him. I hope you’ll give what I said some thought.” She hesitates, then says, “Please don’t mention anything to him. Peter would be very upset with me.”
I struggle to find my voice. “I won’t.”
Her smile is bright, relieved. “You’re a sweet girl, Lara Jean. I know you’ll do the right thing.” She pats my hands and releases them. Then she changes the subject, asking me about my dad’s wedding.
When I get back to my car, I flip down the mirror and see that my cheeks are still stained pink. It feels like the time in seventh grade when Chris’s mom found her cigarettes and she thought we’d both been smoking them. I wanted to say it wasn’t me, but I couldn’t. I just shriveled up with shame. That’s how I feel right now. Like I’ve gotten in trouble.
Was it foolish of Peter and me to think that we could be the exception to the rule? Is Peter’s mom right? Are we making a huge mistake? Suddenly it feels like every decision we make is so momentous, and I’m so scared to make the wrong one.
*
Back at home, Daddy, Margot, and Kitty are in the living room debating over where to go for dinner. It’s such a normal thing to be discussing on a Thursday evening, but I feel so strange, because it’s as if the earth is shifting beneath my feet, and the ground isn’t steady anymore, but everyone around me is talking about food.
“What do you feel like, Lara Jean?” Daddy asks me.
“I’m not very hungry,” I say, looking down at my phone. What will I say to Peter when he calls? Do I tell him? “I might just stay home.”
Daddy peers at me. “Are you all right? Coming down with something? You look pale.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m fine.”
“How about Seoul House?” Margot suggests. “I’ve really been craving Korean food.”
Daddy hesitates, and I know why. Trina doesn’t exactly have the most sophisticated palate. She lives off of Diet Coke and chicken fingers; kale salads are about as adventurous as she gets. When we order sushi, she’ll only eat California rolls and cooked shrimp. She doesn’t eat any fish at all. But nobody’s perfect.
“Trina’s not big on Korean food,” I say, to spare Daddy having to say it. My phone buzzes, but it’s just an email from UNC’s housing department.
Incredulous, Margot says, “Are you serious?”
“It’s a little spicy for her.” Hastily he adds, “But it’s fine. She can get the bulgogi sliders or the fried rice.”