“Which part?” I whisper.
“About UNC. About me not transferring there.” He lifts his head, his eyes wounded. “But you should have told me my mom talked to you.”
I take a shaky breath. “You should have told me you were thinking about transferring! You should’ve told me how you were feeling, period. You shut down after graduation; you wouldn’t let me in. You kept saying everything was going to be fine.”
“Because I was fucking scared, okay!” he bursts out. He looks around to see if anyone heard, but the music is loud, and everyone is dancing; no one is looking at us, and it’s like we are alone here in this backyard.
“What were you so scared about?” I whisper.
His hands tighten into fists at his sides. When he finally speaks, his voice comes out raw, like he hasn’t used it in a while. “I was scared that you were going to go to UNC and you were gonna figure out I wasn’t worth it, and you were going to leave.”
I take a step closer to him. I put my hand on his arm; he doesn’t pull away from me. “Besides my family, you’re the most special person to me in the world. And I meant some of those things I said the other night, but not the part when I said I only wanted to lose my virginity to you to close a chapter on us. I wanted it to be you because I love you.”
Peter puts one arm around my waist, pulls me in, and, looking down at me, he says fiercely, “Neither of us wants to break up. So why should we? Because of some shit my mom said? Because your sister did it that way? You’re not the same as your sister, Lara Jean. We’re not the same as Margot and Sanderson or anybody else. We’re you and me. And yeah, it’s gonna be hard. But Lara Jean, I’ll never feel for another girl what I feel for you.” He says it with all the certainty only a teenage boy can have, and I have never loved him more than at this very moment.
*
“Lovin’ in My Baby’s Eyes” is playing, and Peter takes my hand and leads me out to the lawn.
We’ve never danced to this kind of song before. It’s the kind of song where you sway together and make a lot of eye contact and smile. It feels different, like we’re already older versions of Peter and Lara Jean.
Across the dance floor, Trina and Kitty and Margot are dancing in a circle, with Grandma in the middle. Haven is dancing with my dad. She catches my eye and mouths, He’s so cute. Peter, not my dad. He is. He is so, so cute.
I will never forget tonight, not for as long as I live. One day, if I’m lucky, I’ll tell some young girl all my stories, just like Stormy told me hers. And I’ll get to live them again.
When I’m old and gray, I will look back on this night, and I will remember it just as it was.
Is.
We’re still here. It’s not the future yet.
*
That night, after all the guests have gone, after the chairs have been stacked back up, and the leftovers put in the fridge, I go up to my room to change out of my dress. Sitting on the bed is my yearbook. I flip to the back of the book, and there it is, Peter’s message to me.
Only, it’s not a message, it’s a contract.
Lara Jean and Peter’s Amended Contract
Peter will write a letter to Lara Jean once a week. A real handwritten letter, not an e-mail.
Lara Jean will call Peter once a day. Preferably the last call of the night, before she goes to bed.
Lara Jean will put up a picture of Peter’s choosing on her wall.
Peter will keep the scrapbook out on his desk so any interested parties will see that he is taken.
Peter and Lara Jean will always tell each other the truth, even when it’s hard.
Peter will love Lara Jean with all his heart, always.
41
THE NIGHT BEFORE I LEAVE for college, there is a Perseids meteor shower in the forecast. It’s supposed to be a good one. Peter and I are going out to the lake to watch. Kitty doesn’t say so, but she wants to come too; she’s dying to. Her whole body is rigid with wanting and not being able to ask. Any other time I would say yes.
When I say good-bye, her lips twist in disappointment for just a second, but she hides it well. How hard it must be to be the youngest sometimes, to be the one left behind.
In the car I feel sick with guilt for being so possessive about my time with Peter. It’s just that there’s so little time left now. . . . I’m a terrible big sister. Margot would have brought her.
“What are you thinking about?” Peter asks me.
“Oh, nothing,” I say. I’m too ashamed to say out loud that I should have invited Kitty along.
When I come home for fall break, we’ll do something the three of us. Peter and I will take her to the midnight show at the drive-in, and she’ll go in her pajamas and I’ll set up the backseat with a blanket for when she falls asleep. But tonight I want it to be just Peter and me, just this once. There’s no use lingering in the guilt and ruining the night, when I’ve already done the selfish deed. And if I am truly honest with myself, I would do it again. That’s how covetous I am of every last moment I have left with Peter. I want his eyes only on me; I want to talk only to him, to be just him and me for this little while longer. One day she’ll understand. One day she’ll love a boy and want to keep him all to herself and not share his attention with anyone else.
“We should have let Kitty come,” I burst out suddenly.
“I know,” he says. “I feel bad too. Do you think she’s mad?”
“Sad, probably.”
But neither of us suggests turning the car around and going back to get her. We are silent, and then we are both laughing, sheepish and also relieved. Assuredly, Peter says, “We’ll bring her next time.”
“Next time,” I echo. I reach over and grab his hand, and lock my fingers around his, and he locks back, and I am comforted in knowing that tonight he feels the exact same way, and there is no distance between us.
We spread a blanket out and lie side by side. The moon looks like a glacier in the navy night. So far I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. It looks like the normal night sky to me.
“Maybe we should’ve gone to the mountains,” Peter says, turning his face to look at me.
“No, this is perfect,” I say. “Anyway, I read that stargazing is a waiting game no matter where you are.”
“We have all night,” he says, pulling me closer.
Sometimes I wish we’d met when we were twenty-seven. Twenty-seven sounds like a good age to meet the person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with. At twenty-seven, you are still young, but hopefully you are well on your way to being the you you want to be.