Always and Forever, Lara Jean
Page 53
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I get out of bed and pick it up and flip to the back. It’s still empty. When Peter comes back upstairs, I’m sitting on his bed again and I don’t mention my yearbook, I don’t ask why he still hasn’t written in it. I’m not sure why. I tell him I’d better get going, because Margot’s coming home from Scotland tonight, and I want to stock the fridge with all her favorite foods.
Peter’s face falls. “You don’t want to hang out a little longer? I can take you to the store.”
“I still have to clean up the upstairs, too,” I say, standing up.
He tugs on my shirt and tries to pull me back onto the bed. “Come on, five more minutes.”
I lie back down next to him and he cuddles in close, but I’m still thinking about the yearbook. I’ve been working on his scrapbook for months; the least he can do is write me a nice yearbook message.
“This is good practice for college,” he murmurs, pulling me toward him, wrapping his arms around me. “The beds are small at UVA. How big are the beds at UNC?”
My back to him, I say, “I don’t know. I didn’t get to see the dorms.”
He tucks his head in the space between my neck and shoulder. “That was a trick question,” he says, and I can feel him smile against my neck. “To check and see if you visited a random UNC guy’s dorm room with Chris. Congrats, you passed the test.”
I can’t help but laugh. Then my smile fades and I give him a test of my own. “Don’t let me forget to take my yearbook with me when we leave.”
He stiffens for a second and then says in an easy tone, “I have to hunt it down. It’s here somewhere. If I can’t find it, I’ll just bring it over later.”
I pull away from him and sit up. Confused, he looks up at me. “I saw my yearbook on your desk, Peter. I know you haven’t written anything yet!”
Peter sits up and sighs and scrubs his hand through his hair roughly. His eyes flit over to me and then back down again. “I just don’t know what to write. I know you want me to write some great, romantic thing, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve tried a bunch of times, and I just—I freeze up. You know I’m not good at that kind of thing.”
Feelingly, I tell him, “I don’t care what you say as long as it’s from the heart. Just be sweet. Be you.” I crawl closer to him and put my arms around his neck. “Okay?” Peter nods, and I give him a little kiss, and he surges up and kisses me harder, and then I don’t even care about my dumb yearbook anymore. I am aware of every breath, every movement. I memorize it all, I hold it in my heart.
When we break away, he looks up at me and says, “I went to my dad’s house yesterday.”
My eyes widen. “You did?”
“Yeah. He invited me and Owen to come over for dinner, and I wasn’t going to go, but then Owen asked me to come with him and I couldn’t say no.”
I lie back down, rest my head on his chest. “How was it?”
“It was fine, I guess. His house is nice.” I don’t say anything; I just wait for him to go on. It feels like a long time before he says, “You know that old movie you made me watch, where the poor kid was standing outside with his nose pressed to the glass? That’s how I felt.”
“That old movie” he’s referring to is Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, when Charlie is watching all the kids go hog wild at the candy store but he can’t go inside because he doesn’t have any money. The thought of Peter—handsome, confident, easy Peter—feeling that way makes me want to cry. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him so hard to reconnect with his dad.
“He put up a basketball hoop for those kids. I asked him for one so many times, but he never did it. His kids aren’t even athletic. I don’t think Everett’s picked up a basketball once in his whole life.”
“Did Owen have a good time?”
This he grudgingly concedes. “Yeah, he and Clayton and Everett played video games. My dad grilled hamburgers and steaks. He even wore a damn chef’s apron. I don’t think he ever helped my mom in the kitchen once the whole time they were married.” Peter pauses. “He didn’t do the dishes, though, so I guess he hasn’t changed that much. Still, I could tell he and Gayle were trying. She baked a cake. Not as good as yours, though.”
“What kind of cake?” I ask.
“Devil’s food cake. Kind of dry.” Peter hesitates before he says, “I invited him to graduation.”
“You did?” My heart swells.
“He kept asking about school, and . . . I don’t know. I thought about what you said, and I just did it.” He shrugs, like he doesn’t care much either way if his dad’s there or not. It’s an act. Peter cares. Of course he cares. “So you’ll meet him then.”
I snuggle closer to him. “I’m so proud of you, Peter.”
He gives a little laugh. “For what?”
“For giving your dad a chance even though he doesn’t deserve it.” I look up at him and say, “You’re a nice boy, Peter K.,” and the smile that breaks across his face makes me love him even more.
30
AFTER PETER DROPS ME OFF at home, I end up having just enough time to run to the grocery store and pick up chips and salsa, ice cream, challah bread, Brie, blood-orange soda—you know, all the essentials—and then come home and clean the upstairs bathroom and make up Margot’s bed with fresh sheets. Daddy picks Margot up at the airport on the way home from work. It’s the first time she’s been home since Trina moved in. When we step inside the house with her suitcases, I see her looking around the living room; I see her eyes flit to the mantel, where there is now framed art that Trina brought over from her house—it’s an abstract painting of the shoreline. Margot’s expression doesn’t change, but I know she notices. How could she not? I moved Mommy and Daddy’s wedding portrait into my room the day before Trina moved in. Margot’s looking around the whole room now, silently noting everything that is different. The embroidered throw pillows Trina brought with her, a framed picture of her and Daddy on the day he proposed on the side table by the couch, the armchair we switched out for Trina’s. All of Trina’s little knickknacks, of which there are many. Now that I’m looking at it all through Margot’s eyes, it is kind of cluttered.
Peter’s face falls. “You don’t want to hang out a little longer? I can take you to the store.”
“I still have to clean up the upstairs, too,” I say, standing up.
He tugs on my shirt and tries to pull me back onto the bed. “Come on, five more minutes.”
I lie back down next to him and he cuddles in close, but I’m still thinking about the yearbook. I’ve been working on his scrapbook for months; the least he can do is write me a nice yearbook message.
“This is good practice for college,” he murmurs, pulling me toward him, wrapping his arms around me. “The beds are small at UVA. How big are the beds at UNC?”
My back to him, I say, “I don’t know. I didn’t get to see the dorms.”
He tucks his head in the space between my neck and shoulder. “That was a trick question,” he says, and I can feel him smile against my neck. “To check and see if you visited a random UNC guy’s dorm room with Chris. Congrats, you passed the test.”
I can’t help but laugh. Then my smile fades and I give him a test of my own. “Don’t let me forget to take my yearbook with me when we leave.”
He stiffens for a second and then says in an easy tone, “I have to hunt it down. It’s here somewhere. If I can’t find it, I’ll just bring it over later.”
I pull away from him and sit up. Confused, he looks up at me. “I saw my yearbook on your desk, Peter. I know you haven’t written anything yet!”
Peter sits up and sighs and scrubs his hand through his hair roughly. His eyes flit over to me and then back down again. “I just don’t know what to write. I know you want me to write some great, romantic thing, but I don’t know what to say. I’ve tried a bunch of times, and I just—I freeze up. You know I’m not good at that kind of thing.”
Feelingly, I tell him, “I don’t care what you say as long as it’s from the heart. Just be sweet. Be you.” I crawl closer to him and put my arms around his neck. “Okay?” Peter nods, and I give him a little kiss, and he surges up and kisses me harder, and then I don’t even care about my dumb yearbook anymore. I am aware of every breath, every movement. I memorize it all, I hold it in my heart.
When we break away, he looks up at me and says, “I went to my dad’s house yesterday.”
My eyes widen. “You did?”
“Yeah. He invited me and Owen to come over for dinner, and I wasn’t going to go, but then Owen asked me to come with him and I couldn’t say no.”
I lie back down, rest my head on his chest. “How was it?”
“It was fine, I guess. His house is nice.” I don’t say anything; I just wait for him to go on. It feels like a long time before he says, “You know that old movie you made me watch, where the poor kid was standing outside with his nose pressed to the glass? That’s how I felt.”
“That old movie” he’s referring to is Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, when Charlie is watching all the kids go hog wild at the candy store but he can’t go inside because he doesn’t have any money. The thought of Peter—handsome, confident, easy Peter—feeling that way makes me want to cry. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed him so hard to reconnect with his dad.
“He put up a basketball hoop for those kids. I asked him for one so many times, but he never did it. His kids aren’t even athletic. I don’t think Everett’s picked up a basketball once in his whole life.”
“Did Owen have a good time?”
This he grudgingly concedes. “Yeah, he and Clayton and Everett played video games. My dad grilled hamburgers and steaks. He even wore a damn chef’s apron. I don’t think he ever helped my mom in the kitchen once the whole time they were married.” Peter pauses. “He didn’t do the dishes, though, so I guess he hasn’t changed that much. Still, I could tell he and Gayle were trying. She baked a cake. Not as good as yours, though.”
“What kind of cake?” I ask.
“Devil’s food cake. Kind of dry.” Peter hesitates before he says, “I invited him to graduation.”
“You did?” My heart swells.
“He kept asking about school, and . . . I don’t know. I thought about what you said, and I just did it.” He shrugs, like he doesn’t care much either way if his dad’s there or not. It’s an act. Peter cares. Of course he cares. “So you’ll meet him then.”
I snuggle closer to him. “I’m so proud of you, Peter.”
He gives a little laugh. “For what?”
“For giving your dad a chance even though he doesn’t deserve it.” I look up at him and say, “You’re a nice boy, Peter K.,” and the smile that breaks across his face makes me love him even more.
30
AFTER PETER DROPS ME OFF at home, I end up having just enough time to run to the grocery store and pick up chips and salsa, ice cream, challah bread, Brie, blood-orange soda—you know, all the essentials—and then come home and clean the upstairs bathroom and make up Margot’s bed with fresh sheets. Daddy picks Margot up at the airport on the way home from work. It’s the first time she’s been home since Trina moved in. When we step inside the house with her suitcases, I see her looking around the living room; I see her eyes flit to the mantel, where there is now framed art that Trina brought over from her house—it’s an abstract painting of the shoreline. Margot’s expression doesn’t change, but I know she notices. How could she not? I moved Mommy and Daddy’s wedding portrait into my room the day before Trina moved in. Margot’s looking around the whole room now, silently noting everything that is different. The embroidered throw pillows Trina brought with her, a framed picture of her and Daddy on the day he proposed on the side table by the couch, the armchair we switched out for Trina’s. All of Trina’s little knickknacks, of which there are many. Now that I’m looking at it all through Margot’s eyes, it is kind of cluttered.
