Текст книги "P.S. I Still Love You "

Автор книги: Jenny Han

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

And then it’s too late. They’ve spotted me. Peter drops Genevieve’s arm.

“What are you doing here?” he asks me. “And what’s with all the makeup?” He gestures at my eyes, my lips.

My cheeks burn. I ignore the comment about my makeup and just say, “I work here, remember? I know why you’re here, Genevieve. Peter, thanks a lot for helping her take me out. You’re a real stand-up guy.”

“Covey, I didn’t come here to help her tag you out. I didn’t even know you’d be here. I told you, I don’t give a shit about this game!” He turns to Genevieve. Accusingly he says, “You said you needed to pick something up from your grandma’s friend.”

“I do,” she says. “This is just an amazing coincidence. I guess I win, huh?”

She’s so smug, so sure of herself and her victory over me. “You haven’t tagged me yet.” Should I just make a run for it back inside? Stormy would let me spend the night if I needed to.

Just then, John’s red Mustang convertible comes roaring up through the parking lot. “Hey, guys,” he says, and Peter’s and Gen’s mouths drop. It’s only then that I think of how strange we must look together, John in his World War II uniform with his jaunty little hat, me with my victory roll and my red lipstick.

Peter eyes him. “What are you doing here?”

Blithely John says, “My great-grandmother lives here. Stormy. You may have heard of her. She’s a friend of Lara Jean’s.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t remember,” I say.

Peter frowns at me, and I know he doesn’t. It’s just like him not to. “What’s with the outfits?” he says, his voice gruff.

“USO party,” John says. “Very exclusive. VIPs only—sorry, guys.” Then he tips his hat at him, which I can tell makes Peter mad, which in turn makes me glad.

“What the hell is a USO party?” Peter asks me.

John stretches his arm out onto the passenger seat luxuriously. “It’s from World War Two.”

“I wasn’t asking you; I was asking her,” Peter snaps. He looks at me, his eyes hard. “Is this a date? Are you on a date with him? And who the hell’s car is this?”

Before I can answer, Genevieve makes a move toward me, which I dodge. I run behind the pillar. “Don’t be such a baby, Lara Jean,” she says. “Just accept that you lose and I win!”

I peek from behind the pillar, and John is giving me a look—a look that says, Get in. Quickly I nod. Then he throws open the passenger door, and I run for it, as fast as I can. I’ve barely got the door closed before he’s driving off, Peter and Gen in our dust.

I turn back to look. Peter is staring after us, his mouth open. He’s jealous, and I’m glad. “Thanks for the save,” I say, still trying to catch my breath. My heart is pounding in my chest so hard.

John is looking straight ahead, a broad smile on his face. “Anytime.”

We stop at a stoplight, and he turns his head and looks at me, and then we’re looking at each other, laughing like crazy, and I’m breathless again.

“Did you see the looks on their faces?” John gasps, dropping his head on the steering wheel.

“It was classic!”

“Like a movie!” He grins at me, jubilant, blue eyes alight.

“Just like a movie,” I agree, leaning my head back against the seat and opening my eyes wide up at the moon, so wide it hurts. I’m in a red Mustang convertible sitting next to a boy in uniform, and the night air feels like cool satin on my skin, and all the stars are out, and I’m happy. The way John is still grinning to himself, I know he is too. We got to play make-believe for the night. Forget Peter and Genevieve. The light turns green, and I throw my arms in the air. “Go fast, Johnny!” I shout, and he guns it and I let out a shriek.

We zoom around for a bit, and at the next stoplight he slows and puts his arm around me, pulling me closer to his side. “Isn’t this how they did it in the fifties?” he asks, one hand on the steering wheel and the other around my shoulders.

My heart rate picks back up again. “Well, technically we’re dressed for the forties—” and then he kisses me. His lips are warm and firm against mine, and my eyes flutter shut.

When he pulls away just a fraction, he looks down at me and says, half serious, half not, “Better than the first time?”

I’m dazed. He’s got some of my lipstick on his face now. I reach up and wipe his mouth. The light turns green; we don’t move; he’s still looking at me. Someone honks a horn behind us. “The light’s green.”

He doesn’t make a move; he’s still looking at me. “Answer first.”

“Better.” John pushes his foot on the gas, and we’re moving again. I’m still breathless. Into the wind I shout, “One day I want to see you make a Model UN speech!”

John laughs. “What? Why?”

“I think it would be something to see. I bet you’d be . . . grand. You know, out of all of us, I think you’ve changed the most.”

“How?”

“You used to be sort of quiet. In your own head. Now you’re so confident.”

“I still get nervous, Lara Jean.” John has a cowlick, a little piece of hair that won’t stay down; it is stubborn. It’s this piece more than anything else that makes my heart squeeze.

50

AFTER JOHN DROPS ME OFF at home, I run across the street to pick up Kitty from Ms. Rothschild’s. And she invites me in for a cup of tea. Kitty is asleep on the couch with the TV on low in the background. We settle on the other couch with our cups of Lady Grey, and she asks me how the party went. Maybe it’s because I’m still on a high from the night, or maybe it’s the bobby pins so tight on my head that I feel woozy, or it could be the way her eyes light up with genuine interest as I begin to talk, but I tell her everything. The dance with John, how everyone cheered, Peter and Genevieve, even the kiss.

She starts fanning herself when I tell about the kiss. “When that boy drove up in that uniform—ooh, girl.” She whistles. “It made me feel like a dirty old lady, because I knew him when he was little. But dear God he is handsome!”

I giggle as I pull the bobby pins from the top of my head. She leans forward and helps me along. My cinnamon bun unravels, and my scalp tingles with relief. Is this what it’s like to have a mother? Late-night boy talk over tea?

Ms. Rothschild’s voice gets low and confidential. “Here’s the thing. My one piece of advice to you. You have to let yourself be fully present in every moment. Just be awake for it, do you know what I mean? Go all in and wring every last drop out of the experience.”

“So do you not have any regrets, then? Because you always went all in?” I’m thinking of her divorce, how it was the talk of the neighborhood.

“Oh God, no. I have regrets.” She laughs a husky laugh, the sexy kind that only smokers or people with colds get to have. “I don’t know why I’m sitting here trying to give you advice. I’m a single divorcée and I’m forty. Two. Forty-two. What do I know about anything? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way.” She lets out a sigh filled with longing. “I miss cigarettes so much.”

“Kitty will check your breath,” I warn, and she laughs that husky laugh again.

“I’m afraid to cross that girl.”

“‘Though she be but little, she is fierce,’” I intone. “You’re wise to be afraid, Ms. Rothschild.”

“Oh my God, Lara Jean, will you please just call me Trina? I mean, I know I’m old, but I’m not that old.”

I hesitate. “Okay. Trina . . . do you like my dad?”

She goes a little red. “Um. Yeah, I think he’s a great guy.”

“To date?”

“Well, he’s not my usual type. And also he hasn’t shown any particular interest in me, either, so, ha-ha!”

“I’m sure you know Kitty’s been trying to set you two up. Which, if that’s unwelcome, I can definitely make her stop.” I correct myself. “I can definitely try to make her stop. But I think she might be onto something. I think you and my dad could be good together. He loves to cook, and he likes to build fires, and he doesn’t mind shopping because he brings a book. And you, you seem fun, and spontaneous and just really . . . light.”

She smiles at me. “I’m a mess is what I am.”

“Messiness can be good, especially for someone like my dad. It’s worth a date, at least, don’t you think? What’s the harm in just seeing?”

“Dating neighbors is tricky. What if it doesn’t work out and then we’re stuck living across the street from each other?”

“That’s a tiny inconsequential risk compared to what could be gained. If it doesn’t work out, you wave politely when you see each other and then you keep on walking. No big deal. And I know I’m biased, but my dad is really worth it. He’s the best.”

“Oh, I know it. I see you girls and I think, God, any man who could raise those girls is something special. I’ve never seen a man so devoted to his family. You three are the pearls in his crown, you know? And that’s how it should be. A girl’s relationship with her father is the most important male relationship of her life.”

“What about a girl’s relationship with her mother?”

Ms. Rothschild tilts her head, contemplating. “Yeah, I would say a girl’s relationship with her mom is the most important female relationship. Her mom or her sisters. You’re lucky to have two of them. I know you know this already, better than most people, but your parents won’t always be there. If it happens the way it’s supposed to, they’ll go first. But your sisters are yours for life.”

“Do you have one?”

She nods, a hint of a smile forming on her tanned face. “I have a big sister. Jeanie. We didn’t get along as well as you girls do, but as we get older, she looks more and more like our mom. And so when I’m missing my mom a lot, I go visit Jeanie and I get to see my mom’s face again.” She wrinkles her nose. “Does that sound creepy?”

“No. I think it sounds . . . lovely.” I hesitate. “Sometimes when I hear Margot’s voice—like, she’s downstairs, and she calls us down to hurry up and get in the car, or she says that dinner’s ready—sometimes she sounds so much like my mom, it tricks me. Just for a second.” Tears spring to my eyes.

Ms. Rothschild has tears in her eyes too. “I don’t think a girl ever gets over losing her mom. I’m an adult and it’s completely normal and expected for my mom to be dead, but I still feel orphaned sometimes.” She smiles at me. “But that’s just inescapable, right? When you lose someone and it still hurts, that’s when you know the love was real.”

I wipe my eyes. With Peter and me, was the love real? Because it does still hurt, it does. But maybe that’s just part of it. Sniffling, I ask, “So, just to make sure, if my dad asks you out, you’ll say yes?”

She roars with laughter, then claps her hand over her mouth when Kitty stirs on the couch. “Now I see where Kitty gets it from.”

“Trina, you didn’t answer the question.”

“The answer is yes.”

I smile to myself. Yes.

By the time I wash off all my makeup and get into my pajamas, it’s nearly three in the morning. I’m not tired, though. What I really want to do is talk to Margot, go over every single detail of the night. Scotland is five hours ahead, which means it’s almost eight a.m. over there. She’s an early riser, so I figure it’s worth a shot.

I catch her as she’s getting ready to go have breakfast. She sets her computer on her dresser so we can talk as she puts on sunscreen and mascara and lip balm.

I tell her about the party, about Peter and Genevieve’s appearance, and most importantly the kiss with John. “Margot, I think I could be a person who is in love with more than one person at a time.” I might even be a girl that falls in love twelve hundred times. I get a sudden picture in my head of myself as a bee, sipping nectar from a daisy to a rose to a lily. Each boy sweet in his own way.

“You?” She stops putting her hair in a ponytail and taps her finger to the screen. “Lara Jean, I think you half-fall in love with every person you meet. It’s part of your charm. You’re in love with love.”

This may be true. Perhaps I am in love with love! That doesn’t seem like such a bad way to be.

51

OUR TOWN’S SPRING FAIR IS tomorrow, and Kitty has promised the PTA a cake for the cake walk on my behalf. At a cake walk, music plays while kids walk around a circle of numbers, like musical chairs. When the music stops, a number is picked at random, and the kid standing in front of the corresponding number gets the cake. This was always my favorite carnival game, of course, because I liked looking at all of the homemade cakes and also for the sheer luck of it. Certainly, the kids crowd around the cake table and earmark the cake they most want and try to walk slowly when they come upon the number, but beyond that there isn’t much to it. It’s a game that does not require any skill or know-how: You literally just walk around a circle to old-timey music. Sure, you could go to the bakery and pick out the exact cake you want, but there is a thrill in not being sure what you’ll end up with.

My cake will be chocolate, because kids and people in general prefer chocolate to any other flavor. The frosting is where I’ll get fancy. Possibly salted caramel, or passion fruit, or maybe a mocha whip. I’ve been toying with the idea of doing an ombré cake, where the frosting goes from dark to light. I have a feeling my cake will be in demand.

When I picked up Kitty from Shanae’s house this morning, I asked her mom what cake she was baking for the cake walk, because Mrs. Rodgers is vice president of the elementary school PTA. She heaved a sigh and said, “I’ll be baking whatever Duncan Hines I can find in my pantry. Either that or Food Lion.” Then she asked me what I was baking and I told her, and she said, “I’m voting you Teen Mom of the Year,” which made me laugh and also further spurred me to bake the best cake so everyone knows what Kitty’s working with. I never mentioned this to Daddy or Margot, but in middle school my English teacher sponsored a mother-daughter tea in honor of Mother’s Day. It was after school, an optional thing, but I really wanted to go and have the tea sandwiches and scones she said she was bringing. It was just for mothers and daughters, though. I suppose I could have asked Grandma to come—Margot did that a few times for miscellaneous events—but it wouldn’t have been the same. And I don’t think it’s the kind of thing that would bother Kitty, but it’s still something I think about.

The cake walk is in the elementary school’s music room. I’ve volunteered to be in charge of the walking music, and I’ve made a playlist with all sugar-related songs. Of course “Sugar, Sugar” by the Archies, “Sugar Shack,” “Sugar Town,” “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch).” When I walk into the music room, Peter’s mom and another mom are setting up the cakes. I falter, unsure of what to do.

She says, “Hello, Lara Jean,” but her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and it gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach. It’s a relief when she leaves.

There’s a decent crowd all day, with some people playing more than once for the cake of their dreams. I keep steering people toward my caramel cake, which is still in rotation. There’s a German chocolate cake that has people entranced, which I’m pretty sure is store-bought, but there’s no accounting for taste. I’ve never been a fan of German chocolate cake myself, because who wants wet coconut flakes? Shudder.

Kitty’s been running around with her friends, and she’s deigned to help me out at the cake walk for an hour when Peter walks in with his little brother, Owen. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is playing. Kitty goes over to say hello, while I busy myself looking at my phone as she’s showing them the cakes. I’ve got my head down, pretend-texting, when Peter comes up beside me.

“Which cake is yours? The coconut one?”

My head snaps up. “I would never buy a grocery-store cake for this.”

“I was joking, Covey. Yours is the caramel one. I can tell by the way you frosted it so fancy.” He stops talking and shoves his hands in his pockets. “So, just so you know, I didn’t go to the nursing home with Gen to help her tag you out.”

I shrug. “For all I know you’ve already texted her and told her I’m here, so.”

“I told you, I don’t give a shit about this game. I think it’s dumb.”

“Well, I don’t. I’m still planning on winning.” I put on the next song for the cake walk, and all the kids run into position. “So are you and Genevieve back together?”

He makes a rude sound. “What do you care?”

Again I shrug. “I knew you’d be back with her eventually.”

Peter smarts at this. He turns like he’s going to leave, but then he stops. Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, “You never answered my question about McClaren. Was that a date?”

“What do you care?”

His nostrils flare. “I fucking care because you were my girlfriend up until a few weeks ago. I don’t even remember why we broke up.”

“If you can’t remember, then I don’t know what to say to you.”

“Just tell the truth. Don’t dick me around.” His voice cracks on the word “dick.” Any other time we would have laughed about it. I wish we could now. “What’s going on with you and McClaren?”

There’s a lump in my throat that’s making it hard to talk all of a sudden. “Nothing.” Just a kiss. “We’re friends. He’s been helping me with the game.”

“How convenient. First he’s writing you letters, now he’s driving you around town and hanging out with you at a nursing home.”

“You said you didn’t care about the letters.”

“Well, I guess I did.”

“Then maybe you should have said so.” Kitty’s looking over at us, her forehead pinched. “I don’t walk to talk about this anymore. I’m here to work.”

Peter eyes me. “Have you kissed him?”

Do I tell the truth? Do I have to? “Yes. Once.”

He blinks. “So you’re telling me I’ve been living the life of a celibate person ever since we started this stupid game—before, even—and meanwhile you’re fooling around with McClaren?”

“We’re broken up, Peter. Meanwhile, when we were actually together, you were with Genevieve—”

He throws his head back and yells, “I didn’t kiss her!” Some of the adults turn and look at us.

“You had your arms around her,” I whisper-yell. “You were holding her!”

“I was comforting her. God! She was crying! I told you! Did you do it to get back at me?” Peter wants me to say yes. He wants it to have been about him. But I wasn’t thinking about Peter when I kissed John. I kissed him because I wanted to.

“No.”

The muscle in his jaw twitches. “When we broke up, you said you wanted to be someone’s number one girl, but look at you. You don’t want to have a number one guy.” He gestures rudely at the cake table. “You want to have your cake and eat it too.”

His words sting just the way he intends them to. “I hate that saying. What does it even mean? Of course I want to have my cake and eat it too—otherwise what’s the point of having cake?”

He frowns at me. “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

The song finishes then, and the kids come over to claim their cakes. Kitty and Owen, too. “Let’s go,” Owen says to Peter. He’s got my caramel cake.

Peter glances down at him and then back at me, his eyes hard. “I don’t want that one.”

“That’s the one you told me to get!”

“Well, I don’t want it anymore. Put it back and get the Funfetti down there at the end.”

“You can’t have it,” Kitty tells him. “That’s not how a cake walk works. You take the cake with the number you were standing on.”

Peter’s mouth falls open in shock. “Aw, come on, kid.”

Kitty moves closer to me. “Nope.”

After Peter and his brother leave, I hug Kitty from behind. She was on my side after all. Song girls stick together.

52

KITTY WANTED TO STAY LONGER at the fair, so it’s just me driving alone when I spot Genevieve’s car on the road. And just like that, I’m following her. It’s time to take this girl down.

She’s still daring. The way she zips through traffic lights, I almost lose her a few times. I’m not a good enough driver for this, I want to scream at her.

We finally end up at an office building, one I recognize as her dad’s. She goes inside, and I park in the same strip mall, but not too close. I turn off the engine and recline my seat back so she can’t see me.

Ten minutes pass, and nothing. I don’t even know why she’d be at her dad’s office on a weekend. Maybe she’s helping her dad’s secretary? I might be stuck here for a while. But I will wait forever if need be. I will win, no matter what. I don’t even care about the prize. I just want the win.

I’m about to doze off when two people come out of the building—her dad, in a suit and a camel coat, and a girl. I duck low in my seat. At first I think it’s Genevieve, but this girl is taller. I squint. I recognize her. She was Margot’s year; I think they were in Key Club together. Anna Hicks. They walk out to the parking lot together; he walks her to her car. She’s fumbling for her keys. He grabs her arm and turns her face to his. And then they’re kissing. Passionately. Tongue. Hands everywhere.

Oh my God. She’s Margot’s age. Just eighteen. Genevieve’s dad is kissing her like she’s a grown woman. He’s a dad. She’s somebody’s daughter.

I feel sick inside. How could he do this to Genevieve’s mom? To Gen? Does she know? Is this the hard thing she’s been going through? If my dad ever did such a thing, I could never look at him the same way. I don’t know that I could look at my life the same way. It would be such a betrayal, not just of our family, but of himself, of who he is as a person.

I don’t want to see any more. I keep my head down until they both drive out of the parking lot, and I’m about to start my car too when Genevieve walks out, her arms crossed, shoulders bent.

Oh dear God. She’s spotted me. Her eyes are narrow; she’s heading straight for me. I want to drive away, but I can’t. She’s standing right in front of me, angrily motioning for me to roll down the window. So I do, but it’s hard to look her in the eyes.

She snaps out, “Did you see?”

Weakly I say, “No. I didn’t see anything . . .”

Genevieve’s face goes red; she knows I’m lying. For a second I am terrified she is going to cry, or hit me. I wish she would just hit me. “Go ahead,” she manages. “Tag me out. That’s what you came here for.” I shake my head, and then she grabs my hands off the steering wheel and slaps them on her collarbone. “There. You win, Lara Jean. Game over.”

And then she runs to her car.

There’s a Korean word my grandma taught me. It’s called jung. It’s the connection between two people that can’t be severed, even when love turns to hate. You still have those old feelings for them; you can’t ever completely shake them loose of you; you will always have tenderness in your heart for them. I think this must be some part of what I feel for Genevieve. Jung is why I can’t hate her. We’re tied.

And jung is why Peter can’t let her go. They’re tied too. If my dad did what her dad did, wouldn’t I reach out to the one person who never turned me away? Who was always there, who loved me more than anyone? Peter is that person for Genevieve. How can I begrudge her that?