Always and Forever, Lara Jean

by Jenny Han

  A whole month. By the time I get back, it’ll be nearly time to leave for college, and Peter and I will have spent the summer apart.

  * * *

  At graduation all the girls wear white dresses. All white everything. I’m wearing Margot’s dress from two years ago—sleeveless with Swiss dots and a crisp knee-length skirt. Trina’s taken up the hemline for me because I’m shorter. Margot wore it with Converse, and I’m wearing white patent-leather sandals with a T-strap and little perforations.

  In the car on the way over, I smooth down my skirt and say to Kitty, “Maybe you could wear this dress for your high school graduation too, Kitten. And you’ll pose by the oak tree just like we did. It’ll be a beautiful triptych.” I wonder what shoes Kitty will wear. She’s about as likely to wear white stilettos as she is white Reeboks or white roller skates.

  Kitty makes a sour-lemon face. “I don’t want to wear the same dress as you and Margot. I want my own dress. Besides, it’ll really be out of style by then.” She pauses. “What’s a triptych?”

  “It’s, um, three pieces of art that come together and make one.” Furtively, I google “triptych” on my phone to make sure I’m telling her the right thing. “It’s, like, three panels, sort of hinged side by side. They’re meant to be appreciated together.”

  “You’re reading that off your phone.”

  “I was just double-checking,” I say. I smooth my dress down again, making sure my cap is in my bag. I’m graduating from high school today. It snuck up on me—growing up, I mean. In the driver’s seat, Trina’s looking for a parking spot, and Margot’s next to her, texting on her phone; Kitty’s next to me, looking out the window. Daddy has driven separately, to pick up Grandma. Nana, Daddy’s mom, is in Florida with her boyfriend and won’t be able to make it. I only wish my own mom were here for this. All these big moments she’s missing, that she’ll keep missing. I have to believe that she knows, that somehow she still sees. But I also just wish I could have a hug from my mom on my graduation day.

  * * *

  Throughout the valedictorian speech, I keep looking out in the crowd for Peter’s family. I wonder if his dad is sitting with Peter’s brother and his mom, or separately. I wonder if I’ll get to meet Peter’s two half brothers too. I’ve already spotted my own family—they are hard to miss. Every time I look in their direction, they all wave madly. Plus, Trina’s wearing a wide brimmed Kentucky Derby hat. Whoever is sitting in the row behind her probably can’t see a thing. Margot exercised a lot of self-control by not rolling her eyes when Trina came downstairs wearing it. Even Kitty said it was “a bit much,” but Trina asked me what I thought and I said I loved it, which I kind of do.

  Our principal calls my name, “Lara Jean Song Covey,” but he pronounces it Laura, which trips me up for a second.

  When I accept my diploma from him and shake his hand, I whisper, “It’s Lara, not Laura.”

  My plan was to blow my family a kiss as I walked across the stage, but I get so nervous that I forget. Over the applause I can hear Kitty’s whoop, Daddy’s whistle. When it’s Peter’s turn, I clap and scream like crazy, and of course everyone else does too. Even the teachers clap extra loud for him. It’s so obvious when teachers have favorites. Not that I could blame them for loving Peter. We all do.

  After we are declared graduates, after we throw our caps in the air, Peter makes his way past the throngs of people to find me. As he moves through the crowd, he’s smiling, making jokes, saying hi to people, but there’s something wrong. There’s a blankness in his eyes, even as he grabs me for a hug. “Hey,” he says, kissing me swiftly on the lips. “So we’re officially college kids now.”

  Looking around, I straighten my robe and say, “I didn’t see your mom and Owen in the stands. Did your dad sit with them? Are your brothers here? Should I come over now or after I take pictures with my family?”

  Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “My dad couldn’t come last minute.”

  “What! Why?”

  “There was some kind of emergency. Who knows.”

  I’m stunned. His dad seemed so sincere when I saw him at the lacrosse game. “I hope it was a really big emergency to miss his own son’s high school graduation.”

  “It’s fine.” Peter shrugs like he doesn’t care either way, but I know that can’t be true. His jaw is set so tight, he could break his teeth.

  Over his shoulder I see my family making their way through the crowds to get to me. You can’t miss Trina’s hat, even in this swarm of people. My dad’s carrying a big bouquet of all different-colored roses. Grandma’s wearing a cranberry-colored suit; her hair is freshly permed.

  I feel so rushed and panicky for more time with Peter, to comfort him, to just be at his side. I grab his hand. “I’m sorry,” I say, and I want to say more, of course I do, but my family arrives, and everyone’s hugging me. Peter says hi to my grandma and takes some pictures with us before he escapes to find his mom and brother. I call out to him, but he’s too far away, and he doesn’t turn around.

  After we take pictures, Daddy, Trina, Grandma, Kitty, Margot, and I go to a Japanese restaurant for lunch. We order plates and plates of sashimi and sushi, and I wear a napkin bib so soy sauce doesn’t fling onto my white dress. Trina sits next to Grandma and chatters in her ear about all manner of things, and I can just hear Grandma thinking, Damn, this girl talks a lot—but she’s trying, and that’s what Grandma appreciates. I’m trying to be festive and appreciative and in the moment, since this lunch is in my honor, but all I can think of is Peter and how hurt I am on his behalf.

  Over mochi ice cream, Grandma tells us about all the places she wants to take us in Korea: the Buddhist temples, the outdoor food markets, the skin clinic where she goes to get her moles lasered off. She points at a tiny mole on Kitty’s cheek and says, “We’ll get that taken care of.”

  Daddy looks alarmed, and Trina’s quick to ask, “Isn’t she too young?”

  Grandma waves her hand. “She’ll be fine.”

  Then Kitty asks, “How old do you have to be to get a nose job in Korea?” and Daddy nearly chokes on his beer.

  Grandma gives her a threatening look. “You can never, ever change your nose. You have a lucky nose.”

  Kitty touches it gingerly. “I do?”

  “Very lucky,” Grandma says. “If you change your nose, you’ll change your luck. So never do it.”

  I touch my own nose. Grandma’s never said anything about my nose being lucky.

  “Margot, you can get new eyeglasses in Korea,” Grandma says. “It’s very cheap to buy eyeglasses in Korea. All the newest fashions.”

  “Ooh,” Margot says, dunking a piece of tuna in her soy sauce. “I’ve always wanted red frames.”

  Grandma turns to me and asks, “What about you, Lara Jean? Are you excited about the cooking class?”

  “So excited,” I say brightly. Underneath the table I text Peter.

  Are you okay?

  We’re almost done at lunch.

  Come over anytime.

  The ride home from the restaurant is just Daddy and me, because Trina, Margot, and Kitty are driving Grandma back home. When Margot said she’d ride with us, Grandma insisted that Margot come along with them. She knows Margot isn’t crazy about Trina; I know she’s just trying to matchmake them a bit. Grandma doesn’t miss a beat.

  On the drive home, Daddy looks over at me from the driver’s seat with misty eyes and says, “Your mom would’ve been so proud of you today, Lara Jean. You know how much she cared about your education. She wanted you to have every opportunity.”

  Fingering the tassel on my graduation cap in my lap, I ask him, “Do you think Mommy was sad she never got to get her master’s? I mean, not that she ever regretted having Kitty or anything. Just, do you think she wished things happened differently?”

  He’s taken aback. Glancing at me, he says, “Well, no. Kitty really was a happy surprise. I’m not just saying that. We always wanted a big family. And she p
lanned on going back after Kitty was in preschool full-time. She never gave up that plan.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “No way. She was going to get her master’s. In fact she was going to take a class that fall. She just . . . ran out of time.” Daddy’s voice chokes a little. “We only had eighteen years together. We had as many years as you’ve been alive, Lara Jean.”

  A lump gathers in my throat. When you think about it, eighteen years with the person you love isn’t much time at all. “Daddy, can we stop by the drugstore? I want to get some photo paper.” Peter and I took a picture together in our caps and gowns this morning, before the ceremony. It’ll be the last page of his scrapbook, our last high school chapter.

  32

  PETER COMES OVER AFTER HAVING dinner with his mom and Owen. When he rings the bell, I run to the front door and the first thing I do is ask if he’s spoken to his dad, but he brushes me off, the very picture of nonchalance. “It’s fine,” he says, taking off his shoes. “I didn’t even want him to come in the first place.”

  This stings, because it feels like maybe he’s blaming me, and maybe he should—after all, I was the one who kept pushing him to invite his dad. I should’ve listened to him when he said no.

  Peter and I go upstairs to my room, and I hear my dad jokingly call out, “Keep the door open!” the way he always does, which makes Peter wince.

  I sit down on the bed, and he sits far away from me at my desk. I go over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. This is my fault. I never should have pushed you to invite him. If you’re mad at me, I don’t blame you one bit.”

  “Why would I be mad at you? It’s not your fault he sucks.” When I don’t say anything, he softens. “Look, I’m really not sad. I’m not anything. You’ll meet him another time, okay?”

  I hesitate before saying, “I’ve actually already met him before.”

  He stares at me in disbelief. “When?”

  I swallow. “I accidentally met him at one of your lacrosse games. He asked me not to mention it—he didn’t want you to know he was there. He just wanted to watch you play. He said he missed it.” The muscle in Peter’s jaw jumps. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s like I said, I don’t give a shit what he does.” I start to say something in return, but he interrupts before I can. “Can we just not talk about him anymore? Please?”

  I nod. It’s killing me to see the hurt in his eyes that he’s trying so hard to hide, but I feel like if I keep pressing him, it’ll make things worse. I just want to make him feel better. Which is when I remember his gift. “I have something for you!”

  Relief washes over his face, the tension in his shoulders loosens. “Aw, you got me a graduation gift? I didn’t get you anything, though.”

  “That’s okay, I didn’t expect anything.” I jump up and get his scrapbook out of my hatbox. As I present the scrapbook to him, I find my heart is jumping all over the place. With excitement, and with nervousness. This will cheer him up, I know it will. “Hurry up and open it!”

  Slowly he does. The first page is a picture I found in a shoe box when Kitty and I were cleaning out the attic to make room for Trina’s boxes. It’s one of the few from our middle school days in the neighborhood. It’s the first day of school; we’re waiting for the bus. Peter’s arms are slung around John McClaren and Trevor Pike. Genevieve and I have our arms linked; she is whispering a secret to me, probably about Peter. I am turned toward her and not looking at the camera. I’m wearing a heather-gray camisole of Margot’s and a jean skirt, and I remember feeling very grown-up in it, like a teenager. My hair is long and straight down my back, and it looks pretty much the same as it does now. Genevieve tried to convince me to cut it short for middle school, but I said no. We all look so young. John with his rosy cheeks, Trevor with his chubby ones, Peter with his skinny legs.

  Underneath the picture I wrote, THE BEGINNING. “Aww,” he says tenderly. “Baby Lara Jean and Baby Peter. Where’d you find this?”

  “In a shoe box.”

  He flicks John’s smiling face. “Punk.”

  “Peter!”

  “Just kidding,” he says.

  There’s our homecoming picture. Last Halloween, when I dressed up as Mulan and Peter wore a dragon costume. There’s a receipt from Tart and Tangy. One of his notes to me, from before. If you make Josh’s dumb white-chocolate cranberry cookies and not my fruitcake ones, it’s over. Pictures of us from Senior Week. Prom. Dried rose petals from my corsage. The Sixteen Candles picture.

  There are some things I didn’t include, like the ticket stub from our first real date, the note he wrote me that said, I like you in blue. Those things are tucked away in my hatbox. I’ll never let those go.

  But the really special thing I’ve included is my letter, the one I wrote to him so long ago, the one that brought us together. I wanted to keep it, but something felt right about Peter having it. One day all of this will be proof, proof that we were here, proof that we loved each other. It’s the guarantee that no matter what happens to us in the future, this time was ours.

  When he gets to that page, Peter stops. “I thought you wanted to keep this,” he said.

  “I wanted to, but then I felt like you should have it. Just promise you’ll keep it forever.”

  He turns the page. It’s a picture from when we took my grandma to karaoke. I sang “You’re So Vain” and dedicated it to Peter. Peter got up and sang “Style” by Taylor Swift. Then he dueted “Unchained Melody” with my grandma, and after, she made us both promise to take a Korean language class at UVA. She and Peter took a ton of selfies together that night. She made one her home screen on her phone. Her friends at her apartment complex said he looked like a movie star. I made the mistake of telling Peter, and he crowed about it for days after.

  He stays on that page for a while. When he doesn’t say anything, I say, helpfully, “It’s something to remember us by.”

  He snaps the book shut. “Thanks,” he says, flashing me a quick smile. “This is awesome.”

  “You’re not going to look at the rest of it?”

  “I will, later.”

  Peter says he should get back home so he can pack for Beach Week, and before we go back downstairs, I ask him again if he’s okay, and he assures me that he is.

  * * *

  After Peter leaves, Margot comes up to my room and helps me pack. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, arranging my suitcase, and she’s passing me piles. I’m still feeling worried about Peter, so I’m glad to have her company to take my mind off things.

  “I can’t believe you’re already graduated,” Margot says, folding a stack of T-shirts for me. “In my head you’re still the same age you were when I left.” Teasingly she says, “Forever sweet sixteen, Lara Jean.”

  “Almost as grown-up as you now, Gogo,” I say.

  “Well, you’ll always be shorter than me, at least,” she says, and I throw a bikini top at her head. “Pretty soon we’ll be packing you up for college.”

  I stuff a curling iron into the pocket of my suitcase. “Margot, when you first went to college, what did you miss most about home?”

  “Well, you guys, obviously.”

  “But what else? Like, what were the unexpected things you missed?”

  “I missed giving Kitty a kiss good night after she’d had a bath and her hair was clean.”

  I make a snorty sound. “A rare occasion!”

  Margot takes her time, thinking about what else. “I missed a good hamburger. Hamburgers taste different in Scotland. More like . . . meat loaf. Meat loaf on a bun. Hmm, what else? I missed driving you guys around. I felt like the captain of a ship. I missed your baked goods!”

  “Which ones?” I ask.

  “Hmm?”

  “Which ones did you miss the most?”

  “Your lemon cake.”

  “If you’d told me, I would’ve sent you one.”

  Smiling, she says, “I’m pretty sure se
nding a cake overseas is exorbitantly expensive.”

  “Let’s make one now,” I say, and Margot kicks her legs up happily.

  * * *

  So we go downstairs and that’s what we do. Kitty is asleep; Daddy and Trina are in their bedroom with the door closed. As much as I love Trina, that’s a strange thing to get used to as well. Daddy’s door was never closed. But I suppose he needs his time too, time where he’s not a dad. Not even for sex, but just to talk, to take a breath. But also for sex, I guess.

  Margot’s measuring flour when I ask, “Did you have on music when you and Josh first did it?”

  “You made me lose count!” Margot dumps all the flour back in the canister and starts over again.

  “Well, did you?”

  “No. Nosy! I swear, you’re worse than Kitty.”

  I roll a lemon around on the counter to warm it up before I start squeezing. “So it was just . . . silent?”

  “It wasn’t silent. There was the sound of someone mowing their lawn. And his mom had the dryer going. Their dryer is really loud. . . .”

  “But his mom wasn’t home, right?”

  “No way! I couldn’t do that. My roommate brought someone home once and I pretended to be asleep, but honestly, I was trying not to laugh. The guy was a heavy breather. He was a moaner, too.”

  We both giggle.

  “I hope my roommate doesn’t do that.”

  “Just set up ground rules in the beginning. Like who can use the room when, that kind of thing. And just remember that you should try to be understanding, because Peter will be visiting a lot, and you don’t want to use up her goodwill.” She pauses. “You guys haven’t had sex yet, right?” Quickly she adds, “You don’t have to say if you don’t want to.”

  “No,” I say. “I mean, not yet.”

  “Are you thinking about it?” Margot asks, trying to sound casual. “Because of Beach Week?”

  I don’t answer her right away.

  I hadn’t been thinking about it, not Beach Week specifically, anyway. The thought of Peter and me having sex in the future, for it to be as commonplace as us going to the movies or holding hands—it’s a little strange to imagine. I just wouldn’t want it to be less special, after we do it. I want it to always be a sacred thing, not something to take for granted because everybody else does it, or because we’ve done it before. I suppose anything can become ordinary or commonplace if you do it enough times, but my hope is that this never is. Not for us. “I think I definitely want music,” I say, straining lemon juice into a glass measuring cup. “That way if I’m a heavy breather or he’s a heavy breather, we won’t really know. And it’ll be more romantic. Music makes everything more romantic, doesn’t it? One second you’re walking your dog in the suburbs, and then you put on Adele, and it’s like you’re in a movie and you’ve just had your heart brutally broken.”