Always and Forever, Lara Jean

by Jenny Han

  Trina is a beautiful bride. Her teeth and dress look very white against her tanned skin. “I don’t look silly, do I?” She casts a nervous look in my direction. “Too old to wear white? I mean, I am a divorcée.”

  Margot answers before I can. “You look perfect. Just perfect.”

  My older sister has a way of sounding right. Trina’s whole body relaxes, like one big exhale. “Thank you, Margot.” Her voice goes tremulous. “I’m just . . . so happy.”

  “Don’t cry!” Kitty screeches.

  “Shh,” I tell her. “Don’t scream. Trina needs serenity.” Kitty’s been a nervous bundle of energy all day; it’s like her birthday and Christmas and first day of school combined.

  Trina fans her armpits. “I’m sweating. I think I need more deodorant. Kitty, do I smell?”

  Kitty leans in. “You’re good.”

  We’ve already taken a hundred pictures today, and we’ll take hundreds more, but I know this one will be my favorite. Us three Song girls flocked in tight around Trina, Margot dabbing at Trina’s eyes with a tissue, Kitty standing on a footstool fussing with Trina’s hair, Trina’s arm around me. We’re smiling so big. Things are ending, but they are beginning, too.

  As for Peter, there’s been no word. Every time a car comes down our street, I go to the window to see if it’s him, but it never is. He isn’t coming, and I don’t blame him one bit. But still I hope, because I can’t help but hope.

  * * *

  The backyard is covered in Christmas lights and white paper lanterns. Granted, there’s no wall of roses, but it still looks lovely. All of the chairs are set up; the runner is rolled out in the middle for Trina to walk down. I greet guests as they come in—it’s a small group, under fifty people. The perfect size for a backyard wedding. Margot’s sitting with Grandma, Nana, and Trina’s dad and sister in the first row, keeping them company while I walk around saying hello to our neighbors the Shahs, Aunt Carrie and Uncle Victor, my cousin Haven, who compliments my dress. Throughout it all, I keep my eyes trained on the driveway, waiting for a black Audi that doesn’t come.

  When “Lullaby” by the Dixie Chicks begins to play, Kitty, Margot, and I get into our places. Daddy walks out and stands on the groom’s side, and we all look toward the house, where Trina is making her way toward us. She is resplendent.

  We cry throughout the vows, even Margot, who never cries. They go with the traditional ones, and when Reverend Choi, the pastor from Grandma’s church, says, “You may kiss the bride,” Daddy turns beet red, but he kisses Trina with a flourish. Everyone claps; Kitty whoops. Jamie Fox-Pickle barks.

  * * *

  The father-daughter dance was Trina’s idea. She said she’d already been there and done that and didn’t feel the need to do it again, and that it would be far more meaningful for us girls to do it instead. We practiced earlier this week, on the dance floor Daddy rented.

  We planned the father-daughter dance to go Margot first, then I cut in, then Kitty cuts in. The song Daddy chose is “Isn’t She Lovely,” a song Stevie Wonder wrote for his daughter when she was first born.

  Kitty and I stand off to the side, clapping to the beat. I know she’s already relishing her moment to cut in on me.

  Before Daddy releases Margot, he pulls her close and whispers something in her ear, and she gets tears in her eyes. I won’t ask what he said; it is a moment just for them.

  Daddy and I have practiced a few moves. The crowd-pleaser is when we dance-walk side by side and shimmy together in unison.

  “I’m so proud of you,” he says. “My middle girl.” It’s my turn for my eyes to fill. I kiss him on the cheek and hand him off to Kitty. Daddy swings her around just as the harmonica starts up.

  I’m walking off the dance floor when I see him. Peter, in a suit, standing to the side, beside the dogwood tree. He looks so handsome I can hardly stand it. I cross the backyard, and he watches me the whole time. My heart is pounding so hard. Is he here for me? Or did he just come because he promised my dad?

  When I’m standing in front of him, I say, “You came.”

  Peter looks away. “Of course I came.”

  Softly I say, “I wish I could take back the things I said the other night. I don’t even remember all of them.”

  Looking down, he says, “But you meant them, right? So it’s a good thing you said them then, because somebody had to and you were right.”

  “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 w
hen 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.

  But then I think, no, I wouldn’t give up twelve, thirteen, sixteen, seventeen with Peter for the world. My first kiss, my first fake boyfriend, my first real boyfriend. The first boy who ever bought me a piece of jewelry. Stormy would say that that is the most monumental moment of all. She told me that that’s how a boy lets you know that you’re his. I think for us it was the opposite. It’s how I knew he was mine.

  I don’t want to forget any of this. The way he’s looking at me at this very moment. How, when he kisses me, I still get shivers down my back, every time. I want to hold on to everything so tight.

  “The first sixth-grade assembly.”

  I look up at him. “Huh?”

  “That’s the first time I saw you. You were sitting in the row in the front of me. I thought you were cute.”

  I laugh. “Nice try.” It’s so endearingly Peter to make up stuff to try and sound romantic.

  He keeps going. “Your hair was really long and you had a headband with a bow. I always liked your hair, even back then.”

  “Okay, Peter,” I say, reaching up and patting him on his cheek.

  He ignores me. “Your backpack had your name written on it in glitter letters. I’d never heard of the name Lara Jean before.”

  My mouth falls open. I hot-glued those glitter letters to my backpack myself! It took me forever trying to get them straight enough. I’d forgotten all about that backpack. It was my prized possession.

  “The principal started picking random people to come on stage and play a game for prizes. Everybody was raising their hands, but your hair got caught in your chair and you were trying to untangle it, so you didn’t get picked. I remember thinking maybe I should help you, but then I thought that would be weird.”

  “How do you remember all that?” I ask in amazement.

  Smiling, he shrugs. “I don’t know. I just do.”

  Kitty’s always saying how origin stories are important.

  At college, when people ask us how we met, how will we answer them? The short story is, we grew up together. But that’s more Josh’s and my story. High school sweethearts? That’s Peter and Gen’s story. So what’s ours, then?

  I suppose I’ll say it all started with a love letter.

  “I’ve had a splendid time,” she concluded happily, “and I feel that it marks an epoch in my life. But the best of it all was the coming home.”

  —L. M. MONTGOMERY, Anne of Green Gables

  Acknowledgments

  I never thought I’d write another book about Lara Jean, so I feel lucky to have one last opportunity to thank everyone who’s helped me along the way. With all my heart, I would like to thank my agent, Emily van Beek, and the team at Folio; my editor Zareen Jaffery and my entire S&S family, but especially Justin Chanda, Anne Zafian, Chrissy Noh, Lucy Cummins, Mekisha Telfer, KeriLee Horan, Audrey Gibbons, Katy Hershberger, Candace Greene, Michelle Leo, and Dorothy Gribbin. Thank you also to my film agent, Michelle Weiner; my publicist, Brianne Halverson; and my assistant, Dan Johnson. I would also like to thank Jeannine Lalonde from UVA admissions and Vincent Briedis from UVA’s athletics department. Thank you to my friends and fellow writers for reading this manuscript and offering me amazing notes and cheering me on every step of the way—Siobhan Vivian, Adele Griffin, Jennifer E. Smith, Melissa Walker, and Anna Carey. I could not have done it without you.

  And lastly, thank you to my readers. If not for you, I would not have written this book. Truly, this one is for you. My dearest wish is that you are happy and satisfied with the way Lara Jean’s story ends. This time, I mean it—it really is the end for me and Lara Jean. But she’ll live on in my heart, for there’s always the bend in the road.

  Jenny

  About the Author

  © ADAM KRAUSE

  Jenny Han is the New York Times bestselling author of the Summer I Turned Pretty series; Shug; the Burn for Burn trilogy, cowritten with Siobhan Vivian; and To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before and P.S. I Still Love You. She is also the author of the chapter book Clara Lee and the Apple Pie Dream. A former children’s bookseller, she earned her MFA in creative writing at the New School. Visit her at dearjennyhan.com. Follow Jenny online on Twitter and Instagram at @JennyHan.

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