by Jenny Han
I stepped toward him and filled the space between us. “I think—I think I’ll always love him a little bit. I’ll always have him in my heart. But he’s not the one I choose. I choose you, Jeremiah.”
All my life, I never felt like I had a choice when it came to Conrad. Now I knew it wasn’t true. I did have a choice. I chose to walk away, then and now. I chose Jeremiah. I chose the boy who would never walk away from me.
His head was still bowed. I willed him to look at me, to believe me just one more time. Then he lifted his head and said, “That’s not enough. I don’t just want a part of you. I want all of you.”
My eyes filled.
He walked over to my dresser and picked up the letter from Susannah. “You haven’t read yours yet.”
“I didn’t even know if you were coming back!”
He ran his finger along the edges, staring down at it. “I got one too. But it wasn’t for me. It was Con’s. My mom must have mixed up the envelopes. In the letter she said—she said she only ever got to see him in love once. That was with you.” He looked at me then. “I won’t be the reason you don’t go to him. I won’t be your excuse. You’ve got to see for yourself, or you’ll never be able to let him go.”
“I already have,” I whispered.
Jeremiah shook his head. “No, you haven’t. The worst part is, I knew you hadn’t and I still asked you to marry me. So I guess I’m partly to blame too, huh?”
“No.”
He acted like he didn’t hear me. “He will let you down, because that’s what he does. That’s who he is.”
For the rest of my life, I was going to remember those words. Everything Jeremiah said to me that day, our wedding day, I would remember. I would remember the words Jeremiah said and the way he looked at me when he said them. With pity, and with bitterness. I hated myself for being the one who made him bitter, because that was one thing he’d never been.
I reached up and laid my palm on his cheek. He could have pushed my hand away, he could have recoiled at my touch. He didn’t. Just that one tiny thing told me what I needed to know—that Jere was still Jere and nothing could ever change that.
“I still love you,” he said, and the way he said it, I knew that if I wanted him to, he would still marry me. Even after everything that had happened.
There are moments in every girl’s life that are bigger than we know at the time. When you look back, you say, That was one of those life-changing, fork-in-the-road moments and I didn’t even see it coming. I had no idea. And then there are the moments that you know are big. That whatever you do next, there will be an impact. Your life could go in one of two directions. Do or die.
This was one of those moments. Big. They didn’t get much bigger than this.
It ended up not raining that day. Jeremiah’s frat brothers and my actual brother moved the tables and chairs and hurricane vases in for nothing.
Another thing that didn’t happen that day: Jeremiah and I didn’t get married. It wouldn’t have been right. Not for either of us. Sometimes I wondered if we had rushed into getting married because we were both trying to prove something to the other and maybe even to ourselves. But then I think no, we truly did love each other. We truly did have the best of intentions. It, we, just weren’t meant to be.
a couple of years later
Dearest Belly,
Right now I am picturing you today, on your wedding day, looking radiant and lovely, the prettiest bride there ever was. I picture you about thirty or so, a woman who’s had lots and lots of adventures and romances. I picture you marrying a man who is solid and steady and strong, a man with kind eyes. I am sure your young man is completely wonderful, even if he doesn’t have the last name Fisher! Ha.
You know that I could not love you more if you were my own daughter. My Belly, my special girl. Watching you grow up was one of the great joys of my life.
My girl who ached and yearned for so many things … a kitten you could name Margaret, rainbow roller skates, edible bubble bath! A boy who would kiss you the way Rhett kissed Scarlett. I hope you’ve found him, darling.
Be happy. Be good to each other.
All of my love always, Susannah
Oh, Susannah. If you could see us now.
You were wrong about a couple of things. I’m not thirty yet. I’m twenty-three, almost twenty-four. After Jeremiah and I broke up, he went back to live in the fraternity house, and I ended up living with Anika after all. Junior year, I studied abroad. I went to Spain, where I did have lots and lots of adventures.
Spain is where I got my first letter from him. Real letters, written by his hand, not e-mails. I didn’t write him back, not at first, but they still came, once a month, every month. The first time I saw him again, it was another year, at my college graduation. And I just knew.
My young man is kind and good and strong, just like you said. But he doesn’t kiss me like Rhett kissed Scarlett. He kisses me even better. And there’s one other thing you were right about. He does have the last name Fisher.
I am wearing the dress my mother and I picked out together—creamy white with lace cap sleeves and a low back. My hair, my hair that we spent an hour pinning up, is falling out of the side bun, and long wet strands of hair are flying around my face as we run for the car in the pouring rain. Balloons are everywhere. My shoes are off, I am barefoot, holding his gray suit jacket over my head. He’s got one high-but-not-too-high heel in each hand. He runs ahead of me and opens the car door.
We are just married.
“Are you sure?” he asks me.
“No,” I say, getting in. Everyone will be expecting us at the reception hall. We shouldn’t keep them waiting. But then again, it’s not like they can get started without us. We have to dance the first dance. “Stay,” by Maurice Williams and the Zodiacs.
I look out the window, and there is Jere across the lawn. He has his arm around his date, and our eyes meet. He gives me a small wave. I wave back and blow him a kiss. He smiles and turns back to his date.
Conrad opens the car door and slides into the driver’s seat. His white shirt is soaked through—I can see his skin. He is shivering. He grabs my hand, locks my fingers into his, and brings it to his lips. “Then let’s do it. We’re both wet already.”
He turns on the ignition, and then we’re off. We head for the ocean. We hold hands the whole way. When we get there, it is empty, so we park right on the sand. It’s still raining out.
I jump out of the car, hitch up my skirt, and call out, “Ready?”
He rolls up his pant legs, and then he grabs my hand. “Ready.”
We run toward the water, tripping in the sand, screaming and laughing like little kids. At the last second he picks me up like he is carrying me across a threshold. “If you dare try and Belly Flop me right now, you’re going down with me,” I warn, my arms tight around his neck. “I go wherever you go,” he says, launching us into the water.
This is our start. This is the moment it becomes real. We are married. We are infinite. Me and Conrad. The first boy I ever slow danced with, ever cried over. Ever loved.
acknowledgments
First, my sincerest thanks to Emily Meehan for seeing this book through. Many thanks also to Julia Maguire for not missing a beat, Lucy Ruth Cummins for another gorgeous cover, Justin Chanda and Anne Zafian for their steadfast support, and to the whole (frankly, amazing) S&S team. From sales to production to marketing to publicity, you guys are tops in my book. Thanks as always to Emily van Beek and Folio, to my Pippin family, and also to Siobhan Vivian, my first and finest reader.
Even now, all these years later, I still read them—Conrad’s letters to me when I was studying abroad in Spain. Just every once in a while, I pull them all out and sit down and read each one. I know them all by heart, but they still touch me, they still make me feel it all over again. … To think that once we were both very young, and very far apart, and still finding our way back to each other.
Dear Belly,
Firstly—I don’t even kn
ow if I should be writing you, if this is allowed. I hope it’s allowed. I hope you don’t throw this away without even opening the box—because if you do, you’ll miss out on something very important. Okay, fine, something that was once very important. To you.
I went over to your house to fix your mom’s computer. I went into your room to use the printer and I saw Junior Mint sitting on the bookshelf, looking incredibly pathetic. Remember him? Polar bear, wears glasses and a very stylish scarf? I won him for you at the ring toss? Do you remember how you used to go over to the ring toss and just stare at the polar bears because you wanted one so bad? I probably spent thirty or forty bucks trying to win you that damn bear.
Apparently, he misses you irrespective of that fact that you left him behind. He feels lost without you. I’m serious, that’s what he told me. Pathetic, right?
So here he is. Be nice to him, will you?
Conrad
Dear Belly,
This is weird, writing you like this. I think the last time I wrote someone an actual letter was a thank-you card to my grandma. For graduation money, I think. My mom was big on thank-you cards. Oh, by the way, you’re welcome for Junior Mint. Laur told me you said thanks. Geez, I was hoping for a thank-you card, but I guess we can’t all be as polite as me. Haha.
I should be working on biochem, but I’d rather be talking to you. Laurel says your Spanish is getting better. She told me you got lost the other day trying to hunt down a pack of Sour Patch Kids. Sour Patch Kids? Really? You’re too grown-up for Junior Mint but not for Sour Patch Kids, huh?
Here’s the biggest bag I could find. It’s economy sized. The next time I see you, I’m sure you’ll be toothless. But happy. I really do hope you’re happy.
Conrad
Dear Belly,
So far I’ve written you two letters and you’ve written me—well, none. … Which is fine. Go ahead and feel free not to write me back. Seriously, don’t feel obligated or anything. Even though I’ve sent you two handwritten letters and two gifts. … But seriously, don’t write back. I’m serious. It’s better this way. I like hearing my news secondhand, from Laur.
Speaking of news, she told me you met some Spanish guy named Benito, and he rides around on a scooter. Really, Belly? A guy named Benito with a scooter? He probably wears leather pants and has a long stringy ponytail. I don’t even want to know. Don’t tell me. He probably looks like a model and weighs 100 pounds and writes you poetry in Spanish. I don’t know what you see in a guy like that, but I don’t know what you ever saw in me either, so I guess there’s no accounting for taste, right?
Don’t forget—don’t write back.
Conrad
Dear Belly,
You didn’t write back. I thought for sure you would, you used to be so bad at following directions, now look at you. … Kidding. Actually I’m not—remember that time you tried to make box potatoes au gratin and you forgot to put in the cheese?
Speaking of potatoes au gratin, your mom made some for Thanksgiving. Laurel invited us to dinner—my dad and Jere and me. I wasn’t sure if Jere would come, but he did. It was awkward as hell. But then Steven put on football and we all just sat and watched and it was better. During the half, Jere asked if I’d heard from you, and I said no. He said you’d been chatting online. He said you cut your hair shorter, that it makes you look older, more mature. Then Laur showed us pictures of when she came to visit you. I want to go there some day. I heard you aren’t hanging out with that guy Benito anymore. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. …
By the way, it looks good. Your hair. I don’t think it makes you look older, though. Younger, if anything.
I might as well be completely honest here, because who even knows if you’re reading this … you might have thrown it out without opening it, which is your right. But I’ll go ahead and say it—it killed me a little that Jere’s seen you, talked to you.
But I don’t think he hates me anymore, which is the important thing.
Also—in case I haven’t made it clear … I think about you a lot. You’re pretty much all I think about. Just so we’re clear.
Conrad
Dear Belly,
It’s Christmas here. I guess it’s Christmas where you are too. I went to the summerhouse for a few days. I kept thinking I’d turn around and see you—stuffing your face with chocolate pretzels, or sliding around the downstairs living room in those god-awful mistletoe pajama pants. I bet my mom bought them for you. She used to buy Jere and me matching Christmas sweaters. There’s one horrible family portrait of all of us in red button-downs and reindeer bowties. It’s basically a blight on humanity. I hid it in the attic one night and no one’s seen it since. If you’ve been a very good girl this year, maybe I’ll show you when you come back. My gift to you.
You know what you could give me? A letter back. Hell, I’ll even take a postcard. Or an e-mail. Anything. I just want to hear from you. I want to know how you’re doing. By the time you get this, Christmas will have passed—I hope it was a nice one.
Merry Christmas, Belly. Remember last year? Me and you at the summerhouse? Best Christmas of my life.
Love,
Conrad
Dear Conrad,
When I come home next spring, you’d better show me that family portrait. Don’t you dare try to get out of it. Oh, and I’ll be taking it with me, since it’s my gift and all.
And yes. I do remember. Of course I remember. It was my best Christmas, too.
Write back soon,
Belly
For years he kept it in his wallet, soft and creased into a million little folds. He said it kept him going. Kept him hoping. He said he wanted to keep it with him always, but I said we should keep the letters together, where they belong. And he did show me the family photo. It’s hanging up in our living room.
THE BEGINNING
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The Summer I Turned Pretty first published in the USA by Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers 2009
Published in Great Britain by Puffin Books 2010
It’s Not Summer Without You first published in the USA by Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers 2010
Published in Great Britain in Razorbill, an imprint of Penguin Books Ltd, 2011
We’ll Always Have Summer first published in the USA by Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers 2011
Published in Great Britain in Razorbill, an imprint of Penguin Books Ltd, 2012
This collection first published by Penguin Books 2014
Text copyright © Jenny Han, 2009, 2010, 2011
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The moral right of the author has been asserted
ISBN: 978-0-141-35383-8