To All the Boys I've Loved Before (31 page)

“I’m sorry.” My dad puts his arms around me. “I’m sorry. I do believe you. If you tell me you’re not having sex, you’re not having sex. I just don’t want you to grow up too fast. When I look at you, you’re still as young as Kitty to me. You’re my little girl, Lara Jean.”

I sag against him. There’s no place safer than my dad’s arms. “Everything’s a mess. You don’t trust me anymore; Peter and I are broken up; Margot hates me.”

“I trust you. Of course I trust you. And of course you and Margot will make up like you always do. She was only worried about you; that’s why she came to me.” No, it’s not. She did it out of spite. It’s her fault that Daddy thought that of me for even a second.

Daddy lifts my chin and wipes the tears off my face. “You must really like Peter, huh?”

“No,” I sob. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

He tucks my hair behind my ears. “Everything will work out.”

* * *

There is a specific kind of fight you can only have with your sister. It’s the kind where you say things you can’t take back. You say them because you can’t help but say them, because you’re so angry it’s coming up your throat and out your eyes; you’re so angry you can’t see straight. All you see is blood.

As soon as Daddy leaves and I hear him go to his room to get ready for bed, I barge into Margot’s room without knocking. Margot is at her desk on her laptop. She looks up at me in surprise.

Wiping my eyes, I say, “You can be mad at me all you want, but you had no right to go to Daddy behind my back.”

Her voice is piano-string tight as she says, “I didn’t do that as revenge. I did it because you clearly have no idea what you’re doing, and if you’re not careful, you’re going to end up some sad teenage statistic.” Coldly, as if she is speaking to a stranger, Margot continues. “You’ve changed, Lara Jean. I honestly don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“No, you definitely don’t know me anymore, if you think for one second that I would have sex on a school trip! In a hot tub, in plain view of anybody who might happen to walk by? You must not know me at all!” And then I lay it down, the card I’ve been holding against her. “Just because you had sex with Josh, that doesn’t mean I’m going to have sex with Peter.”

Margot sucks in her breath.
“Lower your voice.”

I feel happy that I’ve wounded her too. I yell, “Now that Daddy’s already disappointed in me, he can’t be disappointed in you, too, right?”

I whirl around to go back to my room, and Margot follows close behind me.

“Come back here!” she shouts.

“No!” I try to close my door in her face, but she wedges her foot inside. “Get out!”

I lean my back against the door, but Margot is stronger than me. She pushes her way in and locks the door behind her.

She advances toward me and I back away from her. There’s a dangerous light in her eyes. She’s the righteous one now. I can feel myself start to shrink, to cower. “How did you know Josh and I had sex, Lara Jean? Did he tell you that himself while you two were going behind my back?”

“We never went behind your back! It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” she demands.

A sob escapes my throat. “I liked him first. I liked him all that summer before ninth grade. I thought . . . thought he liked me back. But then one day you said you were dating, and so I just, I just swallowed it. I wrote him a good-bye letter.”

Margot’s face twists into a sneer. “Do you seriously expect me to feel sorry for you now?”

“No. I’m just trying to explain what happened. I stopped liking him, I swear I did. I didn’t think of him like that
again, but then, after you left, I realized that deep down I still had feelings for him. And then my letter got sent and Josh found out, so I started pretend dating Peter—”

She shakes her head. “Just stop. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t even know what you’re talking about right now.”

“Josh and I only kissed one time.
Once.
And it was a huge mistake, and I didn’t even want to do it in the first place! You’re the one he loves, not me.”

She says, “How can I believe anything you ever say to me now?”

“Because it’s the truth.” Trembling, I tell her, “You have no idea the power you have over me. How much your opinion means to me. How much I look up to you.”

Margot’s face screws up like a fist; she is holding back tears. “You know what Mommy would always say to me?” She lifts her chin higher. “ ‘Take care of your sisters.’ So that’s what I did. I’ve always tried to put you and Kitty first. Do you have any idea how hard it was being so far away from you guys? How lonely it was? All I wanted to do was come back home, but I couldn’t, because I have to be strong. I have to be”—she struggles for a breath—“the good example. I can’t be weak. I have to show you guys how to be brave. Because . . . because Mommy isn’t here to do it.”

Tears roll down my cheeks. “I know. You don’t have to tell me, Gogo. I know how much you do for us.”

“But then I left, and it’s like you didn’t need me as much as I thought.” Her voice breaks. “You were fine without me.”

“Only because you taught me everything!” I cry out.

Margot’s face crumbles.

“I’m sorry,” I weep. “I’m so sorry.”

“I
needed
you, Lara Jean.”

She takes one step toward me and I take one toward her, and we fall into each other’s arms, crying, and the relief I feel is immeasurable. We are sisters, and there’s nothing she or I can ever say or do to change that.

Daddy knocks on the door. “Girls? Everything okay in there?”

We look at each other and together at the same time, we say, “We’re fine, Daddy.”

IT’S NEW YEAR’S EVE. NEW
year’s eve has always been a stay-at-home holiday for us. We make popcorn and drink sparkling cider, and at midnight we go outside to the backyard and light up sparklers.

Some of Margot’s friends from high school are having a party at a cabin in the mountains, and she said she wasn’t going to go, that she’d rather stay with us, but Kitty and I made her. My hope is that Josh is going too, and that they’ll talk, and who knows what will happen. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all. The night for new beginnings.

We sent Daddy to a party someone from the hospital is throwing. Kitty ironed his favorite button-down shirt and I picked the tie and we shoved him out the door. I think Grandma is right; it’s not good to be alone.

“Why are you still sad?” Kitty asks me as I dump popcorn into a bowl for us. We’re in the kitchen; she’s sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar with her legs dangling. The puppy is curled up like a centipede under her stool, gazing up at Kitty with hopeful eyes. “You and Margot made up. What’s to be sad about?”

I’m about to deny being sad, but then I just sigh and say, “I don’t know.”

Kitty grabs a handful of popcorn and drops a few kernels on
the floor, which Jamie gobbles up. “How can you not know?”

“Because sometimes you just feel sad and you can’t explain it.”

Kitty cocks her head to the side. “PMS?”

I count the days since my last period. “No. It’s not PMS. Just because a girl is sad, it doesn’t mean it has anything to do with PMS.”

“Then why?” she presses.

“I don’t know! Maybe I miss someone.”

“You miss Peter? Or Josh?”

I hesitate. “Peter.” Despite everything, Peter.

“So call him.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

I don’t know how to answer her. It’s all so embarrassing, and I want to be someone she can look up to. But she’s waiting, her little brow furrowed, and I know I have to tell her the truth. “Kitty, it was all fake. The whole thing. We were never really together. He never really liked me.”

Kitty wrinkles. “What do you mean it was fake?”

Sighing, I say, “It all started with those letters. Remember how my hatbox went missing?” Kitty nods. “I had letters inside, letters I wrote to the boys I loved. They were supposed to be private, they were never supposed to be sent, but then somebody did, and everything turned into a mess. Josh got one, and Peter got one, and I was just so humiliated. . . . Peter and I decided to pretend to date so I could save face in front of Josh and he could make his
ex-girlfriend jealous, and the whole thing just spun out of control.”

Kitty is biting her lip nervously. “Lara Jean . . . if I tell you something, you have to promise not to be mad.”

“What? Just tell me.”

“First promise.”

“Okay, I promise I won’t be mad.” Prickles are going up my spine.

In a rush Kitty says, “I’m the one who sent the letters.”

“What?”
I scream.

“You promised you wouldn’t be mad!”

“What?” I scream again, but less loud. “Kitty, how could you do that to me?”

She hangs her head. “Because I was mad at you. You were teasing me about liking Josh; you said I was going to name my dog after him. I was so mad at you. So when you were sleeping . . . I snuck into your room and stole your hatbox and I read all your letters and then I sent them. I regretted it right away, but it was too late.”

“How did you even know about my letters?” I yell.

She squints at me. “Because I go through your stuff sometimes when you’re not at home.”

I’m about to scream at her some more, and then I remember how I read Margot’s letter from Josh and I bite my tongue. As calmly as I can, I say, “Do you even know how much trouble you’ve caused? How could you be so spiteful to me?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Fat teardrops form in the corners of her eyes, and one plops down like a raindrop.

I want to hug her, to comfort her, but I’m still so mad. “It’s fine,” I say in a voice that is the exact opposite of fine. None of this would have happened if she hadn’t sent those letters.

Kitty jumps up and runs upstairs, and I think she’s going to her room to cry in private. I know what I should do. I should go comfort her, forgive her for real. It’s my turn to be the good example. To be the good big sister.

I’m about to go upstairs when she comes running back into the kitchen. With my hatbox in her arms.

WHEN IT WAS JUST MARGOT
and me, my mom used to buy two of everything, blue for Margot and pink for me. The same quilt, stuffed animal, or Easter basket in two different colors. Everything had to be fair; we had to have the exact same number of carrot sticks or french fries or marbles or erasers shaped like cupcakes. Except I was always losing my erasers or eating my carrot sticks too fast, and then I’d beg for just one of Margot’s. Sometimes Mommy would make her share, which even then I realized wasn’t fair, that obviously, Margot shouldn’t be penalized for eating her snack slowly or keeping track of her erasers. After Kitty was born, Mommy tried to do blue, pink, and yellow, but it’s just a lot harder finding one thing in three different colors. Also, Kitty was enough years younger than us that we didn’t want the same kinds of toys as her.

The teal hatbox might be the only gift from Mommy I got that was just for me. I didn’t have to share it; this one was mine and mine alone.

When I opened it, I expected to find a hat, maybe a straw hat with a floppy brim, or maybe a newsboy—but it was empty. “This is for your special things,” she said. “You can put all your most precious, most favorite, most secret things in here.”

“Like what?” I said.

“Whatever fits inside. Whatever you want to keep just for you.”

* * *

Kitty’s pointy little chin trembles, and she says, “I really am sorry, Lara Jean.”

When I see that, the chin tremble, I can’t be mad anymore. I just can’t, not even a little bit. So I go to her, and I hug her tight. “It’s all right,” I say, and she sags against me in relief. “You can keep the box. Put all your secrets in it.”

Kitty shakes her head. “No, it’s yours. I don’t want it.” She thrusts it at me. “I put something in there for you.”

I open the box, and there are notes. Notes and notes and notes. Peter’s notes. Peter’s notes I threw away.

“I found them when I was emptying your trash,” she says. Hastily she adds, “I only read a couple. And then I saved them because I could tell they were important.”

I touch one that Peter folded into an airplane. “Kitty . . . you know Peter and I aren’t getting back together, right?”

Kitty grabs the bowl of popcorn and says, “Just read them.” Then she goes into the living room and turns on the TV.

I close the hatbox and take it with me upstairs. When I am in my room, I sit on the floor and spread them out around me.

A lot of the notes just say things like
“Meet you at your locker after school”
and
“Can I borrow your chemistry notes from yesterday?”
I find the spiderweb one from Halloween, and it makes me smile. Another one says,
“Can you take the bus
home today? I want to surprise Kitty and pick her up from school so she can show me and my car off to her friends.” “Thanks for coming to the estate sale with me this weekend. You made the day fun. I owe you one.” “Don’t forget to pack a Korean yogurt for me!” “If you make Josh’s dumb white-chocolate cranberry cookies and not my fruitcake ones, it’s over.”
I laugh out loud. And then, the one I read over and over:
“You look pretty today. I like you in blue.”

I’ve never gotten a love letter before. But reading these notes like this, one after the other, it feels like I have. It’s like . . . it’s like there’s only ever been Peter. Like everyone else that came before him, they were all to prepare me for this. I think I see the difference now, between loving someone from afar and loving someone up close. When you see them up close, you see the real them, but they also get to see the real you. And Peter does. He sees me, and I see him.

Love is scary: it changes; it can go away. That’s part of the risk. I don’t want to be scared anymore. I want to be brave, like Margot. It’s almost a new year, after all.

Close to midnight, I gather up Kitty and the puppy and the sparklers. We put on heavy coats and I make Kitty wear a hat. “Should we put a hat on Jamie too?” she asks me.

“He doesn’t need one,” I tell her. “He’s already got on a fur coat.”