“So wait—you’re going, right?”
“Yes!”
Margot screams again, and I laugh. “What’s UNC’s campus like?” she demands.
“Well, it’s a lot like UVA.”
“I’ve heard that. I’ve heard the campuses are very similar. The towns, too. Both liberal, but Chapel Hill maybe even a little more so. Lots of great minds there. I can’t wait to look at the course book with you.” She starts walking again. “You’re going to love it there. Maggie Cohen, she was a year above me, she loves it. You should talk to her.” Beaming, Margot says to me, “This is when everything begins, Lara Jean. You’ll see.”
* * *
After I get off the phone with Margot, I take a bubble bath and do all my rituals: face mask, loofah, brown sugar–lavender scrub. In the bath, I practice what I’m going to say to Peter. There are two trees, on opposite sides, and their branches meet in the middle. . . . I stay in for so long, Kitty screams at me to hurry up. When I get out of the tub, I dry my hair and then curl it; I redo my nails and I even apply the lemon cuticle cream I bought but never remember to use.
Daddy, Trina, and Kitty have gone out to see a movie, so I’m all alone in the house when Peter arrives around eight. He’s wearing new UVA sweats; his hair is freshly washed and still damp. He smells like Dove soap, which I love on him. He pulls me in for a hug, leaning his body weight into me. “I’m so sore,” he says, falling onto the living room couch. “Can we not go to Steve’s tonight? I just want to stay here and hang out with you and not have to talk to people. I’m fucking exhausted.”
“Sure,” I say, and take a deep breath to tell him my news, but then he looks up at me with weary eyes.
“Those guys on the team are in incredible shape. It was hard to keep up.”
I frown. “Hey, you’re in good shape too.”
“Not as good as them. I need to get my act together.” He rubs the back of his neck. “So are you finally gonna tell me where you were last night?”
I sit down on the couch and face him, my legs tucked under my butt. I put the backs of my hands to my cheeks, which feel flushed. Then I put them in my lap. “Well, okay.” I pause. “Are you ready for this?”
He laughs. “Yeah, I’m ready.”
“Okay. This is so crazy, but I was in North Carolina with Chris.”
Peter raises his eyebrows. “Weird. Okay. Go on.”
“I was there because . . . I got into UNC!”
He blinks. “Wow. That’s . . . wow. That’s awesome.”
I take another deep breath. “I didn’t think I’d want to go there, but then when Chris and I visited, the town was really charming, and the people were really nice, and there’s this bench, by the Old Well, where if you lie down and look up, two trees on opposite sides, they meet in the middle. Their branches touch, like this.” I start to demonstrate, and then I stop, because I realize Peter isn’t really listening. He’s staring into space. “What are you thinking?”
“Does this mean you’re going there now and not William and Mary?”
I hesitate. “Yes.”
He nods to himself. “I’m happy for you, I am. It just sucks that you’re going to be so far away. Like, if I had to get in my car and drive to Chapel Hill right now, I’d fall asleep at the wheel. How far away is Charlottesville from Chapel Hill? Four hours?”
I feel a sinking sensation in my stomach. “Three hours and twenty-five minutes. I know it sounds long, but I swear it goes by fast!”
“That’s double how long it takes to get from Charlottesville to William and Mary. And that’s without traffic.” He drops his head back against the couch.
“It’s not double,” I say quietly. “It’s an extra hour and a half.”
He looks over at me, and I see the regret in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m just really wiped right now. This is going to be a lot harder than I thought it would be. Not you and me, but college. I’m going to be at practice 24/7, and when I’m not at practice, I’m training or I’m in class or I’m sleeping. It’s gonna be intense. Nothing like high school. It’s a lot of pressure. And . . . I didn’t think you’d be so far away.”
I’ve never seen him like this before. He looks so defeated. When it comes to lacrosse, to school, he’s always so easygoing, so confident. Everything’s always come easily for him. “Peter, you’re going to be great. You’re just starting out. Once you get the hang of things, it’ll be like always.” Shyly I say, “And . . . we’ll get the hang of things too.”
All of a sudden he sits up straight. “You know what? Let’s go to that party.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure. You’re all dressed up. Let’s not waste your hair.” He pulls me toward him. “Let’s celebrate your big W.”
I put my arms around him and hug him to me. His shoulders feel tight; I can feel the tension in his back. Most boys wouldn’t notice a thing like that: that I curled my hair, put on a blouse. I try to concentrate on that and not on how he didn’t really congratulate me.
26
AT STEVE BLEDELL’S HOUSE, A bunch of people are in the family room smoking pot and watching soccer on the huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. Lucas is here, and when I tell him my big news, he picks me up and spins me around. “You’re getting out of here too!” he shouts.
“Well, I’m only going next door to North Carolina,” I say, laughing. What an unexpected thrill to say those words out loud. “It’s not that far.”
“But it’s away.” Lucas sets me back down on the floor and puts his hands on my cheeks. “This is going to be very good for you, Lara Jean.”
“You think?”
“I know it.”
I’m in the kitchen getting myself a Coke when Genevieve walks in, barefoot, wearing a Virginia Tech hoodie and carrying a beer in a Virginia Tech koozie. She sways on her feet before saying, “I heard you got into Chapel Hill. Congrats.”
I wait for the whammy, the underhanded little dig, but it doesn’t come. She just stands there, a little drunk but sober enough. “Thank you,” I say. “Congrats on Tech. I know you always wanted to go there. Your mom must be happy.”
“Yeah. Did you hear Chrissy’s going to Costa Rica? Lucky bitch.” She takes a sip of her beer. “Chapel Hill and here are pretty far away, huh?”
“Not that far. Just three hours,” I lie.
“Well, good luck with that. I hope he stays as devoted to you as he is today. But knowing him, I seriously doubt it.” Then she lets out a loud belch, and the look of startled surprise on her face is so funny, I almost laugh out loud. For a second it looks like she might too, but she stops herself, glares, and leaves the kitchen.
I only catch glimpses of Peter throughout the night, talking to other people, swigging on his beer. He seems to be in a better mood. He’s smiling; his face is a little flushed from the beer. He’s drinking a lot more than I’ve seen him drink.
Close to one, I go looking all around the house for Peter, and when I find him, he’s with a bunch of people playing flip cup on the Ping-Pong table in Steve’s garage. They are all cracking up over something he just said. He sees me standing at the top of the steps and beckons to me. “Come play with us, Covey,” he says, too loudly.
My feet stay planted on the steps. “I can’t. I have to get home.”
His smile slips. “All right, I’ll take you.”
“No, it’s fine, I’ll get a ride or call an Uber to come get me.” I turn to leave, and Peter follows me.
“Don’t do that. I’ll take you,” he says.
“You can’t. You’re drunk.” I try not to make the words sound mean, but it is what it is.
He laughs. “I’m not drunk. I’ve only had three beers over the course of, what, three hours? I’m fine. You don’t drink so you don’t know, but that’s nothing. I promise.”
“Well, I can smell your breath, and I know you wouldn’t pass a breathalyzer.”
Peter peers at me. “Are you mad?”
“No. I just don’t want y
ou driving me home. You shouldn’t drive yourself home either. You should just spend the night here.”
“Aw, you are mad.” He leans closer to me and looks around before he says, “I’m sorry for before. I should’ve been more excited for you. I was just tired is all.”
“It’s fine,” I say, thought it isn’t, not completely.
Stormy used to have a saying. Leave with the one you came with, unless he’s a drunk—then find your own way home. I end up getting a ride home from Lucas, and I make it before my curfew, just. After last night, I can’t be pushing it.
Peter keeps texting me, and I’m petty enough to be glad he’s not enjoying himself anymore. I make him wait long minutes before I text back a terse reply not to drive home tonight, and he texts back a picture of him lying on Steve’s couch, with somebody’s jacket as a blanket.
I can’t sleep, so I go downstairs to make myself a grilled cheese sandwich. Kitty’s down there too, watching late-night TV and playing a game on her phone. “Want a grilled cheese?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, looking up from her phone.
I make Kitty’s first. I keep pressing the sandwich into the pan, so the bottom gets crispy and the sandwich flattens. I cut off another dab of butter and watch it melt into a puddle, still feeling a bit out of sorts from the night, when out of nowhere it comes to me. Direct contact. The bread needs direct contact with the hot pan to get the right amount of crisp.
That’s it. That’s the answer to my chocolate chip cookie problem. All this time, I’ve been using my Silpat baking sheet so the cookies don’t stick to the pan. Parchment paper is the answer. It’s whisper thin, unlike Silpat. With parchment paper, the dough has more direct contact with heat, and therefore the dough spreads more! Voilà, thinner cookies.
I’m so determined, I start grabbing ingredients from the pantry. If I make the dough right this minute, it can rest all night, and I’ll be able to test my theory tomorrow.
* * *
I sleep in again, because there’s no school thanks to teacher meetings and because I was up till three making my dough and watching TV with Kitty. When I wake up, just like the day before there are texts from Peter.
I’m sorry.
I’m a dick.
Don’t be mad.
I read his texts over and over. They’re spaced minutes apart, so I know he must be fretting over whether I’m still mad or not. I don’t want to be mad. I just want things to go back to how they were before.
I text back:
Do you want to come over for a surprise?
He immediately replies:
ON MY WAY
“The perfect chocolate chip cookie,” I intone, “should have three rings. The center should be soft and a little gooey. The middle ring should be chewy. And the outer ring should be crispy.”
“I can’t hear her give this speech again,” Kitty says to Peter. “I just can’t.”
“Be patient,” he says, squeezing her shoulder. “It’s almost over, and then we get cookies.”
“The perfect cookie is best eaten while still warm, but still delicious at room temperature.”
“If you don’t quit talking, they won’t be warm anymore,” Kitty grumbles. I shoot her a glare, but truthfully, I’m glad she’s here to be a buffer between Peter and me. Her presence makes things feel normal.
“In the baking world, it is a truth universally acknowledged that Jacques Torres has perfected the chocolate chip cookie. Peter, you and I tasted it for ourselves just a few months ago.” I’m really stretching it now to make them suffer. “How will my cookie measure up? Spoiler alert. It’s amazing.”
Kitty slides off her stool. “That’s it. I’m out of here. A chocolate chip cookie isn’t worth all this.”
I pat her on the head. “Oh, naive little Kitten. Dear, foolish girl. This cookie is worth all this and more. Sit or you will not partake.”
Rolling her eyes, she sits back down.
“My friends, I have finally found it. My white whale. My golden ring. The cookie to rule them all.” With a flourish, I whisk off the tea towel and present them with my flat, chewy, non-puffy cookies, artfully arranged on the plate.
To my dismay, Peter shoves one in his mouth whole. With his mouth full he says, “Delicious!”
He’s still worried that I’m upset, so he’ll say anything right now. “Eat slower. Savor it, Peter.”
“I am, trust me.”
Kitty is the true critic to please. Eagerly I say, “I used muscovado sugar. Can you taste that hint of molasses?”
She is munching thoughtfully. “I can’t taste the difference between this one and the one you made two batches ago.”
“This time I used chocolate fèves and not chunks. See the way the chocolate melts in streaks?”
“What’s a fève?”
“It’s a disc.”
“Then just say disc. Also didn’t Daddy get mad because you spent thirty dollars on chocolate?”
“I wouldn’t say he was mad. Maybe annoyed. But I think he’ll agree that it’s worth it.” Kitty gives me a look, like, Yeah, right, and I mumble, “It’s Valrhona, okay? It doesn’t come cheap. And also, it was a two-pound bag! Look, that isn’t the point. Can’t you tell how much crispier the edges are, and how much chewier it is in the center? Do I need to explain to you guys again about Silpat versus parchment paper?”
“We got it,” Kitty says.
Peter hooks his finger into the loop of my jeans and pulls me closer. “Best cookie of my life,” he declares. He’s really laying it on thick, but I’m not quite done being mad.
“You guys are so corny,” Kitty says. “I’m taking my share of the cookies and getting out of here.” She starts stacking cookies on a napkin, rapid-fire.
“Only take three!”
She puts two back, then heads upstairs.
Peter waits until she is gone before he asks, “Are you still pissed at me? I’ll never drink on a night I’m supposed to drive you ever again, I promise.” He gives me his winning smile.
“Are you really okay with me going to UNC?” I ask him.
His smile fades, and there is a slight hesitation before he nods. “It’s like you said. We’ll get the hang of it, whatever it is.” For the briefest of moments his eyes search mine, and I know he’s looking for reassurance. That’s when I put my arms around him and hug him tight to me, tight enough that he knows I’m here; I won’t let go.
27
NOW THAT I’VE MADE MY decision to go to UNC, there are suddenly things to do, and right away. I inform William and Mary I’m not coming; I send in my deposit to UNC. I tell my guidance counselor, Mrs. Duvall, who is overjoyed. She tells me I’m the only one from our class going there, and she can’t wait to add it to the list of accepted schools. “I knew you’d make me proud,” she says, nodding her head. “I knew it.”
Our caps and gowns have arrived, and Peter and I go to the gym to pick ours up, along with graduation announcements.
We sit down on the bleachers to try our caps on, and Peter tilts mine to the side and says, “You look cute.”
I blow him a kiss. “Let me see your announcements.” I want to see his name all fancy in calligraphy.
He passes me the box and I open it. I run my fingers along the embossed letters. Peter Grant Kavinsky. Then I say, “Have you given any more thought to inviting your dad?”
Peter looks around to see if anyone’s listening before saying in a low voice, “Why do you keep bringing that up?”
I reach out and touch Peter’s cap. “Because I think that, deep down, you want him to be there. If only so he can see all that you’ve accomplished and all that he’s missed out on.”
“We’ll see,” he says, and I leave it at that. It’s Peter’s decision.
* * *
On the way home from school Peter asks me, “Wanna see a movie tonight?”
“I can’t,” I say. “Trina’s friend Kristen is coming over to go over final details of Trina’s bachelorette party.”
>
He gives me a sly look. “Are you guys going to a strip club?”
“No! Ew. Like I would ever want to see any of that.”
“See any of what?” he demands.
“Oiled-up muscles.” I shudder. “I’m just glad you don’t have big muscles.”
Peter frowns. “Hey, I’m built.”
I squeeze his bicep, and he automatically flexes against my fingers. “You’re nice and lean with little muscles.”
“You really know how to emasculate a guy, Covey,” he says as he turns down my street.
I feel bad, because now I’m remembering how he said he wasn’t in the same shape the other guys on the lacrosse team were in. “I like you just the way you are,” I quickly say, and he laughs, so he can’t be that hurt.
“What’s your dad doing for his bachelor party?”
I laugh. “Have you met my dad? He’s the last person who would ever have a bachelor party. He doesn’t even have any guy friends to have a party with!” I stop and consider this. “Well, I guess Josh is the closest thing he has. We haven’t seen much of him since he went to school, but he and my dad still e-mail every so often.”
“I don’t get what your family sees in that guy,” Peter says sourly. “What’s so great about him?”
It’s a touchy subject. Peter’s paranoid my dad likes Josh better than him, and I try to tell him it’s not a contest—which it definitely isn’t. Daddy’s known Josh since he was a kid. They trade comic books, for Pete’s sake. So, no contest. Obviously my dad likes Josh better. But only because he knows him better. And only because they’re more alike: Neither of them is cool. And Peter’s definitely cool. My dad is bewildered by cool.
“Josh loves my dad’s cooking.”
“So do I!”
“They have the same taste in movies.”
Peter throws in, “And Josh was never in a hot tub video with one of his daughters.”
“Oh my God, let it go already! My dad’s forgotten about that.” “Forgotten” might be too strong of a word. Maybe more like he’s never brought it up again and he hopefully never will.