Chapter Text
"Kitty, you're sure this is my letter? You didn't steal it from one of the neighbors. Or write it as a prank, or something?"
Kitty gives me a look that says she's two seconds from ending the FaceTime call.
"Lara Jean, tell me why I would do that? I was trying to get you a boyfriend, not add to your delusions."
"Kitty! I wrote the letters to stop being delusional. That was the whole point."
"Well, I was there, and it still didn't stop you, so you might want to get a handle on that."
I roll my eyes. Sometimes it feels like I'm the youngest sibling, and Kitty is my older sister, given how much she chides me. I still can't believe she's in Korea right now—when I was her age, it was hard enough to manage my life without being halfway across the world. But that's Kitty for you: blunt and as fearless as ever.
"I'm just asking Kitty," I say, shuffling through my hatbox once again. My heart twinges as I spot To: Peter Kavinsky, but I ignore it. Two months ago, I thought about destroying the letter, throwing it out, or setting it aflame like they in my rom-coms. But I'm not a rom-com character (no matter how much Kitty teases me), and Peter's as much a part of my history as he is my heartbreak. At least, that's what Margot told me. It's hard to be rational and sensible when your heart's in two.
I finally find the letter I'm looking for—a faded red envelope with royal blue parchment. The words Peter P. are written across the top, with no other markers of address or last name. Ever since I found it last week in the hatbox, I've read it about a thousand times over, but I still remember nothing about its recipient. "Have you seen this?" I show my sister the envelope, and she furrows her brow in consideration.
"Um, I think," she says. "It was the bottom one in your hatbox. It didn't have an address or anything, so I couldn't send it."
My eyebrows leap up. So, it does have a history!
"Do you know who it was about, or anything?"
"Why are you asking me?" Kitty gives me a skeptical look. "The only reason I even remember it is because it was so sappy. You were such a dramatic ten-year-old."
I gasp in offense. "Don't be so judgmental. If I recall, you weren't exactly an unemotional kid, either, Katherine."
"Oh, please, Lara Jean. I wasn't that bad."
"Yes, you were! I vividly remember you kicking me in the shins whenever you didn't get your way."
Kitty must remember this too because she's suspiciously quiet for a while. "Anyway," she declares, avoiding the conversation topic altogether. "Why haven't you asked Margot? Wouldn't she have been old enough to remember?"
"I did." I chew on my lip. "She can't remember either." Not that I would expect Gogo to. She was a kid too; she didn't have time to keep track of all my crushes when she was busy having her own. Still, I glance down at the letter, the worn paper. The letter, the name, they all feel so familiar, as if I'm supposed to know them. I can't help but feel like I've lost something I didn't even know I could lose.
"Why are you so worried about this?" Kitty breaks me out of my spiral of thoughts. "You can't remember one boy from elementary school. So, what? I don't remember half of my crushes."
"And I wouldn't expect anything less from Kitty Song-Covey," I say drily. She beams at me, and I laugh, but the sound fades quickly in my chest. "It's just… I remember all the boys I wrote letters to. And this one… apparently, he was moving, and his parents had just died. I wouldn't just forget that."
Kitty's quiet, and I have a feeling she's thinking about our mother, the reason why she's in Korea. I know it might sound weird, but when your own parent dies, you tend to feel tethered to others who've gone through the same thing. Margot would classify it as a trauma bond, but I think it's more like an understanding of grief. You all know what it feels like to miss them, to wonder what your life would've been like if your family were whole. If Peter P. had lost his parents, I don't think I would have in me to simply forget him just like that.
"Kitty! Where are you?!" Someone with a vague British accent chimes into the background, and Kitty turns instinctively. I smile wanely.
"You're being called, Kitty. You should go. I'll text you later."
"Are you sure?" I nod. It should be early evening in Korea; I don't want to make my sister waste a Friday night.
"Have fun, ok?" Kitty grins at me. "I will. See you, LJ!"
She ends the call, and my apartment feels more empty somehow, as though her spirit left with her voice. I sigh and flop back onto my pillows, staring at the bit of parchment that has caused me so much trouble in the past few days. My fingers move with a practiced facility as I open the envelope, unfolding and smoothing the blue parchment so I can read the slanted cursive once more.
Dear Peter P.
I'm sorry about your parents. I know you must be tired of hearing that; that's all anyone told me when my mom died, but I'm saying it because I mean it. My dad told me that death isn't a fair thing, and sometimes it targets the best people, and I know now that must be true because you're the best person I've ever met.
I know you think I'm lying, or complimenting you so you'll feel better, but it's true, Peter. You have this charm about you that I don't even think you're aware of. It's like standing in the sun, the warm, buttery parts that you wish would last forever. That's how you make people feel. How you make me feel. Like the time you secretly held Gen's hand for the last half of Terminator because she didn't want Peter K. to know she was scared. Or when you gave Trevor your Lord of the Rings Lego Set that you begged your parents for Christmas because his brother wrecked his. Or when I skinned my knee playing assassins, and instead of tagging me out, you just told me terrible jokes to make me giggle until my dad could come get me. I still think about that day, how you gave me your orange slices for a month after because of how bad you felt. I'd never felt cherished by a boy before, but you made me wonder if this was what it was like.
It's why I love you. It's why I think I've always loved you. Because how could I not? I've never met someone so genuine and kind and smart, or someone with a better laugh. I thought people were exaggerating when they say that love makes you like everything about a person, but it's so true. I really love your laugh. I think if I could bottle it up, I could listen to it for years and years and years, and never get tired of it. So when you move in with your aunt and uncle in New York, please don't forget me. One day, I'll come up there, and it'll be like the old days, even though we'll be older. We'll eat toffee, and build Legos, and I'll let you call me LJ, and it'll be like nothing has changed. So, I hope this isn't a true goodbye, just a goodbye for now.
Love, Lara Jean
I exhale and hold the paper to my heart, feeling its acceleration fade into a dull beat. I loved this boy, whoever he is; I'm sure of it. My letter to Peter was angry, to Josh, morose, to John Ambrose, intense with the glimmer of possibility. This letter feels terribly certain—intimate and whole and hopeful, as if I knew I would see him again, and chase after whoever he'd become.
I roll onto my side, hair splayed on my sheets in a halo. I don't know how much of me wants to remember for me, or wants to forget the Peter who broke my heart, fleeing down a Wonderlandian rabbit hole to escape what happened in August.
"Covey, I can't do this anymore. I can't just pretend I'll be alright with us spending our lives apart."
"I—I don't know what you want me to do, Peter. I can't leave New York for another city where I have no connections, and no career."
"And, so what? Am I just expected to up and leave San Francisco? As if my dreams don't matter too?"
"I never said that! Why can't we just continue long distance?"
"Long-distance was never supposed to be long-term, and you know that. I want us to be together, Lara Jean. Not constantly making plans for a three-hour time difference and having to book cross-country flights just to see each other for a weekend."
"You think I want that? I miss you so much, all the time. But we're in our senior year of college, Peter. I'm being realistic."
"Fine, then. Be realistic. Go after what you want, Covey. I won't stop you. But maybe… it's time we let each other go."
The tears flood my eyes, and I curl up into a ball, clutching the letter tighter within my grasp. Then again, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe love isn't for me after all.