35

I’D WORRIED IT WOULD BE too cold for us to stay in the tree house for long, but it’s unseasonably
warm, so much so that Daddy starts on one of his rants about climate change, to the point where Kitty
and I have to tune him out.
After his rant I get a shovel from the garage and set about digging under the tree. The ground is
hard, and it takes me a while to get into a good groove digging, but I finally hit metal a couple of feet
in. The time capsule’s the size of a small cooler; it looks like a futuristic coffee thermos. The metal
has eroded from the rain and snow and dirt, but not as much as you’d think, considering it’s been
nearly four years. I take it back to the house and wash it in the sink so it gleams again.
Close to noon, I load up a shopping bag with ice cream sandwiches, Hawaiian Punch, and Cheez
Doodles and take it all out to the tree house. I’m crossing our backyard to the Pearces’, trying to
juggle the bag and the portable speakers and my phone, when I see John Ambrose McClaren standing
in front of the tree house, staring up at it with his arms crossed. I’d know the back of his blond head
anywhere.
I freeze, suddenly nervous and unsure. I’d thought Peter or Chris would be here with me when he
arrived, and that would smooth out any awkwardness. But no such luck.
I put down all my stuff and move forward to tap him on the shoulder, but he turns around before I
can. I take a step back. “Hi! Hey!” I say.
“Hey!” He takes a long look at me. “Is it really you?”
“It’s me.”
“My pen pal the elusive Lara Jean Covey who shows up at Model UN and runs off without so
much as a hello?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m pretty sure I at least said hello.”
Teasingly he says, “No, I’m pretty sure you didn’t.”
He’s right: I didn’t. I was too flustered. Kind of like right now. It must be that distance between
knowing someone when you were a kid and seeing them now that you’re both more grown-up, but still
not all the way grown-up, and there are all these years and letters in between you, and you don’t know
how to act.
“Well—anyway. You look... taller.” He looks more than just taller. Now that I can take the time
to really look at him, I notice more. With his fair hair and milky skin and rosy cheeks, he looks like he
could be an English farmer’s son. But he’s slim, so maybe the sensitive farmer’s son who steals away
to the barn to read. The thought makes me smile, and John gives me a curious look but doesn’t ask
why.
With a nod, he says, “You look... exactly the same.”
Gulp. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? “I do?” I get up on my tiptoes. “I think I’ve grown at least
an inch since eighth grade.” And my boobs are at least a little bigger. Not much. Not that I want John
to notice—I’m just saying.
“No, you look... just like how I remembered you.” John Ambrose reaches out, and I think he’s
trying to hug me but he’s only trying to take my bag from me, and there’s a brief but strange dance that
mortifies me but he doesn’t seem to notice. “So thanks for inviting me.”