P.S. I Still Love You

Laughing, he says, “Like a hawk on its prey.”
“Shut up!” Now I’m laughing too. “How do you even remember that?”
“Because I was doing the same thing,” he says.
“You were staring at Peter too?” I say it like a joke, to tease, because this is fun. For the first time
in days I’m having fun.
He looks right at me, navy-blue eyes sure and steady, and my breath catches in my chest. “No. I
was looking at you.”
There’s a humming in my ears, and it’s the sound of my heart beating in triple measure. In memory,
everything seems to happen to music. One of my favorite lines from The Glass Menagerie. If I close
my eyes I can almost hear it, that day in John Ambrose McClaren’s basement. Years from now, when
I look back on this moment, what music will I hear then?
His eyes hold mine, and I feel a flutter that starts in my throat and moves across my collarbone and
chest. “I like you, Lara Jean. I liked you then and I like you even more now. I know you and Kavinsky
just broke up, and you’re still sad, but I just want to make it unequivocally clear.”
“Um... okay,” I whisper. His words—they come clearly; they don’t miss in either direction. Not
even a trace of a stutter. Just—unequivocally clear.
“Okay, then. Let’s win you a wish.” He takes out his phone and pulls up Google Maps. “I looked
up Gen’s address before I came over here. I think you’re right—we should take our time, assess the
situation. Not go in half-cocked.”
“Mm-hm.” I’m in a sort of dream state; it’s hard to concentrate. John Ambrose McClaren wants to
make it unequivocally clear.
I snap out of it when Kitty jostles her way back into the living room, balancing a glass of orange
soda, the tub of red pepper hummus, and a bag of pita chips. She makes her way over to the couch and
plonks down right between us. Holding out the bag, she asks, “Do you guys want some?”
“Sure,” John says, taking a chip. “Hey, I hear you’re pretty good at schemes. Is that true?”
Warily she says, “What makes you say that?”
“You’re the one who sent out Lara Jean’s letters, aren’t you?” Kitty nods. “Then I’d say you’re
pretty good at schemes.”
“I mean, yeah. I guess.”
“Awesome. We need your help.”
Kitty’s ideas are a bit too extreme—like slashing Genevieve’s tires, or throwing a stink bomb in
her house to smoke her out, but John writes down every one of Kitty’s suggestions, which does not go
unnoticed by Kitty. Very little does.