47

FOLLOWING GENEVIEVE AROUND IS A strangely familiar feeling. Nothing little observations
come flooding back. It’s a heady combination of the things I used to know about her and the things I
don’t. She goes through the drive-thru at Wendy’s, and without even looking, I know what’s in the
bag. Small Frosty, small fries to dip, six-piece chicken nuggets, also to dip.
John and I follow Genevieve around town for a bit, but we lose her at a stoplight so we just head
over to Belleview. There’s a USO party planning meeting I have to get to. With the party so close,
we’re all doubling our efforts to have everything ready in time. Belleview has become my solace, my
safe place throughout all this. In part because Genevieve doesn’t know about it, so she can’t tag me
out, but also because it’s the one place I won’t run into her and Peter, free to do whatever they want
together now that he’s single again.
It starts snowing at the beginning of our meeting. Everyone crowds around the windows to look,
shaking their heads and saying, “Snow in April! Can you believe it?” and then we go back to work on
USO decorations. John helps with the banner.
By the time we’re done, there are a few inches of snow on the ground, and the snow has turned to
ice. “Johnny, you can’t drive in this weather. I absolutely forbid it,” Stormy says.
“Grandma, it’ll be fine,” John says. “I’m a good driver.”
Stormy delivers a stinging smack on his arm. “I told you never to call me Grandma! Just Stormy.
The answer is no. I’m putting my foot down. The both of you will stay at Belleview tonight. It’s far
too dangerous.” She sends me a stern look. “Lara Jean, you call your father right now and tell him I
won’t allow you out in this weather.”
“He can come get us,” I suggest.
“And have that poor widower get into a car accident on the way here? No. I won’t have it. Give
me your phone. I’ll call him myself.”
“But—there’s school tomorrow,” I say.
“Cancelled,” Stormy says with a smile. “They just announced it on the TV.”
I protest, “I don’t have any of my things! No toothbrush, or pajamas, or anything!”
She puts her arm around me. “Lie back and let Stormy take care of everything. Don’t you worry
your pretty little head.”
So that is how it came to be that John Ambrose McClaren and I are spending the night together at a
retirement home.

A snowstorm in April is a magical thing. Even if it is because of climate change. A few pink flowers
have already sprouted in the gardens outside Stormy’s living room window, and snow is shaking
down on it hard, the way Kitty shakes powdered sugar on pancakes—fast and a lot. Soon you can’t
even see the pink of the flowers; it’s all just covered in white.
We’re playing checkers in Stormy’s living room, the big kind of checkers you can buy at Cracker
Barrel. John has beaten me twice and he keeps asking me if I’m hustling him. I’m coy about it, but the