P.S. I Still Love You

“What?” John asks, and I slap my hand over his mouth. I duck down low in my seat and slide all
the way off the couch to the floor. I pull him down next to me. We stay down until I hear the door
click closed. He whispers, “What is it? What did you see?”
Sitting up, I whisper back, “I don’t know if you want to know.”
“Dear God. What? Just tell me.”
“I saw Stormy in her red kimono, sneaking into Mr. Morales’s apartment.”
John chokes. “Oh my God. That’s.. .”
I give him sympathetic eyes. “I know. Sorry.”
Shaking his head, he leans back against the couch, his legs stretched out long in front of him.
“Wow. This is rich. My great-grandmother has a way more active sex life than I do.”
I can’t resist asking, “So then... I guess, have you not had sex with that many girls?” Hastily I say,
“Sorry, I’m a very inquisitive person.” I scratch my cheek. “Some might say nosy. You don’t have to
answer if you don’t want to.”
“No, I’ll answer. I’ve never had sex with anybody.”
“What!” I can’t believe it. How can that be?
“Why are you so shocked?”
“I don’t know, I guess I thought all guys were doing it.”
“Well, I’ve only had one girlfriend, and she was religious, so we never did it, which was fine.
Anyway, trust me, not all guys are having sex. I’d say the majority aren’t.” John pauses. “What about
you?”
“I’ve never done it either,” I say.
He frowns, confused. “Wait, I thought you and Kavinsky.. .”
“No. Why would you think that?” Oh. The video. I swallow. I thought maybe he was the one
person who hadn’t seen it. “So you’ve seen the hot tub video, huh.”
John hesitates and then, says, “Yeah. I didn’t know it was you at first, not until after the time
capsule party when I figured out you guys were together. Some guy showed it to me in homeroom, but
I didn’t look at it that closely.”
“We were just kissing,” I say, ducking my head. “I wish you hadn’t seen it.”
“Why? Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me at all.”
“I guess I liked the thought of you looking at me a certain kind of way. I feel like people see me
differently now, but you still thought of me as the old Lara Jean. Do you know what I mean?”
“That is how I see you,” John says. “You’re still the same to me. I’ll always see you that way,
Lara Jean.”
His words, the way he is looking at me—it makes me feel warm inside, golden, all the way to my
frozen toes. I want him to kiss me. I want to see if it’s different from Peter, if it will make the hurt
recede. Make me forget him, just for a while. But maybe he senses it—that Peter is somehow here
with us, in my thoughts, that it wouldn’t just be about him and me—because John doesn’t make a
move.
Instead he asks a question. “Why do you always call me by my full name?”
“I don’t know. I guess that’s how I think of you in my head.”
“Oh, so you’re saying you think about me a lot?”
I laugh. “No, I’m saying that when I think about you, which isn’t very often, that’s how I think of
you. On the first day of school, I always have to explain to teachers that Lara Jean is my first name