P.S. I Still Love You

Peter and I are warm and cozy in his car. Heat billows out the vents. I ask him, “Did you tell your
mom about how we broke up?”
“No. Because we never broke up,” he says, turning the heat down.
“We didn’t?”
He laughs. “No, because we were never really together, remember?”
Are we together now? is what I’m wondering, but I don’t ask, because he puts his arm around me
and tilts my head up to his, and I’m nervous again. “Don’t be nervous,” he says.
I give him a quick kiss to prove I’m not.
“Kiss me like you missed me,” he says, and his voice goes husky.
“I did,” I say. “My letter told you I did.”
“Yeah, but—”
I kiss him before he can finish. Properly. Like I mean it. He kisses back like he means it too. Like
it’s been four hundred years. And then I’m not thinking anymore and I’m just lost in the kissing.