My smile slips. “We’re just writing letters, Kitty. Also don’t snap at me.” I lean in to give her
another pinch, and she jumps up before I can. “What are you going to do today?”
“Ms. Rothschild said she’d take me and Jamie to the dog park,” Kitty says, putting her dirty bowl
in the sink. “I’m gonna go over and remind her.”
“You’ve been hanging out with her a lot lately.” Kitty shrugs and gently I say, “Just don’t become a
nuisance, all right? I mean, she’s like, forty; she might have other things she wants to be doing with
her Saturday. Like go to a winery or a spa. She doesn’t need you harassing her about dating our dad.”
“Ms. Rothschild loves hanging out with me, so keep your little opinions to yourself.”
I frown at her. “Seriously, you have such bad manners, Kitty.”
“Blame my manners on you and Margot and Daddy, then. You’re the ones who raised me this
way.”
“Then I guess nothing will ever be your fault in life because of the shoddy way you were raised.”
“I guess not.”
I let out a scream of frustration, and Kitty skips off, humming to herself, pleased as punch to have
annoyed me.
Dear Lara Jean,
For the record, the only reason girls ever paid me any attention was because I was Peter’s best friend. It’s why Sabrina Fox asked
me to be her date to the eighth grade formal! She even tried to sit next to Peter at Red Lobster before the dance.
As for college, my dad went to UNC, so he’s really pushing for that. He says I have tar in my blood. My mom wants me to stay in
state. I haven’t told anyone this, but I really want to go to Georgetown. Knock on wood. Studying for the SATs as we speak.
Anyway... here’s your letter back. Don’t forget your promise. I’m really enjoying writing letters back and forth, but can I also
have your phone number? You’re pretty hard to find online.My very first thought is: He hasn’t seen the video. He can’t possibly have! Not if he’s saying I’m
so hard to find online. I suppose deep down I must have been worrying about it, because I feel so
relieved to know for certain. What a comfort, to know that he can still have a certain idea of me in his
head, the same as I have of him. And truly, John Ambrose McClaren isn’t the type of boy to look at
Anonybitch. Not the John Ambrose McClaren I remember.
I look back down at the letter, and there, at the bottom, is his phone number.
I blink. Letters were harmless enough, but if John and I started talking on the phone, would that be
a betrayal of sorts? Is there even a difference between texting and letter writing? One is more
immediate. But the act of writing a letter, of selecting paper and pen, addressing the envelope, finding
a stamp, let alone putting pen to paper... it’s far more deliberate. My cheeks heat up. It’s more...
romantic. A letter is something to keep.
Speaking of which... I unfold the second piece of paper in the envelope. It’s creased, a stationery
I recognize well. Thick creamy paper with LJSC engraved in navy at the top. A birthday gift from my
dad because of my delight in anything monogrammed.