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→I was pouring lukewarm tea out of the thermos and into cups when Josh climbed up on the fence and watched us. The month before, from the upstairs playroom, we’d watched Josh’s family move in. We’d hoped for girls, but then we saw the movers unload a boy bike and we went back to playing.

→We had everything spread out on Margot’s old baby blanket, which was blue and nubby with a squirrel print. I laid out a chipped tea set of Margot’s, mini muffins studded with blueberries and granules of sugar that I made Daddy buy at the grocery store, and a teddy bear for each of us. We were all wearing hats, because I insisted. “You have to wear a hat to a tea party,” I kept saying until Margot finally put hers on just so I’d stop. She had on Mommy’s straw gardening hat, and Kitty was wearing a tennis visor, and I’d fancied up an old fur hat of Grandma’s by pinning a few plastic flowers on top.

→THIS IS HOW WE MET josh. We were having a teddy-bear, tea-party picnic on the back lawn with real tea and muffins. It had to be in the backyard so no one would see. I was eleven, way too old for it, and Margot was thirteen, way, way too old. I got the idea in my head because I read about it in a book. Because of Kitty I could pretend it was for her and persuade Margot into playing with us. Mommy had died the year before and ever since, Margot rarely said no to anything if it was for Kitty.

→12

→I’m standing there in the open door and the thought flies in my head, so quick, so unexpected, I can’t stop myself from thinking it: If you were mine, I would never have broken up with you, not in a million years.

→Before he opens the front door, Josh turns around and says to me, “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been around after . . . Margot dumped me.” A blush blooms pink across his face, underneath each sweetly freckled cheek. “You’re keeping me going, Lara Jean.” Josh looks at me and I feel it all, every memory, every moment we’ve ever shared. Then he gives me a quick, fierce hug and disappears into the night.

→“I didn’t cry. I was justifiably upset. And that was the end of my little crush.” Josh gets up to go and we walk to the foyer.

→“Yeah, I remember you cried.”

→“You crashed it and you got a big scratch on the side,” he continues. “Remember that?”

→“I thought you were just being generous.”

→“When I first moved here, before I knew your true personality.” I kick him in the shin for that, and he yelps. “I was twelve and you were eleven. I let you ride my scooter, remember? That scooter was my pride and joy. I saved up for it for two birthdays. And I let you take it for a ride.”

→It takes me a few seconds to process this. Even then, all I can manage is, “Huh?”

→“No. You were.”

→“She wasn’t?”

→“Anyway, Ms. Rothschild wasn’t my first crush.”

→“Uh-huh.” I give him a knowing look. “She was really ‘pretty.’ ” Our across-the-street neighbor Ms. Rothschild used to mow her lawn in terry-cloth short shorts and a string bikini top. The neighborhood boys would conveniently come and play in Josh’s yard on those days.

→Josh turns red. “She was really pretty back then!”

→“Hey, you’re the one who had a crush on Ms. Rothschild!”

→“You’re right. I don’t understand!”

→“He used to be different. I mean, he was still very Peter, but less so.” When Josh looks unconvinced, I say, “You’re a boy, so you can’t understand what I’m talking about.”