аз345

→Peter grins. I remember that about Peter—how much he likes positive reinforcement. “Do you feel better now?”

→“No, that’s okay,” I say. “Thanks for stopping, though. That was really nice of you.”

→Peter makes a pfft sound, but he sure does get up fast. I wonder what it’s like to have that much power over a boy. I don’t think I’d want it; it’s a lot of responsibility to hold a person’s heart in your hands. He’s getting into his car when, as an afterthought, he turns around and asks, “Want me to call Triple A for you?”

→“You’d better get going then,” I say. “Genevieve will be mad if you’re late.”

→“To Gen’s.”

→I sniffle. “Where are you headed?”

→His phone buzzes and he takes it out of his pocket. “I’ve gotta go.”

→We’re not friends anymore. Me and Genevieve or me and Peter. Which is why it’s so weird to be sitting next to him on somebody’s curb like no time has passed.

→She’d come back to the neighborhood to hang out, but something was different. By high school Genevieve had eclipsed us. She was still friends with the boys, but the girls’ crew was over. Allie and I stayed friends until she moved last year, but there was always something just a little bit humiliating about it, like we were two leftover heels of bread and together we made a dry sandwich.

→Peter Kavinsky and I used to be friends, back before he was Kavinsky, when he was Peter K. There was a whole gang of us in middle school. The boys were Peter Kavinsky and John Ambrose McClaren and Trevor Pike. The girls were Genevieve and me and Allie Feldman who lived down the block and sometimes Chris. Growing up, Genevieve lived two streets away from me. It’s funny how much of childhood is about proximity. Like who your best friend is is directly correlated to how close your houses are; who you sit next to in music is all about how close your names are in the alphabet. Such a game of chance. In eighth grade Genevieve moved to a different neighborhood, and we stayed friends a little while longer.

→I turn my head and wipe my face again. “I’m not crying.”

→Peter sits down next to me. “How long have you been sitting here crying by yourself?”

→“No. But someone’s coming.”

→“So you called them already?”

→I nod.

→“Do you have Triple A?”

→“No, his car was fine.” Furtively, I wipe my cheeks with my arm. “It was my fault.”

→I nod my head yes and make a motion like he should just go. He rolls the window back up, and I think he’s really going to drive off, but then he pulls over to the side and parks. He climbs out and starts inspecting my car. “You really messed it up,” he says. “Did you get the other guy’s insurance info?”

→I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting there crying when another car rolls up in front of me. I look up, and it’s Peter Kavinsky’s black Audi with the tinted windows. One of them rolls down. “Lara Jean? Are you okay?”

→“No, that’s okay.” I hang up and start to cry.