P.S. I Still Love You(39)

Kitty stops tickling. “And that’s me being altru . . . altruistic,” she says. “That’s my altruicity.”

“Altruism,” I pant.

“I think ‘altruicity’ works too.”

If Kitty hadn’t sent those letters, would Peter and I still have found our way to each other? My first impulse is to say no, but maybe we would have kept going down different paths and converged at some other fork in the road. Or maybe not, but either way, we’re here now.





21


“TELL ME MORE ABOUT YOUR young man,” Stormy says. We’re sitting cross-legged on her floor, setting aside pictures and mementos for her scrapbook. She was the only one to show up for Scrapbooking to the Oldies today, so we moved it over to her apartment. I’d worried Janette would notice the low attendance, but since I started volunteering, she hasn’t so much as popped her head in. All the better.

“What do you want to know about him?

“Does he play any sports?”

“He plays lacrosse.”

“Lacrosse?” she repeats. “Not football or baseball or basketball?”

“Well, he’s very good. He’s being recruited by colleges.”

“Can I see a picture of him?”

I get my phone out and pull up a picture of the two of us in his car. He’s wearing a hunter green sweater that I think he looks particularly handsome in. I like him in sweaters. I get the urge to cuddle and pet him like a stuffed animal.

Stormy looks at it closely. “Huh,” she says. “Yes, he is very handsome. I don’t know if he’s as handsome as my grandson, though. My grandson looks like a young Robert Redford.”

Whoa.

“I’ll show you if you don’t believe me,” she says, getting up and rooting around for a picture. She’s opening drawers, moving papers around. Any other grandmother at Belleview would already have a picture of her beloved grandson on display. Framed, above the TV or on the mantel. Not Stormy. The only pictures she has framed are pictures of herself. There’s a huge black-and-white bridal portrait in the entryway that takes up nearly the whole wall. Though I suppose if I was once that beautiful, I would want to show it off too. “Huh. I can’t find a picture.”

“You can show me next time,” I say, and Stormy lowers herself back down on the couch.

She puts her legs up on the ottoman. “Where do young people go these days for a little alone time? Is there no ‘Lookout Point’ type of place?” She’s digging, she’s definitely digging for information. Stormy’s a bloodhound when it comes to sniffing out juicy goods, but I’m not giving up a thing. Not that I even have much juice to offer her.

“Um, I don’t know . . . I don’t think so.” I busy myself with cleaning up a pile of scraps.

She starts to cut up some trimmings. “I remember the first boy I ever went parking with. Ken Newbery. He drove a Chevy Impala. God, the thrill of a boy putting his hands on you for the first time. There’s nothing quite like it, is there, dear?”

“Mm-hmm. Where’s that stack of old Broadway playbills you had? We should do something with those, too.”

“They might be in my hope chest.”

The thrill of a boy putting his hands on you for the first time.

I get a shivery feeling in my stomach. I do know that thrill. I remember it perfectly, and I would even if it hadn’t been caught on camera. It’s nice to think of it again as its own memory, separate from the video and everything that followed.

Stormy leans in close and says, “Lara Jean, just remember, the girl must always be the one to control how far things go. Boys think with their you-know-whats. It’s up to you to keep your head and protect what’s yours.”

“I don’t know, Stormy. Isn’t that kind of sexist?”

“Life is sexist. If you were to get pregnant, you’re the one whose life changes. Nothing of significance changes for the boy. You’re the one people whisper about. I’ve seen that show, Teen Moms. All those boys are worthless. Garbage!”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have sex?” This whole time, Stormy has been telling me to stop being such a stick-in-the-mud, to live life, to love boys. And now this?

“I’m saying you should be careful. As careful as life and death, because that’s what it is.” She gives me a meaningful look. “And never trust the boy to bring the condom. A lady always brings her own.”