P.S. I Still Love You(81)
“Fine, but if you guys get scared, you aren’t sleeping with me in my room. Last time you guys kept me up all night. And if any parents call to complain, I’m telling them you guys snuck the movie on your own.”
“No problem.”
I watch her fly up the stairs. Impossible as she is, I like Kitty just as she is. I wouldn’t have minded if she’d stayed nine forever. Kitty’s cares are still manageable; they can fit in the palm of my hand. I like that she still depends on me for things. Her cares and her needs make me forget my own. I like that I am needed, that I am beholden to somebody. This breakup with Peter, it’s not as big as Katherine Song Covey turning ten. She has sprung up like a weed, without a mother, just two sisters and a dad. That is no small feat. That’s something extraordinary.
But ten, wow. Ten isn’t a little girl anymore. It’s right in between. The thought of her getting older, outgrowing her toys, her art set . . . it makes me feel a bit melancholy. Growing up really is bittersweet.
My phone buzzes, and it’s a pitiful text from Daddy:
Is it safe to come downstairs? I’m so thirsty.
Coast is clear.
Roger that.
47
FOLLOWING GENEVIEVE AROUND IS A strangely familiar feeling. Nothing little observations come flooding back. It’s a heady combination of the things I used to know about her and the things I don’t. She goes through the drive-thru at Wendy’s, and without even looking, I know what’s in the bag. Small Frosty, small fries to dip, six-piece chicken nuggets, also to dip.
John and I follow Genevieve around town for a bit, but we lose her at a stoplight so we just head over to Belleview. There’s a USO party planning meeting I have to get to. With the party so close, we’re all doubling our efforts to have everything ready in time. Belleview has become my solace, my safe place throughout all this. In part because Genevieve doesn’t know about it, so she can’t tag me out, but also because it’s the one place I won’t run into her and Peter, free to do whatever they want together now that he’s single again.
It starts snowing at the beginning of our meeting. Everyone crowds around the windows to look, shaking their heads and saying, “Snow in April! Can you believe it?” and then we go back to work on USO decorations. John helps with the banner.
By the time we’re done, there are a few inches of snow on the ground, and the snow has turned to ice. “Johnny, you can’t drive in this weather. I absolutely forbid it,” Stormy says.
“Grandma, it’ll be fine,” John says. “I’m a good driver.”
Stormy delivers a stinging smack on his arm. “I told you never to call me Grandma! Just Stormy. The answer is no. I’m putting my foot down. The both of you will stay at Belleview tonight. It’s far too dangerous.” She sends me a stern look. “Lara Jean, you call your father right now and tell him I won’t allow you out in this weather.”
“He can come get us,” I suggest.
“And have that poor widower get into a car accident on the way here? No. I won’t have it. Give me your phone. I’ll call him myself.”
“But—there’s school tomorrow,” I say.
“Cancelled,” Stormy says with a smile. “They just announced it on the TV.”
I protest, “I don’t have any of my things! No toothbrush, or pajamas, or anything!”
She puts her arm around me. “Lie back and let Stormy take care of everything. Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
So that is how it came to be that John Ambrose McClaren and I are spending the night together at a retirement home.
A snowstorm in April is a magical thing. Even if it is because of climate change. A few pink flowers have already sprouted in the gardens outside Stormy’s living room window, and snow is shaking down on it hard, the way Kitty shakes powdered sugar on pancakes—fast and a lot. Soon you can’t even see the pink of the flowers; it’s all just covered in white.
We’re playing checkers in Stormy’s living room, the big kind of checkers you can buy at Cracker Barrel. John has beaten me twice and he keeps asking me if I’m hustling him. I’m coy about it, but the answer is no, he’s just better than me at checkers. Stormy serves us pi?a coladas that she mixes in her blender with “just a splash of rum to warm us up,” and she microwaves frozen spanakopita that neither of us touches. Bing Crosby is playing on her stereo. By nine thirty Stormy is yawning and saying she’ll need her beauty sleep soon. John and I exchange a look—it’s still so early, and I don’t know the last time I went to bed before midnight.