“Wow,” Kitty echoed. “So are you boyfriend and girlfriend now?”
I held my breath, waiting for her to answer.
Margot took a pinch of parmesan between her fingers and dropped it in her mouth. “Yeah, I think so.” And then she smiled, and her eyes went all soft and liquid. I understood then that she liked him too. So much.
That night I wrote my letter to Josh.
Dear Josh . . .
I cried a lot. Just like that, it was over. It was over before I even had a chance. The important thing wasn’t that Josh had chosen Margot. It was that Margot had chosen him.
So that was that. I cried my eyes out; I wrote my letter; I put the whole thing to rest. I haven’t thought of him that way since. He and Margot are meant to be. They’re MFEO. Made for each other.
* * *
I’m still awake when Margot comes back to bed, but I quickly shut my eyes and pretend to be asleep. Kitty’s cuddled up next to me.
I hear a snuffly sound and I peek out of one eye to look at Margot. Her back is to us; her shoulders are shaking. She’s crying.
Margot never cries.
Now that I’ve seen Margot cry over him, I believe it more than ever—they’re not over.
7
THE NEXT DAY, WE DRIVE margot to the airport. Outside, we load up her suitcases on a luggage carrier—Kitty tries to get on top and dance, but our father pulls her down right away. Margot insists on going in by herself, just like she said she would.
“Margot, at least let me get your bags checked,” Daddy says, trying to maneuver the luggage carrier around her. “I want to see you go through security.”
“I’ll be fine,” she repeats. “I’ve flown by myself before. I know how to check a bag.” She stretches up on her toes and puts her arms around our dad’s shoulders. “I’ll call as soon as I get there, I promise.”
“Call every day,” I whisper. The lump in my throat is getting bigger, and a few tears leak out of my eyes. I’d hoped I wouldn’t cry, because I knew Margot wouldn’t, and it’s lonely to cry alone, but I can’t help it.
“Don’t you dare forget us,” Kitty warns.
That makes Margot smile. “I could never.” She hugs us each one more time. She saves me for last, the way I knew she would. “Take good care of Daddy and Kitty. You’re in charge now.” I don’t want to let go, so I hold on tighter; I’m still waiting and hoping for some sign, some indication that she will miss us as much as we’ll miss her. And then she laughs and I release her.
“Bye, Gogo,” I say, wiping my eyes with a corner of my shirt.
We all watch as she pushes the luggage carrier over to the check-in counter. I’m crying hard, wiping my tears with the back of my arm. Daddy puts one arm around me and one around Kitty. “We’ll wait until she’s in line for security,” he says.
When she’s done checking in, she turns back and looks at us through the glass doors. She lifts one hand and waves, and then she heads for the security line. We watch her go, thinking she might turn around one more time, but she doesn’t. She already seems so far away from us. Straight-A Margot, ever capable. When it’s my time to leave, I doubt I’ll be as strong as Margot. But, honestly, who is?
I cry all the way home. Kitty tells me I’m a bigger baby than she is, but then from the backseat she grabs my hand and squeezes it, and I know she’s sad too.
Even though Margot isn’t a loud person, it feels quiet at home. Empty, somehow. What will it be like when I’m gone in two years? What will Daddy and Kitty do then? I hate the thought of the two of them coming home to an empty, dark house with no me and no Margot. Maybe I won’t go away far; maybe I’ll even live at home, at least for the first semester. I think that would be the right thing to do.
8
LATER THAT AFTERNOON CHRIS CALLS and tells me to meet her at the mall; she wants my opinion on a leather jacket, and to get the full effect I have to see it in person. I’m proud she’s asking for my sartorial advice, and it would be good to get out of the house and not be sad anymore, but I’m nervous about driving to the mall alone. I (or anyone, really) would consider myself a skittish driver.
I ask her if she’ll just send me a picture instead, but Chris knows me too well. She says, “Nuh-uh. You get your ass down here, Lara Jean. You’ll never get better at driving if you don’t just suck it up and do it.”
So that’s what I’m doing: I’m driving Margot’s car to the mall. I mean, I have my license and everything; I’m just not very confident. My dad has taken me for lessons numerous times, Margot too, and I’m basically fine with them in the car, but I get nervous when I drive alone. It’s the changing-lanes part that scares me. I don’t like taking my eyes away from what’s happening right in front of me, not for a second. Also I don’t like going too fast.
But the worst thing is I have a tendency of getting lost. The only places I can get to with absolute certainty are school and the grocery store. I’ve never had to know how to get to the mall, because Margot always drove us there. But now I have to do better, because I’m responsible for driving Kitty around. Though truthfully, Kitty is better with directions than I am; she knows how to get to loads of places. But I don’t want to have to hear her tell me how to get somewhere. I want to feel like the big sister; I want her to relax in the passenger seat, safe in the knowledge that Lara Jean will get her where she needs to go, just like I did with Margot.
Sure, I could just use a GPS, but I would feel silly putting in directions to go to the mall when I’ve been there a million times. It should come to me intuitively, easy, where I don’t even have to think about it. Instead I worry over every turn, second-guess every highway sign—is it north or is it south, do I turn right here or is it the next one? I’ve never had to pay attention.
But today, so far so good. I’m listening to the radio, bopping along, even driving with just one hand on the wheel. I do this to feign confidence, because the more I fake it, the more it’s supposed to feel true.
Everything is going so well that I take the shortcut way instead of the highway way. I cut through the side neighborhood, and even as I’m doing it, I’m wondering if this was such a great idea. After a couple of minutes things aren’t looking so familiar, and I realize I should have taken a left instead of a right. I push down the panic that’s rising in my chest and I try to backtrack.
You can do it, you can do it.
There’s a four-way stop sign. I don’t see anyone, so I zip ahead. I don’t even see the car on my right; I feel it before I see it.
I scream my head off. I taste copper in my mouth. Am I bleeding? Did I bite my tongue off? I touch it and it’s still there. My heart is racing; my whole body feels wet and clammy. I try to take deep breaths, but I can’t seem to get air.
My legs shake as I get out of the car. The other guy is already out, inspecting his car with his arms crossed. He’s old, older than my dad, and he has gray hair, and he’s wearing shorts with red lobsters on them. His car is fine; mine has a huge dent in the side. “Didn’t you see the stop sign?” he demands. “Were you texting on your phone?”