P.S. I Still Love You (To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before Book 2)

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 piña 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.

Stormy insists I stay with her and John stay with Mr. Morales in his spare bedroom. I can tell John isn’t crazy about this idea, because he asks, “Can’t I just sleep on your floor?”

I’m surprised when Stormy shakes her head. “I hardly think Lara Jean’s father would appreciate that!”

“I really don’t think my dad would mind, Stormy,” I say. “I could call him if you want.”

But the answer is a firm and resounding no: John must bunk with Mr. Morales. For a lady who’s always telling me to be wild and have adventures and bring the condom, she’s far more old-fashioned than I thought.

Stormy hands John a face towel and a pair of foam earplugs. “Mr. Morales snores,” she tells him as she kisses him good night.

John raises an eyebrow at her. “How do you know?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know!” She shimmies off into the kitchen like the grand dame she truly is.

In a low voice John says to me, “You know what? I really, really wouldn’t.”

I bite the cushiony part of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“Keep your phone on vibrate,” John says before he goes out the door. “I’ll text you.”

I hear the sound of Stormy snoring and the whispery sound of icy snowflakes hitting the windowsill. I keep getting twisted up in Stormy’s sleeping bag, twisted and hot and wishing Stormy didn’t have the heat turned up so high. Old people are always complaining about how cold it is at Belleview, how the heat is “piss-poor,” as Danny in the Azalea building says. Feels plenty hot to me. Stormy’s peach high-neck satin nightgown she insisted I wear isn’t helping matters. I’m lying on my side, playing Candy Crush on my phone, wondering when John will hurry up and text me.

Wanna play in the snow?

I text back right away:

YES! It’s really hot in here.

Meet me in the hallway in two min?

K.

I stand up so fast in my sleeping bag I nearly trip. I use my phone to find my coat, my boots. Stormy is snoring away. I can’t find my scarf, but I don’t want to keep John waiting, so I run out without it.

He’s already in the hallway waiting for me. His hair is sticking up in the back, and on that basis alone I think I could fall in love with him if I let myself. When he sees me, he holds his arms out and sings, “Do you want to build a snowman?” and I burst out laughing so hard John says, “Shh, you’re going to wake up the residents!” which only makes me laugh harder. “It’s only ten thirty!”

We run down the long carpeted hallway, both of us laughing as quietly as we can. But the more you try to laugh quietly, the harder it is to stop. “I can’t stop laughing,” I gasp as we run through the sliding doors and to the courtyard.

We’re both out of breath; we both stop short.

The ground is blanketed in thick white snow, thick as sheep’s wool. It’s so beautiful and hushed, my heart almost hurts with the pleasure of it. I’m so happy in this moment, and I realize it’s because I haven’t thought of Peter once. I turn to look at John, and he’s already looking at me with a half smile on his face. It gives me a nervous flutter in my chest.

I spin around in a circle and sing, “Do you want to build a snowman?” And then we’re both giggling again.

“You’re going to get us kicked out of here,” he warns.

I grab his hands and make him spin around with me as fast as I can. “Quit acting like you really belong in a nursing home, old man!” I yell.

He drops my hands and we both stumble. Then he grabs a fistful of snow off the ground and starts to pack it into a ball. “Old man, huh? I’ll show you an old man!”

I dart away from him, slipping and sliding in the snow. “Don’t you dare, John Ambrose McClaren!”

He chases after me, laughing and breathing hard. He manages to grab me around the waist and raises his arm like he’s going to put the snowball down my back, but at the last second he releases me. His eyes go wide. “Oh my God. Are you wearing my grandma’s nightgown under your coat?”

Giggling, I say, “Wanna see? It’s really racy.” I start to unzip my coat. “Wait, turn around first.”

Shaking his head, John says, “This is weird,” but he obeys. As soon as his back is turned, I snatch a handful of snow, form it into a ball, and put it in my coat pocket.

“Okay, turn around.”

John turns, and I lob the snowball directly at his head. It hits him in the eye. “Ouch!” he yelps, wiping it with his coat sleeve.

I gasp and move toward him. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Are you okay—”

John’s already scooping up more snow and lunging toward me. And so begins our snowball fight. We chase each other around, and I get in another great hit square in his back. We call a truce when I nearly slip and fall on my butt. Luckily, John catches me just in time. He doesn’t let go right away. We stare at each other for a second, his arm around my waist. There’s a snowflake on his eyelashes. He says, “If I didn’t know you were still hung up on Kavinsky, I would kiss you right now.”

I shiver. Up until Peter, the most romantic thing that ever happened to me was with John Ambrose McClaren, in the rain, with the soccer balls. Now this. How strange that I’ve never even dated John, and he’s in two of my most romantic moments.

John releases me. “You’re freezing. Let’s go back inside.”

We go to the parlor on Stormy’s floor to sit and thaw out. There’s only one reading light on, so it’s dim and quiet. All the residents are in their apartments for the night, it seems. It feels strange to be here without Stormy and everyone, like being at school at night. We sit on the fancy French-style couch, and I take off my boots so my feet can get warm. I wriggle my toes to get the feeling back.

“Too bad we can’t start a fire,” John says, stretching his arms and looking at the fireplace.

“Yeah, it’s fake,” I say. “There must be some sort of nursing-home law about fireplaces, I bet….” My voice trails off as I see Stormy, in her silky kimono, tiptoeing out of her apartment and down the hall. To Mr. Morales’s apartment. Oh my God.

“What?” John asks, and I slap my hand over his mouth. I duck down low in my seat and slide all the way off the couch to the floor. I pull him down next to me. We stay down until I hear the door click closed. He whispers, “What is it? What did you see?”

Sitting up, I whisper back, “I don’t know if you want to know.”

“Dear God. What? Just tell me.”

“I saw Stormy in her red kimono, sneaking into Mr. Morales’s apartment.”

John chokes. “Oh my God. That’s…”

I give him sympathetic eyes. “I know. Sorry.”

Shaking his head, he leans back against the couch, his legs stretched out long in front of him. “Wow. This is rich. My great-grandmother has a way more active sex life than I do.”

I can’t resist asking, “So then… I guess, have you not had sex with that many girls?” Hastily I say, “Sorry, I’m a very inquisitive person.” I scratch my cheek. “Some might say nosy. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“No, I’ll answer. I’ve never had sex with anybody.”

“What!” I can’t believe it. How can that be?

“Why are you so shocked?”

“I don’t know, I guess I thought all guys were doing it.”

“Well, I’ve only had one girlfriend, and she was religious, so we never did it, which was fine. Anyway, trust me, not all guys are having sex. I’d say the majority aren’t.” John pauses. “What about you?”

“I’ve never done it either,” I say.

He frowns, confused. “Wait, I thought you and Kavinsky…”

“No. Why would you think that?” Oh. The video. I swallow. I thought maybe he was the one person who hadn’t seen it. “So you’ve seen the hot tub video, huh.”

John hesitates and then, says, “Yeah. I didn’t know it was you at first, not until after the time capsule party when I figured out you guys were together. Some guy showed it to me in homeroom, but I didn’t look at it that closely.”

“We were just kissing,” I say, ducking my head. “I wish you hadn’t seen it.”

“Why? Honestly, it doesn’t matter to me at all.”

“I guess I liked the thought of you looking at me a certain kind of way. I feel like people see me differently now, but you still thought of me as the old Lara Jean. Do you know what I mean?”

“That is how I see you,” John says. “You’re still the same to me. I’ll always see you that way, Lara Jean.”

His words, the way he is looking at me—it makes me feel warm inside, golden, all the way to my frozen toes. I want him to kiss me. I want to see if it’s different from Peter, if it will make the hurt recede. Make me forget him, just for a while. But maybe he senses it—that Peter is somehow here with us, in my thoughts, that it wouldn’t just be about him and me—because John doesn’t make a move.

Instead he asks a question. “Why do you always call me by my full name?”

“I don’t know. I guess that’s how I think of you in my head.”

“Oh, so you’re saying you think about me a lot?”

I laugh. “No, I’m saying that when I think about you, which isn’t very often, that’s how I think of you. On the first day of school, I always have to explain to teachers that Lara Jean is my first name and not just Lara. And then, do you remember how Mr. Chudney started calling you John Ambrose because of that? ‘Mr. John Ambrose.’ ”

In a fake hoity-toity English accent, John says, “Mr. John Ambrose McClaren the Third, madam.”

I giggle. I’ve never met a third before. “Are you really?”

“Yeah. It’s annoying. My dad’s a junior, so he’s JJ, but my extended family still calls me Little John.” He grimaces. “I’d much rather be John Ambrose than Little John. Sounds like a rapper or that guy from Robin Hood.”

“Your family’s so fancy.” I only ever saw John’s mom when she was picking him up. She looked younger than the other mothers, she had John’s same milky skin, and her hair was longer than the other moms’, straw-colored.

“No. My family isn’t fancy at all. My mom made Jell-O salad last night for dessert. And, like, my dad only has steak cooked well-done. We only ever take vacations we can drive to.”

“I thought your family was kind of… well, rich.” I feel immediate shame for saying “rich.” It’s tacky to talk about other people’s money.

“My dad’s really cheap. His construction company is pretty successful, but he prides himself on being a self-made man. He didn’t go to college; neither did my grandparents. My sisters were the first in our family.”

“I didn’t know that about you,” I say. All these new things I’m learning about John Ambrose McClaren!

“Now it’s your turn to tell me something I don’t know about you,” John says.

I laugh. “You already know more than most people. My love letter made sure of that.”

The next morning, I sneeze as I’m putting on my coat, and Stormy raises one pencil-drawn eyebrow at me. “Catch a cold playing in the snow last night with Johnny?”

I squirm. I’d hoped she wouldn’t bring it up. The last thing I want to do is discuss her midnight rendezvous with Mr. Morales! We watched Stormy go back to her apartment and then waited half an hour before John went back to Mr. Morales’s. Weakly, I say, “Sorry we snuck out. It was so early, and we couldn’t fall asleep, so we thought we’d play in the snow.”

Stormy waves a hand. “It’s exactly what I hoped would happen.” She winks at me. “That’s why I made Johnny stay with Mr. Morales, of course. What’s the fun in anything if there aren’t a few roadblocks to spice things up?”

In awe, I say, “You’re so crafty!”

“Thank you, darling.” She’s quite pleased with herself. “You know, he’d make a great first husband, my Johnny. So, did you French him, at least?”

My face burns. “No!”

“You can tell me, honey.”

“Stormy, we didn’t kiss, and even if we had, I wouldn’t discuss it with you.”

Stormy’s nose goes thin and haughty. “Well, isn’t that so very selfish of you!”

“I have to go, Stormy. My dad’s waiting for me out front. See you!”

As I hurry out the door, she calls out, “Don’t you worry, I’ll get it out of Johnny! See you both at the party, Lara Jean!”

When I step outside, the sun is shining bright and much of the snow has already melted away. It’s almost like last night was a dream.