Letters to the boy I've only Loved.

12

DRIVING HAS NEVER BEEN MY strongest forte but I had to do that tonight. I back up from my house's driveway and I drive slow. My hands are gripping tightly over the stirring wheel. Peter said we had to talk, and I really hope it isn't about Kenny or some other boy who's letter I wrote.

The night is drenched, the early rain still seething from the pavement. I'm almost there, but I can't get myself to go a little faster, I'm afraid of what he might say or do. His tone seemed so serious that I'm hoping is nothing bad.

I park behind his car, his house is light up like the fourth of July, every light is on, and I can't help but worry.

I knock on the door three times, the usual amount I do on the first try. I hear movement inside.

"Lara Jean," He stares at me with swollen eyes, his face is all flushed and his eyes are wet from tears. He pulls me into an embrace and I hug him back, I feel his chest heaving and his arms shaking. He's crying. I rub circles in his back, I don't rush him to tell me, is better if he does on his own accords.

AFTER WHAT FELT LIKE AN eternity I was standing in the kitchen making tea. Peter was calmed, or more than he was.
"What happened?" I ask this time, because the anticipation is killing me.

"My mom was called to the hospital, and-" he's choking on his words. "-my grandma was ill, so ill."

"Did she passed away?" I ask resting my hand on his. He looks at me, his eyes hopelessly devoted to mine. And he shakes his head.

"She is okay now, but we almost lost her. She wasn't breathing." He looked down. "Lara Jean, we almost lost my grandma tonight..." He says in disbelief. "Please promise me you won't leave me like that."

"Peter," I hold his chin up, so he looks at me. "You know I can't promise that. But I can promise that as long as we're together we're going to make the best of it. His eyes light up, and there's my Peter. It takes a lot for someone to open up the way Peter and I are opened up to each other. And I can't believe I was so worried about some stupid thing, when the situation was major than what I was painting in my mind.

"I love you, Covey." He whispers, and I lean to him and I kiss him, the kiss is soft, and I feel the butterflies all over again.

"I love you too, Kavinsky."