The Girl I Loved Once

Chapter 14

Red light, after red light, after red light.

Lara Jean lives 15 minutes away, and I've been in the car for 30

This should not take THIS long.

I finally exhale as I pull into her driveway. Finally, no more red lights to sit through. I park my Audi, turn off the car, and look at myself in the rear-view mirror. Deep breaths I tell myself over and over. Why am I so sweaty and nervous? It's Lara Jean, for god's sake! Breathe, Peter Kavinsky!

In one swift movement, I haul my ass out of the car, make my way up the steps, and, before I know it, am ringing Lara Jean's doorbell. I can hear it ringing from inside, and I hear people moving around, followed by yelling, and then finally, Lara Jean opening the door. Her pale skin is absolutely covered in flour, and she smells like smoke and chocolate chips and confectioners sugar, which she is also covered in. She's wearing pajamas which are covered by an apron, and her hair is tied up in a top knot. She looked absolutely hysterical.

I start laughing as she gives me a dirty look. "You have flour all over your face!" I say through fits of hysterical laughter. She goes red and proceeds to wipe her face on the bottom of her apron and the back of her hands as she moves out of the doorway to let me in her house. I take off my shoes and lean up against a brown table. "What are you doing here?" She asks

"We're going to the game. Didn't you read my note from yesterday? 

"Oh shoot, I had a test and I forgot." Lara Jean replied. Now I'm a little irritated. I told her yesterday on the note on her locker that there was a game today, and she manages to forget within a span of maybe 22 hours. It takes a lot of effort to churn out those notes, and it's a little rude shes disregards them so easily

I frown as she adds, "I can't go anyway because I have to bake seventy-two cupcakes by tomorrow."

"On a Friday night?"

"Well.... yeah."

"Is this for the PTA bake sale?" I add. My mom is baking a dessert for it; I completely forgot about the bake sale. 

"Yeah. Is your mom making something too?" She asks. "Rice Krispie treats," I say. She makes them because of there easier to cut and measure. "Sorry, you came over here for nothing." She says, "Maybe we can go to the game next Friday."  I know she's expecting me to leave, but I linger for a moment. I'm not in any rush to sit on some cold bleachers for a while. Why be outside, cold and uncomfortable, when I could sit in her warm and vanilla-scented home?

 I wander my way into her kitchen, which is exactly as I remember it; very posh, very white, and meticulously organized. The only difference is it was usually immaculately clean, while now there was not an inch that wasn't covered in flour or sugar. There was batter splattered on the walls around a white KitchenAid stand mixer, which was currently whipping the buttercream frosting as the first round of cupcakes cooled on the countertop. I sit on a barstool. "Your house looks the same as I remembered," I say. I spot a photo of Lara Jean and her sister Margot in the bath when they were babies. There's suds in both of their hair, and Lare Jean has a bottle of soap in her hand, and both are smiling infectiously. "Cute," I say. 

"When have you ever been to my house?"

"Back in seventh grade.  Remember how we'd hang out in your neighbor's treehouse? I had to pee once and you let me used your bathroom. "

"Oh yeah." She says, turning off the KitchenAid and lifting the blade out of the whipped buttercream. 

"How long's it going to take?" I ask as she's pulling out another bowl from under the kitchen island to start another batch of cupcakes. She starts measuring out flour. "Hours, probably." She says as she measures one cup of flour. I groan. Everyone who needs to see me and Lara Jean is at this football game right now. We'll be hitting 8 birds with 1 stone. "Why can't we just go to the store and buy some?" I say, half as a joke.  I know that's not how it works, but I want to see what shes going to say. She's measuring more flour as she answers.