Always and Forever, Lara Jean (20 page)

“It’s so pretty, isn’t it?” I stop to admire a pink flowering dogwood tree. “I’m surprised they have so many dogwood trees, since it’s Virginia’s state flower. What do you suppose is North Carolina’s state flower?”

“No idea. Can we please eat? I’m starving.” Chris has the attention span of a fly, and when she is hungry, everybody better watch out.

I put my arm around her waist. I’m suddenly feeling very tender toward her for taking me on this trip to see what might have been. “Let’s fill that belly up, then. What do you want? Pizza? A hoagie? Chinese food?”

She puts her arm around my shoulder. Her mood is already picking up at the mention of different cuisines. “You pick. Anything but Chinese food. Or pizza. You know what, let’s get sushi.”

A couple of guys pass on the street, and Chris calls out, “Hey!”

They turn around. “What’s up?” one says. He’s black, handsome, tall, with muscular arms in a
CAROLINA WRESTLING
T-shirt.

“Where’s the best sushi around here?” Chris asks.

“I don’t eat sushi, so I can’t really say.” He looks at his red-haired friend, who is less cute but still cute. “Where do you go?”

“Spicy Nine,” he says, eyeing Chris. “Just go down Franklin that way and you’ll run right into it.” He winks at her,
and they go back to walking in the other direction.

“Should we go after them?” she says, her eyes following them as they walk away. “Find out what they’re up to tonight?”

I steer her in the direction they pointed us to. “I thought you were hungry,” I remind her.

“Oh yeah,” she says. “So that’s one point in the
UNC
column, am I right? Hotter guys?”

“I’m sure William and Mary has good-looking guys too.” Quickly I add, “Not that it matters to me, because I obviously have a boyfriend.” Who still hasn’t called, mind you. My phone is down to 5 percent, so by the time he does, it’ll be too late.

*  *  *

After we eat sushi, we wander around on Franklin Street, stopping in stores. I consider buying a
UNC
Tar Heels basketball hat for Peter, but he probably wouldn’t wear it, since he’ll be a Wahoo.

We pass a pole with signs on it, and Chris stops short. She points to a sign for a music hall called Cat’s Cradle. A band called Meow Mixx is playing tonight. “Let’s go!” Chris says.

“Have you ever heard of Meow Mixx before?” I ask. “What kind of music do they play?”

“Who cares. Let’s just go!” She grabs my hand. Laughing, we run down the street together.

There’s a line to get inside, and the band has already started to play; snatches of dancey music float through the
open door. A couple of girls are waiting in line in front of us, and Chris throws her arms around me and tells them, “My best friend just got into
UNC
.”

I feel warm inside hearing Chris call me her best friend—to know that we still matter to each other, even though she has her work friends and I have Peter. It makes me feel sure that when she’s in Costa Rica, or Spain, or wherever she ends up, we’ll still be close.

One of the girls hugs me and says, “Congratulations! You’re going to love it here.” Her hair is in milkmaid braids, and she’s wearing a T-shirt that says
HILLARY IS MY PRESIDENT.

Adjusting the lollipop enamel pin in her hair, her friend says, “Put down Ehaus or Craige for your dorm. They’re the most fun.”

I feel sheepish as I say, “Actually, I’m not coming here; we just came to visit. For fun.”

“Oh, where are you going?” she asks me, a slight frown on her freckled face.

“William and Mary,” I tell her.

“It’s not definite though,” Chris butts in.

“It’s pretty definite,” I say.

“I came here over Princeton,” the braided girl tells me. “That’s how much I loved it when I visited. You’ll see. I’m Hollis, by the way.”

We all introduce ourselves and the girls tell me about the English department, and going to basketball games at the Dean Dome, and the places on Franklin Street that don’t
card. Chris, who zoned out during the English department part of the conversation, is suddenly all ears. Before we go inside, Hollis gives me her number. “Just in case you come here,” she says.

When we get inside, the venue is pretty full, lots of people standing near the stage, drinking beers and dancing to the music. The band is actually just two guys with guitars and a laptop, and their sound is sort of electronica pop. It fills the whole room. It’s a mixed crowd in the audience: some older guys in rock band T-shirts and beards, closer to my dad’s age, but also a lot of students. Chris tries to wipe off the stamp on her hand to get us beers, but is unsuccessful. I don’t mind, because I don’t really like beer, and also, she still has to drive us back tonight. I start asking around to see if anyone has a phone charger, which Chris slaps my arm for. “We’re on an adventure!” she yells. “We don’t need cell phones for an adventure!”

Then she grabs my hand and pulls me along with her to the edge of the stage. We dance our way to the middle, and we jump along to the music, even though we don’t know any of the songs. One of the guys went to
UNC
, and midway through the show, he leads the crowd in the Tar Heels fight song. “I’m a Tar Heel born, I’m a Tar Heel bred, and when I die I’m a Tar Heel dead!” The crowd goes nuts, the whole room is shaking. Chris and I don’t know the words, but we shout, “Go to hell, Duke!” along with everyone else. Our hair swings wildly in our faces; I’m sweaty, and suddenly I’m having the best time. “This is so much fun,” I scream in Chris’s face.

“Same!” she screams back.

After the second set Chris declares that she is hungry, so we are off into the night.

We walk up the street for what feels like ages when we find a place called Cosmic Cantina. It’s a tiny Mexican place with a long line, which Chris says must mean they either have good food or really cheap food. Chris and I inhale our burritos; they are stuffed full with rice and beans and melting cheese and homemade pico de gallo. It tastes pretty plain, except for the hot sauce. So hot my lips burn. If my phone weren’t dead and Chris’s phone weren’t nearly dead, I’d have searched online for the best burrito in Chapel Hill. But then we might not have found this place. For some reason it’s the best burrito of my life.

After we eat our burritos, I say, “What time is it? We should head back soon if we want to get back before one.”

“But you’ve barely seen any of campus,” Chris says. “Isn’t there anything you want to see in particular? Like, I don’t know, a boring library or something?”

“Nobody knows me like you do, Chris,” I say, and she bats her eyelashes. “There is one place I want to see . . . it’s in all the brochures. The Old Well.”

“Then let’s go,” she says.

As we walk, I ask her, “Does Chapel Hill seem like Charlottesville to you?”

“No, it seems better.”

“You’re just like Kitty. You think everything new is better,” I say.

“And you think everything old is better,” she counters.

She has a point there. We walk the rest of the way in companionable silence. I’m thinking about the ways
UNC
does and doesn’t remind me of
UVA
. The campus is quiet, I guess because most kids have gone home for summer break. There are still people walking around, though: girls in sundresses and sandals and boys in khaki shorts and
UNC
baseball caps.

We cross the green lawn, and there it is: the Old Well. It sits between two brick residence halls. It’s a small rotunda, like a mini version of the one at
UVA
, and there is a drinking fountain in the center. There’s a big white oak tree right behind it, and there are azalea bushes all around, hot pink like a lipstick color Stormy used to wear. It’s enchanting.

“Are you supposed to make a wish or something?” Chris asks, stepping up to the fountain.

“I think I heard that on the first day of classes, students take a sip of water from the fountain for good luck,” I say. “Either good luck or straight As.”

“I won’t need straight As where I’m going, but I’ll take the luck.”

Chris bends down to take a sip, and a couple of girls walking by caution, “Frat guys pee in that fountain all the time—don’t do it.”

Her head snaps back up and she jumps away from the fountain. “Ew!” Hopping down, she says, “Let’s take a selfie.”

“We can’t; our phones are dead, remember? We’ll just have to have the memory in our hearts like the old days.”

“Good point,” Chris says. “Should we hit the road?”

I hesitate. I don’t know why, but I’m not ready to leave just yet. What if I never get to come back? I spot a bench facing one of the brick buildings and go over and sit down, “Let’s stay a little bit longer.”

I hug my knees to my chest and Chris sits down next to me. Fiddling with the stack of bracelets on her arm, she says, “I wish I could come here with you.”

“To college or to
UNC
?” I’m so caught off guard by the pensive note in her voice that I don’t stop to correct her, to remind her that I won’t be coming here either.

“Either. Both. Don’t get me wrong. I’m psyched about Costa Rica. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Like, what if I’m missing out by not going to college at the same time as everybody else.” She looks at me then, a question in her eyes.

I say, “College will be here waiting for you, Chris. Next year, the year after. Whenever you want it.”

Chris twists around and looks out at the lawn. “Maybe. We’ll see. I can picture you here, Lara Jean. Can’t you?”

I swallow. “I have a plan. William and Mary for a year, then
UVA
.”

“You mean you and Peter have a plan. That’s why you’re holding back.”

“Okay, Peter and I have a plan. But it’s not the only reason.”

“But it’s the main one.”

I can’t deny it. The thing that’s missing no matter where I go, if it’s William and Mary or if it’s here, is Peter.

“So why not go here for a year, then?” Chris asks me.
“What’s the difference if you’re here or William and Mary? An hour? Either way, you’re not at
UVA
. Why not be here?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer her; she hops up and runs out onto the lawn, and she kicks off her shoes and does a series of cartwheels.

What if I came here and I ended up loving it? What if, after a year, I didn’t want to leave? What then? But wouldn’t it be great if I loved it? Isn’t that the whole point? Why bet on not loving a place? Why not take a chance and bet on happiness?

I lie down and stretch my legs out on the bench and look up at the sky. There is a canopy of tree branches high above my head—one tree sits by the building; the other is planted in the lawn. Their branches reach across the walkway and meet in the middle. What if Peter and I could be like these two trees, far apart but still touching? Because I think maybe I could be happy here. I think maybe I could picture myself here too.

What was it Stormy said? The last day I saw her, the day she gave me her ring?
Never say no when you really want to say yes.

*  *  *

When Chris pulls up to my house, it’s just after three a.m. and every single light is on. Gulp. I turn to Chris. “Come in with me?” I plead.

“No way. You’re on your own. I’ve gotta go home and deal with my own mom.”

I hug Chris good-bye, get out of the car, and trudge up to the front steps. The door flies open as soon as I’m fumbling
around in my bag for my keys. It’s Kitty, in her big sleep T-shirt. “You’re in trouble,” she whispers.

I step inside, and Daddy’s right behind her, still dressed in his work clothes. Trina’s on the couch, giving me a look like,
You’re in for it, and I feel sympathy for you, but also, you could’ve at least called.
“Where have you been all night!” he shouts. “And why weren’t you answering your phone!”

I shrink backward. “I ran out of battery. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it had gotten so late.” I briefly consider making a joke about how this is why millenials should wear watches, to lighten the mood, but I don’t think a joke will do the trick this time.

Daddy starts pacing around the living room. “So why didn’t you use Chris’s phone!”

“Chris’s phone died too. . . .”

“We’ve been worried half to death! Kitty says you left with Chris without saying where you were going. . . .” At this, Kitty gives me a look. “I was five seconds from calling the police, Lara Jean! If you hadn’t walked in the door when you did—”

“I’m sorry,” I begin. “I’m really sorry.”

“This is just so irresponsible.” Daddy’s muttering to himself, not even listening. “Lara Jean, you might be eighteen, but—”

From the couch, Trina says, “Dan, please don’t say, ‘but you’re still living under my roof.’ It’s such a cliché.”

Daddy spins around and says to her, “It’s a cliché for a reason! It’s a good line! It’s a very good line.”

“Lara Jean, just tell them where you were,” Kitty says, impatient.

Daddy shoots an accusing look her way. “Kitty, did you know where she went?”

“She made me swear not to tell!”

Before he can reply, I say, “I was in North Carolina with Chris.”

He throws his hands up in the air. “In North Carolina! What in the—what in the world? You crossed state lines without even telling me? With a dead phone battery, to boot!”

I feel sick to my stomach for worrying him. I don’t know why I didn’t call. I could’ve borrowed somebody’s phone. I guess I just got carried away with the night, with being there. I didn’t want to think about home or real life. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m really, really sorry. I should’ve called.”

He shakes his head. “Why were you in North Carolina?”

“I was in North Carolina because . . .” I pause. If I say it now, that’s it. “Because I got into
UNC
.”

Daddy’s eyes widen. “You did? That’s—that’s wonderful. But what about William and Mary?”

Smiling, I lift my shoulders into a shrug.

Trina lets out a scream and jumps up from the couch, dropping the flannel blanket she had wrapped around her and nearly tripping herself in the process. Daddy grabs me into his arms and sweeps me into a hug, and Trina joins in. “Oh my God, Lara Jean!” she says, slapping me on the back. “You’re gonna be a Tar Heel!”