“I have a funny story about your dad,” John says, looking at me sideways.

I groan. “Oh no. What did he do?”

“It wasn’t him; it was me.” He clears his throat. “This is embarrassing.”

I rub my hands together in anticipation.

“So, I went over to your house to ask you to eighth grade formal. I had this whole extravagant plan.”

“You never asked me to formal!”

“I know, I’m getting to that part. Are you going to let me tell the story or not?”

“You had a whole extravagant plan,” I prompt.

John nods. “So I gathered a bunch of sticks and some flowers and I arranged them into the letters FORMAL? in front of your window. But your dad came home while I was in the middle of it, and he thought I was going around cleaning people’s yards. He gave me ten bucks, and I lost my nerve and I just went home.”

I laugh. “I . . . can’t believe you did that.” I can’t believe that this almost happened to me. What would that have felt like, to have a boy do something like that for me? In the whole history of my letters, of my liking boys, not once has a boy liked me back at the same time as I liked him. It was always me alone, longing after a boy, and that was fine, that was safe. But this is new. Or old. Old and new, because it’s the first time I’m hearing it.

“The biggest regret of eighth grade,” John says, and that’s when I remember—how Peter once told me that John’s biggest regret was not asking me to formal, how elated I was when he said it, and then how he quickly backtracked and said he was only joking.

The school bus pulls up then. “Showtime,” I say. I’m giddy as we watch the players get off the bus—I see Gabe, Darrell, no Peter yet. But then the last person gets off the bus and still no Peter. “That’s weird . . .”

“Could he have driven his own car?” John asks.

I shake my head. “He never does.” I grab my phone out of my bag and text him.

Where are you?

No reply. Something’s wrong, I know it. Peter never misses a game. He even played when he had the flu.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell John, and I jump out of the car and run for the field. The guys are warming up. I find Gabe on the sideline lacing his cleats. I call out, “Gabe!”

He looks up, surprised. “Large! What’s up?”

Breathlessly I ask him, “Where’s Peter?”

“I don’t know,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “He told Coach he had a family emergency. It sounded pretty legit. Kavinsky wouldn’t miss a game if it wasn’t important.”

I’m already running back to the car. As soon as I’m in, I pant, “Can you drive me to Peter’s?”

I see her car first. Parked on the street in front of his house. The next thing I see is the two of them, standing together on the street for all to see. He has his arms wrapped around her; she is leaning in to him like she can’t stand on her own two feet. Her face is buried in his chest. He is saying something in her ear, petting her hair tenderly.

It all happens in the span of seconds, but it feels like time goes in slow-motion, like I’m moving through water. I think I stop breathing; my head goes fuzzy; everything around me blurs. How many times have I seen them stand just like that? Too many to count.

“Keep driving,” I manage to say to John, and he obeys. He drives right past Peter’s house; they don’t even look up. Thank God they don’t look up. Quietly I say, “Can you take me home?” I can’t even look at John. I hate that he saw too.

John begins, “It might not be . . .” Then he stops. “It was just a hug, Lara Jean.”

“I know.” Whatever it was, he missed his game for her.

We’re almost at my house when he finally asks, “What are you going to do?”

I’ve been thinking it over this whole ride. “I’m going to tell Peter to come over tonight, and then I’m going to tag him out.”

“You’re still playing?” He sounds surprised.

I stare out the window, at all the familiar places. “Sure. I’m going to take him out and then I’m going to take Genevieve out and I’m going to win.”

“Why do you want to win so badly?” he asks me. “Is it the prize?”

I don’t answer him. If I open my mouth, I will cry.

We’re at my house now. I mumble, “Thanks for the ride,” and I get out of the car before John can reply. I run into the house, kick off my shoes, and run up the stairs to my room, where I lie down and stare at the ceiling. I put glow-in-the-dark stars up there years ago, and I scraped most of them off except for one, which hung on tight as a stalactite.

Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight. I wish not to cry.

I text Peter: Come over after you’re finished hanging out with Genevieve.

He writes back one word: Okay.

Just “okay.” No denials, no explanations or clarifications. All this time I’ve been making excuses for him. I’ve been trusting Peter and not trusting my own gut. Why am I the one making all these concessions, pretending to be okay with something I’m not actually okay with? Just to keep him?

In the contract we said we’d always tell each other the truth. We said we’d never break each other’s hearts. So I guess two times now he’s broken his word.