“Um . . . okay,” I whisper. His words—they come clearly; they don’t miss in either direction. Not even a trace of a stutter. Just—unequivocally clear.

“Okay, then. Let’s win you a wish.” He takes out his phone and pulls up Google Maps. “I looked up Gen’s address before I came over here. I think you’re right—we should take our time, assess the situation. Not go in half-cocked.”

“Mm-hm.” I’m in a sort of dream state; it’s hard to concentrate. John Ambrose McClaren wants to make it unequivocally clear.

I snap out of it when Kitty jostles her way back into the living room, balancing a glass of orange soda, the tub of red pepper hummus, and a bag of pita chips. She makes her way over to the couch and plonks down right between us. Holding out the bag, she asks, “Do you guys want some?”

“Sure,” John says, taking a chip. “Hey, I hear you’re pretty good at schemes. Is that true?”

Warily she says, “What makes you say that?”

“You’re the one who sent out Lara Jean’s letters, aren’t you?” Kitty nods. “Then I’d say you’re pretty good at schemes.”

“I mean, yeah. I guess.”

“Awesome. We need your help.”

Kitty’s ideas are a bit too extreme—like slashing Genevieve’s tires, or throwing a stink bomb in her house to smoke her out, but John writes down every one of Kitty’s suggestions, which does not go unnoticed by Kitty. Very little does.

46

THE NEXT MORNING, KITTY IS dawdling over her peanut butter toast, and from behind his newspaper, Daddy says, “You’re going to miss the bus if you don’t hurry.”

She merely shrugs and takes her time going upstairs to get her book bag. I’m sure she thinks she can just catch a ride with me if she misses the bus, but I’m running late too. I overslept and then I couldn’t find my favorite jeans so I had to settle for my second favorite.

As I’m rinsing my cereal bowl, I look out the window and see Kitty’s school bus drive by. “You missed the bus!” I yell upstairs.

No reply.

I stuff my lunch in my bag and call out, “If you’re coming with me, you’d better hustle! Bye, Daddy!”

I’m putting on my shoes by the front door when Kitty shoots right past me and out the door, book bag bouncing against her shoulder. I follow after her and close the door behind me. And there, across the street, leaning against his black Audi, is Peter. He grins broadly at Kitty, and I stand there just completely blindsided. My first thought is, Is he here to see me? No, couldn’t be. My second thought is, Could this be a trap? My eyes dart around, looking for any sign of Genevieve. There is none, and I feel guilty for thinking he could ever be that cruel.

Kitty waves madly and runs up to him. “Hi!”

“Ready to go, kid?” he asks her.

“Yup.” She turns back to look at me. “Lara Jean, you can come with us. I’ll sit in your lap.”

Peter is looking at his phone, and what little hope I had that maybe he partly came to see me is dashed. “No, that’s okay,” I say. “There’s only room for two.”

He opens the passenger-side door for her, and Kitty scrambles in. “Go fast,” she tells him.

He barely spares me a glance before they’re gone. Well. I suppose that’s that, then.

“What kind of cake are you making me?” Kitty sits on a stool and watches me. I’m baking the cake tonight so it’s all set for tomorrow’s party. I’ve got it in my head that Kitty’s slumber party has to be just the best night ever, partly because the party is so belated and should therefore be worth the wait, and partly because ten is a big year in a girl’s life. Kitty may not have a mom, but she will have a spectacular birthday sleepover if I’ve got anything to do with it.

“I told you, it’s a surprise.” I dump my premeasured flour into a mixing bowl. “So how was your day?”

“Good. I got an A-minus on my math quiz.”

“Oh, yay! Anything else cool happen?”

Kitty shrugs her shoulders. “I think Ms. Bertoli accidentally farted when she was taking attendance. Everybody laughed.”

Baking powder, salt. “Cool, cool. Did, um, Peter drive you straight to school, or did you stop somewhere along the way?”

“He took me to get donuts.”

I bite my lip. “That’s nice. Did he say anything?”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. Life.”

Kitty rolls her eyes. “He didn’t say anything about you, if that’s what you’re wondering about.”

This stings. “I wasn’t wondering about that at all,” I lie.

Kitty and I have the whole sleepover planned down to a T. Zombie makeovers. Photo booth with props. Nail art.

I chose Kitty’s cake with utmost care. It’s chocolate with raspberry jam and white chocolate frosting. I’ve made three different kinds of dips. Sour cream and onion, red pepper hummus, and cold spinach dip. Crudités. Pigs in a blanket. Salty caramel popcorn for the movie. Lime sherbet punch, the kind you pour ginger ale over. I even scrounged up an old glass punch bowl in the attic, which will also be perfect for the USO theme party. For breakfast in the morning I’m making chocolate chip pancakes. I know all of these details are important to Kitty, too. Already she’s mentioned to me that at Brielle’s birthday, her mom made strawberry smoothies for their snack, and who could forget how Alicia Bernard’s mom made crepes when she’s mentioning it all the time?