July 2019

I keep stretching up on my tip toes to look for Peter. Once, I almost fall straight into a little old lady who suddenly appears in front of me.

"Lara Jean," Margot hisses in exasperation, looking as though she's caught between laughing and being embarrassed to be seen with me. I can't help it: this is the first time Peter and I will be away together without parents and curfews and classes looming.

I've been in London for the past week visiting Margot, who's interning at the Royal Archaeological Society. Peter is joining me for my last weekend here. I'm so excited that I've managed to save all the mega-touristy things to do with him. Friday we'll ride the London Eye and see Westminster Abbey, Saturday we'll visit the Tower of London and St. Paul's Cathedral, and Sunday we'll go see Buckingham Palace and then spend some time in Hyde Park before we have to go to the airport to catch our flight back home. Margot is going to stay with Ravi at his parent's house in Birmingham – he's supposed to pick up her up in a few hours – so Peter and I have the flat she's renting all to ourselves. Nineteen-year-old me can scarcely contain her excitement. Sixteen-year-old me would have died.

Finally, after what feels like hours, I catch a glimpse of Peter's dark hair and familiar sweatshirt. "Peter!" I nearly screech, and the old lady reaches up to adjust her hearing aid. Oops.

He comes over, smiling his wide, lazy grin, and gives me a hug before kissing me soundly on the lips. He hugs Margot, too, and she asks him how his flight over was. "Long," he says, tugging at his sweatshirt, "I've never been outside the country before."

It's true, he had to get a passport just for this trip. But he said it was worth all the trouble just to have a worry-free weekend with me away from all the drama back home. His lacrosse practice was seriously cutting into our time this summer, Gen had somehow reappeared in our lives, and don't get me started on his mom.

"C'mon, Covey," Peter slugs an arm around my shoulder, "Let's get out of here."

xxx

We wave Margot good-bye from the front of her apartment building. Peter's changed into fresh clothes. I forgot how good the boy looks in a button down. We watch Ravi's car until it's a small dot somewhere down the road before Peter turns to me.

"Just you and me now, kid," he says, and then winks.

"Do you want to go out for dinner?" I ask when we're back upstairs. We're in the living room with the TV on, Peter sprawled on the couch with me sitting with my back against one of the armrests, my feet in his lap. He's playing with my toes. My nail-polish is so chipped and faded that I almost want to move them away.

"Not really," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck, "Can we order in?"

Thank God, I think. I'm cozy in a pair of sweatpants and a tank top; the last thing I want to do is get dressed and go out. Especially because there aren't that many places around here and I have only a limited amount of cash to pay a cab driver or buy a Tube ticket.

"I'll grab the menus," I say, and walk into the kitchen to get them out of the drawer where Margot stores them. Peter doesn't like spicy food, so I bypass Thai and Indian, grabbing Italian, Mexican, and Chinese. I hand them to Peter, who starts flipping through them with care. I roll my eyes.

"I already know you're going to pick pizza," I say, and he makes a face at me that tells me I'm right.

"Oh, really?" he asks, a glint in his eye, "You think you've got me all figured out, don't you, Covey?"

"Yup," I say proudly, and then touch his face, "Every thought that goes on up there is immediately broadcast on here. You're an easy read."

"Am I?" he says, looking like he's trying not to smile. "Okay, mind-reader. Tell me what I'm thinking right now."

"Hmm" I tap my chin, thoughtfully. "Obviously, it's 'I have the best girlfriend ever and I should totally let her pick the toppings on the pizza'."

"Nah," he grins widely now, "You're wrong. I was actually thinking: 'Wow, Lara Jean really needs a shower. She smells.'"

With an indignant harrumph, I launch myself at him. He catches me easily, and I fall into his chest. I look down into his green eyes with their golden specks, my gaze hard. "Take it back."

"No," he laughs, clearly enjoying my mock-anger, "It was the truth."

And then my hands are descending to his ribs, where I know he's extremely ticklish, and all thoughts of dinner are forgotten.

xxx

Peter and I took about a thousand pictures today. I'm scrolling through them on his phone as I wait for him to get out the shower. There's us on the London Eye yesterday, me posing in front of Westminster, Peter pretending to be a prisoner in the Tower of London, me eating ice cream in front of Tower Bridge, me after said ice cream has fallen off the cone and onto the front of my top. I wonder if I should delete the pic before Peter decides it would be funny to post on Instagram.

We're not as public of a couple as we used to be when we were fake-dating, but you wouldn't be able to tell that if you looked at Peter's Instagram. Gabe, one of his old lacrosse friends, has referred to the it as the Lara Jean Covey fan page.

I decide to keep the picture and turn to picking out an outfit. It's our last night in London, and I want to look good. All the stuff I brought is too casual, so I turn to Margot's closet. She's more of a practical dresser than me, but I do find a silky black dress that ends about mid-thigh. It would look good with my denim jacket. Let's hope it fits.

As is turns out, it's a little short. But I like it so much I decide a little leg never hurt anyone and move on to hair and makeup. By the time Peter comes out, buttoning up his shirt with his still wet hair dripping over his forehead, I'm ready to go. My heart feels like it's about to burst when I look at him. Peter is very much a Handsome Boy and sometimes it still seems surreal that he is mine.

"Whoa," he says, his eyes slowly tracking up my body, "You look great." I'm wearing little strappy black heels, so he has to bend slightly less than usual when he comes to kiss me. I look at us in the mirror when we separate: him in his dress pants and button down and me in my heels and dress. We look like the adult versions of ourselves, grown up and ready to take on the world together.

I take his arm and let him lead me to the door.

xxx

Around eleven, Peter and I are sharing a chocolate lava cake and laughing over the story of the time Emma's boyfriend professed his love for her in front of her entire psychology class after a fight when there's a sudden exclamation from the table next to us. We look over, alarmed, only to see a woman jump up holding a shiny engagement ring.

"Yes," she cries as she throws her arms around her dinner companion's neck, "Yes, yes, yes."

We watch as he slides the ring onto her finger, both of us smiling. She looks like the happiest person alive. It's nice, watching this kind of love fold out in front of you. I'm still staring dreamily into the night as Peter waves over a waiter and quickly pays the check.

"Peter," I say warningly when I re-enter the real world, "We were supposed to split the bill. This place is crazy expensive."

He shrugs, as charming as ever, "I wanted to treat my girl."

xxx

"I want to marry you." Peter says this suddenly into the darkness of the guest bedroom. I was just about to drift off into sleep but suddenly my every nerve is firing. He must feel my alarm because he laughs. I feel the arm draped over me shake with it. "Not now, Covey, but someday."

I smile, relaxed. I'm so gone for him that I couldn't count on myself to say no if he asked, despite the fact that we're both still technically still teenagers. Daddy would have had a heart attack.

"I want to marry you, too," I say back, snuggling closer. And I do. Even when I try really hard, I can't picture myself with anyone aside from Peter Kavinsky. It just never feels right.

"I'll come up with an epic proposal," he says after a while, just when I think he's fallen asleep. "The boys will help me plan it. Kitty, too. None of that hide-a-ring-in-the-champagne-glass crap that guy pulled today. I'll knock your socks off."

"I don't doubt it," I say, then kiss him. It's the lazy kind of kiss that leads nowhere but is just out of genuine love and affection. "I'll be waiting."

"How old were your parents when they got married?" he asks.

Hmm. I have to think a little. "Young, twenty-four. They dated for four years before." If you count the fake-dating, Peter and I have already been together for almost three. "What about yours?"

Peter doesn't like to talk about his parents' story. From what he's said, it goes something like this: they met young, married too early, had him and Owen, it got ugly, and then his Dad bailed. "Mom was twenty-one. She never even finished college because of him. They were high school sweethearts."

"I think we should wait longer," I say, even though, if he asks nicely enough right now, I'd probably do it today. "Like, twenty-fiveish. I can't imagine being a wife at twenty-one."

"Twenty-five," he says experimentally, "I can do that."

More fluff in this one, but since we all know long distance relationships are hard, angst is coming. Also, be prepared for a little John Ambrose McClaren in the next one. Reviews are highly appreciated and great motivation ;), and thanks to everyone who followed/reviewed/favorited!