Mary Jane left the graveyard with a wounded heart and an inkling of suspicion.
As she trudged back to the car, blades of damp grass tickling her ankles, she couldn't quite manage to let her hand drop to her side. She kept her fingers close to her mouth, tracing the shape of her lips, trying to preserve the warm brush of Peter's lips against hers so that she might be able to figure out why their first kiss felt so familiar. It didn't make any sense. Though she'd started to see the sweet, gangly boy next door in a new light, she only just admitted that she loved him. And she'd definitely never kissed him before.
Still, the sense of deja vu lingered. And she went on pressing her hand to her mouth and looked up at the blue sky with the oddest flare of irritation. The clear weather seemed suddenly wrong somehow. Mary Jane thought it ought to have been pouring rain.