Peter had always loved the Portland aquarium.
He remembered the times, before the divorce, that his mom and dad had taken him there. They'd bundled both him and Owen into the car and their family had spent the day with their faces pressed against the tank glass, pondering the mysteries of the deep.
His parents had always seemed so happy in a public place, overly attentive to his and Owen's needs and responsive to their relentless chatter. If there was an underlying current of tension Peter remained oblivious. Obviously the watery version of a manufactured environment wasn't the only pretend thing.
Still, he liked it there.
He liked the fake cold, heavy air that weighed you down and felt almost claustrophobic, the salt water chlorine that permeated your pores. He enjoyed peering through the thick, cool glass that magnified a variety of mismatched critters swimming and floating aimlessly together in the huge tanks.
He'd always observed the unbelievably strange creatures, imagining that if he had to describe any of them to someone who'd never seen them, it would be impossible. They all existed as if originating from a nautical horror story.
Stuff from the bottom of the sea, the floor of the ocean, that couldn't possibly be real.
But somehow they werent imaginary. They were present in their glorious technicolor, or with spiny spikes, or maybe, hard shells.
He liked all the tiny creatures, stuff that was microscopic but still important to the ocean ecosystem. It was cool to think that everything worked in tandem, lived in a kind of harmony.
As a guy, a typical jock, maybe he should've preferred the sheer power of the sharks. Ginormous size, insatiable appetite, laser purpose, and a killer instinct. Trevor would've said Peter was a shark - especially on the lacrosse field, with his opponents failing to stop his dominant fast breaks, his ability to score at will. He might even compare Peter to a shark with girls but in reality it was was the opposite. Lara Jean was the only girl he'd ever hunted with the hope of devouring. Ugh, dumb metaphor. But true, because Gen has chased him. Or at least it seemed mutual, equal. With Lara Jean, she was floating and he sinking.
And anyway, Peter liked sharks but preferred the microbes and specks, the seahorses and jellyfish. They were a puzzle and Peter liked solving puzzles.
Just because you didn't understand something - someone - didn't mean they weren't utterly captivating.
Like an octopus. A completely unfathomable creature he and Lara Jean had to dissect in biology the other day. If he was being honest, he'd have to admit Lara Jean did the dissection while he stood and grimaced from a safe distance, protected by the mask covering his mouth and the ability to shut his eyes when he wanted.
Looking at the dead creature in the sterile dish, Peter thought about how he was like an eight armed octopus. He was juggling so many balls in the air with six invisible limbs, too many things, too many responsibilities.
School, lacrosse, Owen and his mom, possibly his dad and a new extended family, Gen and most importantly, Lara Jean. He wished he could juggle all the shit behind his back and keep two arms free, available at all times to wrap around Lara Jean.
He couldn't tell Lara Jean that though. She was all precision and facts. Despite her seemingly flowery nature her scalpel aimed true, skilfully slicing through the rubbery flesh and carefully opened up the three hearts of the squid, exposing the inside of the organs. She sliced through his heart, like a knife through butter.
And then, the indifference of her remarks about John Ambrose's letter, their volunteering together, their idea to open a forgotten time capsule, her nonchalance sliced through his own heart. It couldn't have hurt more, the piercing pain, even if he possessed three hearts, like an octopus.
Because John Ambrose was smart. Smarter than him. As smart as Lara Jean. John Ambrose was weird, like interestingly weird. Much like Lara Jean, with her vintage clothes, and obsessive baking and her solitary nature. She knew that in the 1800's a barber acted as a surgeon, his precision with a blade was superior to a medical doctor. She knew that before electricity was common to homes, ice was supplied in huge blocks by horse and carts. Sure, this knowledge came from historical romance novels but still, she knew stuff. And that's why she was unconcerned about being different, not bothered by popularity. John Ambrose Maclaren and Lara Jean had so much in common.
They had all the words. It was heart bursting, knowing that Lara Jean had thought about him, committed those thoughts, those feelings to paper in a letter. But it was grating that John Ambrose was in possession of her words too. And he wrote back. His clever words. A witty repartee, meaningful conversation formalised on paper to keep. To recall, reread. Those words would've been imprinted on her memory, maybe her heart.
All of their banter, his and Lara Jean's evaporated in the air. Their words drifted out to sea.
And then anyway, his words, Peter's words were just someone else's words. She'd accused him of plagiarism, and he couldn't deny it, even if they actually did encapsulate the depth of how he felt about Lara Jean. If only she knew how all beautiful words, how all the romantic poems reminded him of her because she was beautiful. And she lived in all of his thoughts.
Now, Lara Jean was the octopus, juggling him and John Ambrose and secrets and lies. And he was stuck in a rip, the swirling eddies closing in on him, with the potential of dragging him below the surface, the promise to hold him there and fill his lungs with the salty brine and drown him. The worse part is that he wanted to let it. Being without Lara Jean was like drowning anyway. Being with Lara Jean was like drowning too. She had the deadly luminescence of the jellyfish that bobbed and danced in the tank where she now stood, the haunting hum of the water echoing off the suffocating glass.
"Uh, do you want this back?"
He watched as the precious metal slid through her fingers. He was jealous of the way it nestled against her nape, with the privilege of kissing her skin, of being held against her collar bone, of being wrapped in her hair. Peter wanted her back.
His mouth opened but the words got stuck in his throat.
"Yeah," he managed, "yeah, sure." He turned away, faced with the blue and yellow, the glow of the jellyfish.
Turned towards her again, he watched her struggle with the clasp.
"I can't do it," Lara Jean said. He wasn't sure if she meant she couldn't do it. Or wouldn't do it. Or didn't want to do it.
"Here, let me help," he said, complicit in his own suffering. He might as well as let the undertow take him, a wave swallow him whole.
He let the silky black strands fall over his hands, as he pushed her hair over her shoulder. Forcing the clasp apart, he looked at the two delicate little loops that joined the necklace together. Maybe they were just too thin, not enough, didn't want to be together. He backed away.
Lara Jean turned around and crossed her arms. The warm silver bunched up burning against the chill of his fingers. He backed away, increasing the distance between them. She could throw him a life preserver while the water sent him pitching and heaving but her arms were crossed, hard against themselves. She wouldn't be saving him.
Peter walked away and was pulled to the bottom of the ocean, stung by the poison, unable to breathe. Drowned.