P.S. I Still Love You

So we lie down, my back to his chest, him curved around me, his arms slung around mine. He snuggles his chin into the hollow between my neck and my shoulder. It might be my favorite thing we’ve ever done. I like it so much I have to keep reminding myself to be vigilant that we don’t fall asleep. I want to close my eyes but I keep them trained on my clock.
“Spooning’s the freaking best,” he sighs, and I wish he didn’t say it, because it makes me think of how many times he must have held Genevieve just like this.
At the fifteen-minute mark, I sit up so fast he jumps. I clap him on the shoulder. “Time to go, buddy.”
His mouth falls into a sulk. “Come on, Covey!”
I shake my head, resolute.
If you hadn’t made me think of Genevieve, I would’ve given you five minutes more.
After I send Peter off with a bag of cookies, I lie back down and close my eyes and imagine his arms are still around me, and that’s how I fall asleep.
 11 
I GO TO JANETTE’S OFFICE at Belleview the next day, armed with my notebook and my pen. “I had an idea for a craft class. ‘Scrapbooking to the Oldies.’” Janette nods at me and I continue. “I can teach the residents how to scrapbook, and we’ll go through all their old photos and mementos and listen to oldies.”
“That sounds great,” she says.
“So I could run that class and also I could take on Friday night cocktail hour?”
Janette takes a bite of her tuna-fish sandwich and swallows. “We might cut the cocktail hour altogether.”
“Cut it?” I repeat in disbelief.
She shrugs. “Attendance has been waning ever since we started offering a computer class. The residents have figured out Netflix. It’s a whole new world out there.”
“What if we made it more of an event? Like, more special?”
“We don’t really have the budget for anything fancy, Lara Jean. I’m sure Margot’s told you how we have to make do around here. Our budget’s tiny.”
“No, no, it could be really DIY stuff. Just simple little touches will make all the difference. Like we could make a jacket mandatory for the men. And couldn’t we borrow glassware from the dining room instead of using plastic cups?” Janette is still listening, so I keep on going. “Why serve peanuts right out of the can, when we can put them in a nice bowl, right?”
“Peanuts taste like peanuts no matter the receptacle.”
“They’d taste more elegant served out of a crystal bowl.”
I’ve said too much. Janette is thinking this all sounds like too much trouble, I can tell. She says, “We don’t have crystal bowls, Lara Jean.”
“I’m sure I can scrounge one up at home,” I assure her.
“It sounds like a lot of work for every Friday night.”
“Well—maybe it could just be once a month. That would make it feel even more special. Why don’t we take a little hiatus and bring it back in full force in a month or so?” I suggest. “We can give people a chance to miss it. Build the anticipation and then really do it right.” Janette nods a begrudging nod, and before she can change her mind I say, “Think of me as your assistant, Janette. Leave it all to me. I’ll take care of everything.”
She shrugs. “Have at it.”
 
 
Chris and I are hanging out in my room that afternoon when Peter calls. “I’m driving by your house,” he says. “Wanna do something?”
“No!” Chris shouts into the phone. “She’s busy.”
He groans into my ear.
“Sorry,” I tell him. “Chris is over.”
He says he’ll call me later, and I’ve barely set down the phone when Chris grouses, “Please don’t become one of those girls who gets in a relationship and goes MIA.”
I’m very familiar with “those girls,” because Chris disappears every time she meets a new guy. Before I can remind her of this, she goes on. “And don’t be one of those lax groupies either. I fucking hate those groupies. Like, can’t they find a better thing to be a groupie for? Like a band? Oh my God, I would be so good at being a groupie for an actual, important band. Like being a muse, you know?”
“What happened to that idea about you starting your own band?”
Chris shrugs. “The guy who plays bass fucked up his hand skateboarding and then nobody felt like it anymore. Hey, do you want to drive to DC tomorrow night and see this band Felt Tip? Frank’s borrowing his dad’s van, so there’s probably room.”
I have no idea who Frank is, and Chris has probably only known him for all of two minutes. She always says people’s names like I should already know who they are. “I can’t—tomorrow’s a school night.”
She makes a face. “See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’re already becoming one of ‘those girls.’”
“That has nothing to do with it, Chris. A, my dad would never let me go to DC on a school night. B, I don’t know who Frank is, and I’m not riding in the back of his van. C, I have a feeling Felt Tip is not my kind of music. Is it my kind of music?”
“No,” she admits. “Fine, but the next thing I ask you to do, you have to say yes. None of this A-B-C ‘here are all of the reasons why’ bullshit.”
“All right,” I agree, though my stomach does a little lurch, because with Chris you never know what you’re getting yourself into. Though, also knowing Chris, she’s already forgotten about it.
We settle onto the floor and get down to the business of manis. Chris grabs one of my gold nail pens and starts painting tiny stars on her thumbnail. I’m doing a lavender base and dark purple flowers with marigold centers. “Chris, will you do my initials on my right hand?” I hold up my hand for her. “Starting with the ring finger down to my thumb. LJSC.”
“Fancy font or basic?”
I give her a look. “Come on. Who are you talking to here?” At the same time we both say, “Fancy.”
Chris is good with doing script. So good, in fact, that as I’m admiring her handiwork, I say, “Hey, I have an idea. What if we started doing manicures at Belleview? The residents would love that.”
“For how much?”
“For free! You could think of it like community service but not mandatory. Out of the goodness of your heart. Some of the residents can’t cut their own nails very well. Their hands get really gnarled. Toes, too. The nails get thick and . . .” I trail off when I see the disgusted look on her face. “Maybe we could have a tip jar.”
“I’m not going to cut old people’s toenails for free. I’m not doing it for less than fifty bucks a set at the very least. I’ve seen my grandpa’s feet; his toenails are like eagle talons.” She gets back to my thumb, giving me a beautiful cursive C with a flourish. “Done. God, I’m good.” She throws her head back and yells, “Kitty! Get your booty in here!”
Kitty comes running into my room. “What? I was in the middle of something.”
“‘I was in the middle of something,’” Chris mimics. “If you go get me a Diet Coke, I’ll do your nails for you like I did Lara Jean’s.” I display my hands lavishly like a hand model. Chris counts with her fingers. “Kitty Covey fits perfectly.”
Kitty bounds off, and I call after her, “Bring me a soda too!”
“With ice!” Chris screams. Then she sighs a wistful sigh. “I wish I had a little sister. I would be amazing at bossing her around.”
“Kitty doesn’t usually listen so well. It’s only because she looks up to you.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” Chris picks at a fuzzy on her sock, smiling to herself.
Kitty used to look up to Genevieve, too. She was sort of in awe of her. “Hey,” I say suddenly. “How’s your grandma?”
“She’s all right. She’s pretty tough.”
“And how’s . . . the rest of your family? Everything all right?”
Chris shrugs. “Sure. Everything’s fine.”
Hmm. If Chris doesn’t know, how bad could things be with Genevieve’s family? Either not that bad or, more likely, just another one of Genevieve’s deceptions. Even when we were little she lied a lot, whether it was to get out of trouble with her mom, in which case she’d blame me, or to gain sympathy from adults.