My arms are at my sides so the jets won’t make my skirt fly up. Peter’s holding my face in his hands, kissing me. “Are you okay?” he whispers. His voice is different: it’s ragged and urgent and vulnerable somehow. He doesn’t sound like the Peter I know; he is not smooth or bored or amused. The way he’s looking at me now, I know he would do anything I asked, and that’s a strange and powerful feeling.

“Look,” he says kindly. “I think you’re cute. In a quirky way. But Gen and I just broke up, and I’m not in a place right now where I want to be somebody’s boyfriend. So …”
     My mouth drops. Peter Kavinsky is giving me the brush-off! I don’t even like him, and he’s giving me the brush-off. Also, “quirky”? How am I “quirky”? “Cute in a quirky way” is an insult. A total insult!

#peter, did you even try

bonus: 

Being with Peter was so easy that sometimes I let myself pretend it wasn’t fake.

Peter reaches out and tickles me, and I laugh so hard I almost drop my wand. I dart away from him but he pounces after me, pretend shooting webs at my feet. Giggling, I run away from him, further down the hall, dodging groups of people. He gives chase all the way to chem class. A teacher screams at us to slow down, and we do, but as soon as we’re around the corner, I’m running again and so is he.

I’ve never gotten a love letter before. But reading these notes like this, one after the other, it feels like I have. It’s like … it’s like there’s only ever been Peter. Like everyone else that came before him, they were all to prepare me for this.