Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
ONE OF THE PERKS OF GROWING UP in a small town is that I know where everyone lives. And I know that Peter lives in the Choes’ old house.
I pull up and park my car on the street.
There’s a light on downstairs, but it looks like the lights upstairs are off.
My mom used to go to Mrs. Choe’s book club, and a few times she couldn’t find a babysitter so she just took me and Jules with her and let us play upstairs.
I remember the layout pretty well, and there’s only one primary bedroom and one other room, so I know which window has to be Peter’s.
The curtains are drawn though, so I can’t tell if the lights are on or if he’s in there or what.
I look at the glowing green clock on the dashboard.
It’s 8:45 p.m. What is he doing? Is he out?
Is he, like … watching TV downstairs with his actual parents?
I can’t imagine. Actually, I kind of can.
I can just see him there with his tall parents all squished together on a sofa, laughing and rooting for the underdog on Dancing with the Stars.
He’s probably just reading in his room, with the curtains drawn to really set the mood for Dostoyevsky and his highlighters.
SYD_IS_NOT_HERE: Hey so I’m here
SYD_IS_NOT_HERE: Like at your house
SYD_IS_NOT_HERE: Can you come out?
Once again, nothing. I don’t know why I thought being in closer proximity would somehow make him decide to answer my messages. But really, this is getting fucking ridiculous.
I climb out of the truck and walk up to the house.
And realize I don’t have a plan.
I could just go to the door and ring the bell. But then I’d have to talk to his parents and fuck that.
So, the options left are: Go home (no thanks), sit in the car like a stalker and continue sending him thirsty DMs (also no thanks), or go full ’80s movie and, like, throw shit at his window?
I’m gonna do the last thing.
I move to the side of the house, under Peter’s window.
Mrs. Choe was absolutely feral about her rose garden, and I guess Peter’s parents are keeping it up pretty well because there’s not so much as a random stick lying around.
So I just … grab a fistful of mulch and chuck it up at his window.
Dirt and debris rain back down on my face and hair and into my mouth. Well, that was fucking stupid.
And yet I still don’t have another option.
I pick up another fistful and throw it again—this time making sure to duck away from the falling remnants. A couple of pieces hit his window. I wait for him to open it and stick his head out.
He doesn’t.
I throw more mulch.
I throw five more handfuls until I’m starting to get properly fucking pissed off.
“Um, hello?”
I freeze, mid-throw, and turn around to see the porch light on and the shadow of a woman in the doorway.
Oh shit, it’s Peter’s mom.
“Oh. I was just … uh …” I briefly consider throwing myself to the mercy of the rose thorns, but instead I wipe my dirty hands on my leggings and walk toward the light.
“You were just throwing dirt at my son’s window?”
“Um. Yes. Technically yes. That’s what I was doing.”
Peter’s mom is shockingly tiny. And blond.
She’s got thin little bangs and a glass of red wine in one hand and a book in the other.
She’s wearing pajamas, but, like, fancy pajamas.
The kind with a collar and buttons that look nice and silky and posh but also like they suck to actually sleep in. That’s a special kind of bougie.
I wait for her to say something to set me free and put me out of my misery, but she just stands there looking at me. She takes a sip of her wine and cocks her head. “You’re very cute.”
“Oh. Um. Thank you. There’s a lot of dirt on my head.”
“I can see that.”
“Mom?” Peter walks down the stairs toward the door, his expression slightly shocked when he sees it’s me.
“Oh, hey.” He’s wearing a white shirt and blue-and-gray-checkered boxers and his hair is kind of rumpled and he’s got on these round gold glasses that make him look like a teenage professor who just pulled an all-nighter, and it is taking quite a lot of effort on my part to keep my face neutral in front of his mother, who is currently making zero attempts to pretend she’s not looking back and forth between the two of us.
“Were you sleeping?” I ask.
Peter runs his hands over his disheveled hair in an unsuccessful effort to get his waves to lie back down. “Kinda.”
“It’s not even nine.”
“Well,” Peter’s mom says, “sleep is very important for Peter bec—”
“Mom.” He shoots his mother a look. “I don’t think we need to discuss my sleeping habits with Sydney.”
“Right.” She takes another sip of her wine, staining her lips just slightly red. “Why don’t you invite the girl in, for god’s sake, Peter?”
“Right. Sorry. Do you want to come in?”
“I guess. I mean, yes, thank you.” I smile at Peter’s mom.
She seems kind of weird and a little unhinged, to be honest, but I also like her.
She looks like she could fuck someone up.
I mean, not physically. She’s like the size of a fairy.
But I feel like she could, like, eviscerate someone at a school board meeting.
Peter nods and gestures for me to follow him upstairs to his room.
I give his mom a tragically awkward smile before trailing after him up the stairs.
He holds the door to his room for me, and I slip inside under his arm, way too aware of the fact he’s still technically in his underwear.
Peter’s room is … a room. I don’t know why I was thinking it’d give me some secret insight into a hidden side of him or something.
Like I’d walk in and discover a soccer poster on his wall or, like, a bunch of thimbles he’d collected, I don’t know.
But it’s just plain white walls and boxes (mostly filled with books) that he hasn’t gotten around to unpacking yet.
In fact, his “nightstand” is just a tower of books with a water glass on it.
“I love what you’ve done with the place. It’s very ‘divorced dad who gets the kids every other weekend and can’t cook anything besides ramen.’”
“Hey!” Peter says. “I give those kids the time of their lives Friday night through Sunday morning.” He laughs.
“I know it’s kind of tragic in here. My mom keeps threatening to take me to the IKEA in Brooklyn but …
we just haven’t had time, I guess.” He gives me a sheepish shrug and pushes his gold glasses up his nose, and Christ I was not aware this guy could look more wholesome than he usually does but this whole spectacled pj-clad thing is taking it to another level.
He looks like how ChatGPT would describe “the boy next door.”
I clear my throat. “Mrs. Choe used it as her sewing room.”
“No one actually has a sewing room. Sewing rooms are just metaphors for empty nesters.”
“No, I swear to god. She used to make all the new babies in town these cute little red mittens. It was a whole thing.”
“Oh. Cool.”
So, this is going very well. Very natural. Very normal.
An awkward silence stretches out between us and I wish he had some, like, Little League pictures hanging up that I could make fun of, but there is literally nothing in this room to work with. “Listen. I’m sorry I just showed up here but—”
“No, I’m glad you did. I wanted to talk to you anyway.”
“Really? Then why did you leave me on read like that?”
“What do you mean? I didn’t …” Peter grabs his phone off his bed and swipes up. “I see. That’s … a lot of messages.” A grin slides onto his face and he doesn’t even have the courtesy to hide it.
“Oh my god, get over yourself. It’s like two messages.”
“It’s eight, actually. Plus the stalking and the mulch-throwing—you still have a little dirt on your cheek by the way, and—”
“Okay, okay. Christ. Whatever. How was I supposed to know you have a geriatric bedtime?”
“Sleep hygiene is crucial for maximizing your brain’s potential.”
“Boring.”
“It’s actually pretty interes—”
“If you start waxing philosophical about the joy of peer-reviewed journals, I’m actually going to throw myself out your window.”
“Really? After how hard you tried to get up here?” Peter’s eyes crinkle in this totally self-delighted sort of way and I can feel my neck heating up and I hate both myself and him for it.
“I did want to talk to you too, though,” Peter says, his face going serious again. “About earlier. I’m sorry. I feel like maybe I pushed you somehow? And I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to make a shitty thing worse for you. In fact, that’s like the last thing in the world I’d want to do.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.” Peter lets out a breath and drags his fingers through his hair, which makes his bed head look even more ridiculous and honestly fucking adorable, which is so annoying.
“Look. You’re dealing with something big.
Something no one else is dealing with and I don’t want to, like, come in and make things more complicated.
It’s just … sometimes when I’m around you … ”
He looks down at me through his smudged glasses, his green eyes open and shining, and I can feel the thing he’s about to say hanging between us. He takes the smallest step toward me.
I am in Peter Beckett’s room. And it is a school night. And the moon is filtering through his curtains. And his bedsheets are all crumpled up, and I can see the little dent where his head was on his pillow. And he smells like soap. And he is in his underwear.
“Sydney, I—”
“I want to give people hot dogs!”