Elshaday Assefa

“I’m surprised you even remember that day. You were so into Kavinsky, I don’t think you even noticed who else was there.”
I push him in the shoulder. “I was not ‘so into Kavinsky’!”
“Yes you were. You kept your eyes on that bottle the whole game, like this.” John picks up the bottle and lasers his eyes at it. “Waiting for your moment.”
I’m bright red, I know I am. “Oh, be quiet.”
Laughing, he says, “Like a hawk on its prey.”
“Shut up!” Now I’m laughing too. “How do you even remember that?”
“Because I was doing the same thing,” he says.
“You were staring at Peter too?” I say it like a joke, to tease, because this is fun. For the first time in days I’m having fun.
He looks right at me, navy-blue eyes sure and steady, and my breath catches in my chest. “No. I was looking at you.”
There’s a humming in my ears, and it’s the sound of my heart beating in triple measure. In memory, everything seems to happen to music. One of my favorite lines from The Glass Menagerie. If I close my eyes I can almost hear it, that day in John Ambrose McClaren’s basement. Years from now, when I look back on this moment, what music will I hear then?
His eyes hold mine, and I feel a flutter that starts in my throat and moves across my collarbone and chest. “I like you, Lara Jean. I liked you then and I like you even more now. I know you and Kavinsky just broke up, and you’re still sad, but I just want to make it unequivocally clear.”
“Um…okay,” I whisper. His words--they come clearly; they don’t miss in either direction. Not even a trace of a stutter. Just--unequivocally clear.”
― Jenny Han, P.S. I Still Love You