“
Yep,
”
she answers him.
“
You
’
re beautiful,
”
my dad says to me.
“
Thanks, Dad.
”
Just then, a knock on the door interrupts our conversation. I walk in front of my dad to answer it, showing off my back.
“
She
’
s got a sweater or something, right? To cover up?
”
he asks my mother.
“
It
’
s unseasonably warm, Jacks. She won
’
t need it.
”
“
What if I just want her to wear it?
”
I shoot him a glance, and am grateful to see Mom making the same face.
“
I
’
m not gonna win this one, huh?
”
“
Nope,
”
my mom and Matty say together.
“
Hi,
”
I say brightly to Jon when I open the front door. He
’
s dressed in a dark suit and wearing a yellow tie. His slightly messy hair is the only physical characteristic that reminds me he
’
s still a teenager. He looks gorgeous. I look beyond him, noticing that a cab waits at the curb.
He lets out a quick sigh as his eyes inspect me from head to toe. My dad clears his throat, likely to get Jon
’
s attention. His eyes meet my father
’
s first, then mine, and then he remembers to hand me the six red carnations he
’
d tied with a ribbon and was clutching tightly in his right hand.
“
Thank you.
”
I stand up a little straighter and run my free hand down my dress nervously. Jon smiles and lets out a little laugh.
“
You ready to go?
”
he asks, and I
’
m a little surprised he doesn
’
t have more to say about the dress, or my curly hair, or the shoes.
“
Yeah, sure.
”
I turn around and hand my mother the flowers.
“
Thank you, Jack, Emi. I should have her home by midnight,
”
Jon says.
“
Make it ten-thirty and we
’
ve got a deal,
”
my dad counters.
“
Can
’
t blame a guy for trying,
”
Jon says through nervous laughter.
“
Ten-thirty it is, sir.
”
“
You
’
ve got your phone, Contessa?
”
“
Dad!
”
I correct him.
“
Livvy, sorry. But you
’
ve got it?
”
“
Yes, Dad.
”
“
Well, you two have a good time. She
’
s allergic to horseradish.
”
I turn around and glare at him.
“
I can speak for myself.
”
“
You
’
re right, Livvy. My apologies.
”
His smile is sweet and contrite.
“
See you at ten-thirty.
”
“
Sorry my dad
’
s so overprotective,
”
I tell Jon after we both get into the cab. He had held the door open and helped me in.
“
If your dad was truly overprotective, Liv, he wouldn
’
t have let you leave the house in that dress.
”
“
What do you mean?
”
“
Don
’
t act like you don
’
t know how hot you look in that dress.
”
I bite my lip to hold back my smile.
“
Yeah, you know. I don
’
t think I
’
ve ever seen you in a dress before.
”
“
You haven
’
t. I hate wearing them.
”
“
I wish you didn
’
t. If I had my choice, you
’
d never cover up your legs again.
”
He brushes the back of his hand over my knee quickly.
“
Well, maybe I
’
ll start wearing them more often.
”
“
Okay,
”
he whispers, taking a strand of my hair and wrapping it around his finger. He keeps letting it fall loosely, and repeating the motion.
“
Are you curious about where we
’
re going?
”
“
I am.
”
“
So your mom kept the secret?
”
“
I guess so. No one told me.
”
“
We
’
re going to this restaurant called One if By Land, Two if By Sea.
”
“
That sounds familiar,
”
I tell him.
“
The restaurant? Or the saying?
”
“
I
’
m not sure.
”
“
Well,
”
he says.
“
Do you know where the saying comes from? Think history class.
”
“
I
’
m thinking it has something to do with lanterns. Oh, yeah, I remember. It was a warning about the British Army. There was supposed to be one lantern if the Brits were approaching by land, and two lanterns if they were coming by boat. Is that right?
”
“
Pretty good,
”
Jon says.
“
The phrase is actually from a Longfellow poem called
‘
Paul Revere
’
s Ride,
’
And yes, you
’
re exactly right about the lanterns. Good memory.
”
“
Thanks,
”
I tell him.
“
One if by land, and two if by sea / And I on the opposite shore will be / Ready to ride and spread the alarm / Through every Middlesex village and farm / For the country-folk to be up and to arm,
”
he says to me slowly.
“
I love history. And I love poetry. And I especially love it when the two converge.
”
“
I suck at history,
”
I confess.
“
But poetry, yeah. I love it.
”
“
Who
’
s your favorite poet?
”
“
I don
’
t know,
”
I say, embarrassed.
“
I like Shakespeare
’
s poems, at least the ones I understand.
”
“
Shakespeare, of course. But who doesn
’
t love Shakespeare? Who else?
”
“
I don
’
t guess I have favorites. I just hear poems and like them,
”
I tell him with a shrug.
“
I read a poem the other day that reminded me of you. It
’
s called Novel, by a man named Arthur Rimbaud. I
’
ll have to show it to you sometime.
”
The cab pulls up to a brick building and stops. The sign on the restaurant is lit only by a dim streetlamp. Jon asks me to wait as he gets out of the taxi and walks around to my side to help me out. He hands the driver his fare and closes the door.
On the sidewalk, he takes my hand and whispers in my ear,
“
And when a young girl walks alluringly / Through a streetlamp
’
s pale light, beneath the ominous shadow / Of her father
’
s starched collar...
”
He stops and smiles at me.
“
Because as she passes by, boot heels tapping / She turns on a dime, eyes wide / Finding you too sweet to resist...
“
Anyway, that
’
s the part that really stood out to me. There
’
s another line about a quivering kiss,
”
he says with a blush.
“
It just seems romantic to me. And it reminds me of you.
”
“
Quivering kiss, huh?
”
I ask him. He looks at me sideways and grins, pulling the door to the restaurant open and ushering me inside.
“
Whoa.
”
The location he
’
s picked for our first date is amazing. I
’
ve been to my share of nice restaurants with my family, but none as beautiful and
romantic
as this one. A single, red rose adorns the middle of each table, alit by soft candles that flank each side. Rich brown and red furnishings surround crisp, white tablecloths. Chandeliers dangle from the ceiling, perfectly placed to highlight the paintings hanging on the brick walls.
Immediately, I know this is somewhere I could see my parents frequenting, but I feel certain Jon
’
s never been here, nor to any place remotely like this.
Jon holds my hand tightly, and I can tell that he
’
s suddenly nervous. I
’
ve never seen him this way.
“
Can I help you?
”
a hostess asks us quietly.
He clears his throat.
“
We have reservations under the name Jonathan Scott.
”
“
Of course, sir. Miss Holland,
”
she says to me, catching me off guard.
“
Yes?
”
“
Good evening,
”
she says simply as Jon and I exchange curious looks.
“
I think, uh...
”
she begins as she signals to a man across the room,
“
that they
’
re working on your table. If you
’
d like to wait in the bar–wait, no.
”
She laughs uncomfortably.
“
You
’
re not old enough to be in a bar,
”
she adds.
“
Here.
”
She leads us over to a cushioned bench, telling us it will only be another minute or two.
“
You
’
re famous,
”
Jon says, looking surprised.
“
They don
’
t know me.
”
And no sooner do the words come out of my mouth do I hear the hostess speaking softly into a microphone attached to her collar. She holds her hand to her ear.
“
It
’
s Livvy Holland. Yes! I
’
m sure of it,
”
she says.
“
You can
’
t seat them in the back. No way.
”
She looks over her shoulder, back at us. Jon waves at her, startling her and causing her to turn back around quickly.
“
It
’
s not like I told them who my date was going to be,
”
he whispers.
“
Okay,
”
I say, letting all the air escape from my lungs.
“
This is weird.
”
“
This isn
’
t typical?
”
“
It
’
s typical when Dad
’
s around, yeah, but it
’
s just me.
”