by A. M. Hooper
****
"It's open!" I called from my bedroom.
Rushing down the hall, I paused to look in the full length mirror before walking down the steps. I gazed into my own eyes, admiring the dark makeup around my lashes. It wasn't often I got dressed up, especially lately—no need to. I tugged at the hem of my dress; it was shorter than I usually wore. Oh, why did I listen to my dad? Pushing a curl back into place, I descended the stairs slowly. I counted the steps in an effort to stop my heart from beating so quickly. Cephas had to hear its obnoxious thumping. I still couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that my dad was letting me see Cepahs again. Surely I would have found a way anyway, but still . . . I stopped abruptly, glimpsing Cephas in the foyer. He turned at the click of my heals and raised his eyebrows. Nervous chills tingled my arms as I noticed his eyes traveling the length of my body. The moment couldn’t have lasted more than a split second, but it felt like an eternity. I noticed his tux, too. It was black—deep black—to match my dress. Barely visible white pin stripes ran the length of the suit, drawing one's attention to the shape of his muscles. He looked uncomfortable, but not because of the suit. He was made to wear a suit, the way the sleeves cuffed at his wrists, the way his shoulders filled the jacket. I was caught out of my observations as Cephas moved to button his jacket, and I looked at his face, embarrassed to see he had noticed my awestruck observations. I could tell by that smirk that always seemed to appear when he looked at me.
"My dad said to dress nice. I hope this is okay. I didn't know what—"
"I’ve never seen you look like this before," he interrupted.
“Like what?” I asked, nervous I had done something wrong. It wasn’t often I wore a nice dress and spent hours on my hair.
“All dolled up and—well—you always look gorgeous, but . . . wow.” He cleared his throat, then regained his wit.
"Shall we?" He held out his arm and I took it, clutching a handbag in my other hand. Had I just made the oh-so-brilliant Cephas stammer? I felt a smirk, of either self—satisfaction at my victory or pure ecstasy at his comment, grow into a smile across my face as he led me out the door and down the walkway, clicking a button to open the door to his Lamborghini.
"I still can't believe you have this car," I commented. It was all so surreal; this couldn't be happening to me.
"Yeah, well, only the best for the best," he replied with a smirk. Helping me into the opening, I slid into the seat and he shut the door—or rather, it shut itself. He slid in the other side and put the car in drive.
"Were you referring to me or yourself?" I asked sarcastically. The left corner of his mouth twitched upward. His cocky attitude was slightly endearing, considering I knew that, while he was confident in himself, didn’t seem to be a jerk like Chase. We cruised down the highway at rapid speeds.
“So listen, I've been thinking. Maybe your dad should go on the senior trip.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “How would that be any fun? Parents are not supposed to go on your senior trip!” Was he going insane?
“Well, he's not so bad. He did let me go on a date with you.”
“So! I would have found a way to go on a date with you anyway.” I folded my arms out of habit. Cephas was silent for a moment, smirking again in his seat.
“You would've, huh?” he muttered, seemingly entertained. “Look, I just want to get on your dad's good side, and I think he would feel better if he was on the trip . . . because I'm going, too.”
“Why do you want to be on his good side?” I pried. He smiled and kept his eyes on the road.
"So where are we going?" I asked my non-responsive date.
"Well, I had about two hours’ notice, so I wouldn't expect too much, but I did what I could. We're just going go to dinner at this little place in town. It's called La Caille. And we'll see how it goes from there."
His motions were smooth as he touched the wheel slightly, maneuvering around a slow driver. Muscles flexed in his jaw as he bit down, his eyes darting from the windshield, to the mirror, to the side window. I had never met anyone like him before: so intense, yet so calming. We pulled into a parking spot—much quicker than I had expected.
"How did you get a reservation at this place?" I asked before we got out. "I've heard people say it takes weeks to get a reservation here."
"So you've never been here before?" he asked, more affirming than asking.
"No, my dad took my mom once, but nobody's ever taken me. It's not exactly the kind of place you go to with a group of friends. It's definitely a romantic kind of restaurant."
"Good," he smiled, stepping through the door and coming around to open mine.
"You're always so chivalrous," I commented. "Why is that?"
"You sure ask the weirdest questions." He shook his head. "Don't most men open doors for women?"
I laughed. "Where have you been living? Although, most teenagers don't take a date to La Caille."
"Would you rather go somewhere else?" he asked, apparently worried. I laughed.
"Oh, no. This is great. My last boyfriend took me to Phillipo's Bar for our anniversary." Cephas was silent.
"Not that I'm saying you're my boyfriend! I—I mean." Oh, great. He probably thought I was a freak. Now I was stuttering. I never thought before I spoke. Cephas offered his arm, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.
"Come on, our dinner reservation is at seven fifteen." I followed his warm voice into the building. I would follow that inviting tone anywhere, which usually infuriated me, but right now I didn't mind. Two doormen in flawless tuxedos opened two ornate, ivory, French doors, gesturing inside as we walked past them. A host asked for our name, and he and Cephas had a brief conversation in low voices. Light colored marble clicked gently beneath my heals, and vibrant beige walls captured the yellow glow of candlelight. Oversized columns stood to the ceiling, vines wrapping upward. My eyes followed their trail to meet a starry sky, blocked only by the atrium glass. I felt a tug at my arm and I followed Cephas; people stared as we walked by. Cephas was so mesmerizing, especially in a tuxedo. He held his head high and floated through the room with ease, as if such an evening was commonplace. Seating us at a private table, the host placed a menu in front of Cephas and left us alone. I watched Cephas glance over the menu a moment, his sapphire eyes glowing in the candle light from our table. Rose petals littered the green tablecloth.
"You know, I never pinned you for a high class, luxury diner." I smiled at his raised brows as he looked up from his inspection. He looked back at the menu and commented while he perused its contents.
"Well, the whole basketball player thing is just my cover," he said, a sly smile on his face.
"Cover? For what?"
"Well, if everybody knew how dashing I was, how could I keep the women off of me?" He was looking me in the eye now, his mischievous grin lurking behind the menu.
"Yes, that would be a problem, wouldn't it?" I observed him a moment longer.
"You remind me of James Bond," I jested. "I hope our dinner doesn't get ruined by somebody trying to kill us."
"Let's hope not," he responded, though he looked a little serious.
"Don't I get to look at the menu?" I asked. I thought it odd that the host hadn't left me a menu.
"Not unless you can read French."
"Can you?"
"Yes."
"Where on earth did you learn French?"
"France."
"Well, then, how did my dad order when he came here?"
"Perhaps he knows French," he suggested, neatly folding the menu in front of him.
"I think I would know if my dad knew French," I replied, rolling my eyes.
"Would you?" He looked skeptical.
"Of course!"
Cephas laughed. "Well, maybe he just pointed to something and hoped it would taste good." His eyes were soft and inviting. I returned a smile and the waiter approached our table. He exchanged a few words with Cephas, seemingly trying to persuade him of something. After a moment, he
retrieved the menu and walked away with a large, customer service smile.
"What was that about?" I asked, feeling awkward that I was the only person who didn't speak French.
"Oh, he was just disappointed we weren't getting any wine." He laughed and took a drink of water.
"So what are we eating, then?" I asked.
"It's a surprise," he stated. "I do believe we were last talking about what you were going to do when you grow up."
"Right, and about how you need to pick a new career," I put in, sitting back in my chair. A waiter brought a bottle of something and filled our glasses, then set a plate in front of each of us. Cephas nodded to the waiter and continued.
"So you think I'd be a pretty terrible CIA agent, huh?"
"Oh, I bet if I wasn't around to distract you, you might do a little better." I took a bite of my salad and he mumbled something under his breath.
"So what are you doing to become a reporter?"
"Well, I'm going to college to study journalism, but I'll probably drop that major and pick something more realistic."
"Why?" he asked. I looked up at him, puzzled at his question.
“What do you mean why?”
"I think that if you want to do something, you should do it. Do you think you could be a reporter?"
"Maybe."
"Then do it."
"It's not that simple. You talk about decisions as if they're so simple to make." He stared at me, studying my face. I looked away and cleared my throat.
"I'm sorry,” he interjected. “You seem capable of great things. You've already done so much, and you still don't have very much confidence in your abilities.”
“And what have I done that’s so great?” I asked, daring him to come up with an example.
“You dumped your boyfriend—that took courage,” he replied instantly.
“Yeah, but you gave me the confidence to do that,” I responded. I never could have done that on my own.
“Maybe that’s all you need: someone to remind you of your capabilities every now and then.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” I said. “Who’s going to do that?”
Cephas’ eyes softened and he locked my gaze. There was that feeling again; I still wasn’t used to the power Cephas had over my emotions, but I secretly wished he could be the person he suggested I find . . . and then I shrugged off the ludicrous idea.
“If you get the proper training, and you have talent, you can do anything. What's holding you back?" he whispered. I stared in ill-mannered amazement, unsure of how to respond and somewhat unwilling to reveal too much. Yet, those eyes were so persuasive . . . I bit my lower lip and observed his eyes.
"I don't know about you, but I think this salad is amazing! And I don't even like salad,” he offered, changing the subject. He pushed the green leaves around with a fork.
"Me neither. But you're right, this is really good," I agreed. He put his fork on the table.
"A girl who doesn't like salad—that's preposterous." He looked like such a thing was unfathomable. I let out a sigh to release my anxiety.
"Crazy, I know." He smirked in response and the waiter came by to clear our plates and place some bread on the edge of the table. He said something in French and took his leave.
"He said it'll be about ten minutes till dinner." He paused and stared at me. "Do you know how to dance?" he asked. I looked at him in disbelief.
"I don't know if I should be offended by that question or not," I jested. "What girl doesn't know how to dance? As long as she can follow, she can dance."
"So she can follow?" He stood and offered his hand. I could feel petulance rising in my chest. I stood, not taking his hand. He stepped back.
"Are you sure you can follow?" He smirked and re-offered his hand. I glared before placing my small hand in his rather large one. He guided me onto the dance floor, positioning his arm on the small of my back and taking my right hand in his. I held my elbow up and he smiled, pleasantly surprised. He began moving me across the floor to the violin music, guiding me this way and that. I nearly closed my eyes. It was such a dream, twirling around and around. After a few minutes, we were twirling so very much I was afraid I would get sick. The music finally slowed and Cephas pulled me closer, placing both of my hands around his neck. He face was beside mine, and he held the intimate position, moving his feet back and forth. I wanted to fall helplessly into his arms and let him whisk me away to some intangible, blissful state. I imagined I could stay in his arms forever, pushing away the reality that Cephas had limitless options where love was concerned. Not to mention, he’d likely return home in two weeks once we graduated anyway. I scoffed silently. This was stupid! How could I be in love with someone I barely knew? When would I get over my stupid, stupid, whimsical daydreams?
"You know, I don't much care for that other kind of dancing," Cephas whispered in my ear. That's how close his face was to mine. I tried to focus on dancing instead of my daydreams.
"But you're so good at it," I replied. "Isn't that what makes you like something?"
"Mmm, no. This dance has more feeling." He pulled my body closer to his, still moving his feet back and forth, back and forth. I resisted a sudden urge to run my fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck.
"But girls are more impressed with the other kind of dancing."
"They may be more impressed, but that type of dancing won't win them over," he countered.
"Oh, really?"
"No. Girls think they want romance, but what they're really searching for is sincerity, or rather, security."
"Isn't that what men want?"
"No, that's what men give—well, what they're supposed to give."
"How do you know?"
"All of this—the dinner, the dancing, the French, romantic atmosphere—you would be indifferent to all of it unless you were partial to me." I could sense the corner of his mouth twitching upward into a smirk.
"It might make me like you more," I suggested, intent on proving him wrong.
"But if you didn't already prefer me, all of the fluff—or romance, whichever you choose to call it—would never have the power to persuade you. It's something else." I pulled my head away and looked up into his eyes. I tilted my head and thought a moment. I regained my previous position against his chest. He must love the persuasive power he had over women.
"Your eyes—those are persuasive," I said, looking straight in front of me but picturing the chaotic sea color his eyes became when he looked at me.
"Only because you like what they say."
"What do they say?" I whispered. His thumbs caressed my lower back, his voice silent.
"More than they ought to say," he mumbled. His feet had stopped moving now. We stood still and I felt his freshly shaven cheek rub against mine. I took a deep breath, taking in the scent of his fresh cologne. He stepped away suddenly, twirling me softly between his arms and dipping me low. A smile had reappeared on his face. There he is.
"Dinner's ready," he stated, pulling me up out of the dip and steadying my dizzy body before guiding me back to the table. We sat down to our meal, talking about trivial things while we ate, laughing and smiling all the while. We talked about school, favorites, and childhood memories. Our conversation was lighthearted: it was perfect.
"So, the snake had latched onto my finger, and my friends were all yelling and freaking out." Cephas was laughing hysterically, and I was almost crying from laughing so hard.
"What did you do?" I asked energetically.
"I shook my hand until it flung off, and I ran into the house, crying."
"You cried?" I asked, disbelief on my face.
"I was four!” His hands were flying through the air, drawing a picture of the incident. "So I ran into the house, and my mom rushed me to the hospital. It was only a garter snake, so it wasn't venomous, but my mother was frantic! Everything turned out alright. But then I came home, and I found out my friends had stoned the snake to death! I was so upset, I cried for
days. They said they were just protecting me, but I loved animals so much when I was little!"
"Even though it bit you?"
"I just came into its life and disturbed it! I would have bit me too." He swirled the liquid in his glass, a smile stamped across his face. He chuckled to himself, staring into his cup. His expression was nostalgic as he sobered at the memory.
"She cared about me so much. She would drop everything for me, no matter the occasion."
"My mom was like that too. This one time she—I was—one day at school—" I felt tears coming on. My throat wasn't clear, and it was hard to swallow. My eyes got misty and I opened my eyes wide, trying to dispel the tears. I tried again: "I got home late and—I couldn't—" I sniffed at my stupid tears. Not now. Why did it have to be now? I shook my head and put my fingers to my head. "I'm sorry, Cephas—I can't—" Looking up, I glimpsed Cephas’ uneasy expression as he motioned for the check. He must hate it when girls cry. Oh, why, why, why did I have to screw up this perfect evening?
"You know what, I remember a promise I made to you, and I think it's time I kept it." I looked up through a few tears.
"What's that?"
"My car is just dying to show you what it can do."
A man walked briskly over to our table; he wasn't our previous waiter. Long, jet-black sideburns accentuated sunken eyes and fair skin. His tailored suit matched perfectly set hair, his persona screamed money, more so than the waiters with towels over their arms. Perhaps he was the owner. I tore my gaze from him and looked to the left.