Kitty keeps going like she didn’t hear me. “Peter has a much nicer car. What does Johnny boy
drive, a boring SUV? Who cares about an SUV? All they do is guzzle gas.”
“To be fair, I think it’s a hybrid.”
“You sure like to defend him.”
“He’s my friend!”
“Well, Peter’s mine,” she says.
Getting dressed is an intricate process, and I enjoy each step. It’s all about anticipation, hope for the
night. Slowly I put on the seamed stockings so I don’t get a run in them. It takes me forever to get the
seams straight down the backs of my legs. Then the dress—navy with white sprigs and little holly
berries and floaty cap sleeves. Last the shoes. Clunky red heels with a bow at the toe and an ankle
strap.
Put all together, it goes great, and I have to admit that Kitty was right about the victory roll on top
of my head. Anything less wouldn’t be enough.
On my way out Daddy makes a big fuss over how great I look, and he takes about a million photos,
which he promptly texts Margot. She immediately video-chats us so she can see for herself. “Make
sure you get a picture of you and Stormy together,” Margot says. “I want to see what sexy getup she’s
wearing.”
“It’s actually not that sexy,” I say. “She sewed it herself, off a 1940s dress pattern.”
“I’m sure she’ll find a way to bring the sexy,” Margot says. “What’s John McClaren wearing?”
“I have no idea. He says it’s a surprise.”
“Hmm,” she says. It’s a very suggestive hmm, which I ignore.
Daddy’s taking one last shot of me on the front porch when Ms. Rothschild comes over. “You look
amazing, Lara Jean,” she says.
“She does, doesn’t she?” Daddy says fondly.
“God, I love the forties,” she says.
“Have you seen the Ken Burns documentary The War?” Daddy asks her. “If you have any interest
in World War Two, it’s a must-see.”
“You should watch it together,” Kitty pipes up, and Ms. Rothschild shoots her a warning look.
“Do you have it on DVD?” she asks Daddy. Kitty is aglow with excitement.
“Sure, you can borrow it anytime,” Daddy says, oblivious as ever, and Kitty scowls, and then her
mouth falls open.
I turn to see what she’s looking at, and it’s a red convertible Mustang driving down our street, top
down—with John McClaren at the wheel.
My jaw drops at the sight of him. He is in full uniform: tan dress shirt with tan tie, tan slacks, tan
belt and hat. His hair is parted to the side. He looks dashing, like a real soldier. He grins at me and
waves. “Whoa,” I breathe.
“Whoa is right,” Ms. Rothschild says, googly-eyed beside me. Daddy and his Ken Burns DVD are
forgotten; we are all staring at John in this uniform, in this car. It’s like I dreamed him up. He parks
the car in front of the house, and all of us rush up to it.
“Whose car is this?” Kitty demands.
“It’s my dad’s,” John says. “I borrowed it. I had to promise to park really far away from any other