Great.
My wife is AWOL, and Strawberry Shortcake is threatening bodily harm.
TWENTY-ONE
“But you’re a fucking pilot. Why can’t you fly me up there?”
Jake props his feet up on the end of the sofa and lifts Caden over his head. “For one, I’m flying Caden here to the moon right now. But for another, we aren’t talking about Oklahoma City or Las Vegas. You want to go to D.C.? There are rules. There are special things that must happen. And I don’t have any connections up there to get approval on such short notice. If you want to schedule this for a week or two, then I can probably do it for you. But not today.”
“Well shit. What good are you?” I throw up my hands.
Jake pulls Caden down to blow on his belly. “This little guy thinks I’m a good playmate.”
“Yes. Yes, you are, my friend. An excellent playmate.” I dig my key from my pocket and toss it onto Jake’s end table. “Thanks, man. Everything he needs is at the house. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back.”
Popcorn, pickles, and some sort of sweet aroma fills the air around American flags and balloons. Navigating the long walk from Boggy Station got much more difficult the closer I got to the mall. Now that I’m here, I weave through the throngs of people camped out on the grass, the gravel, and any other spot a person might perch for the evening.
Stepping over blankets and dodging children, I scan the crowd, hoping to see her beautiful face. Considering that Jo could be literally anywhere, and I’ve had zero luck getting her to call or text me, I’m taking my chances. The National Mall could be mistaken for the National Zoo. It is crazy busy with families and spectators readying for the massive fireworks display that will start any minute now.
I step to the left so I don’t trip over a little boy as he fends off another, crossing glowing swords like Jedi knights from Star Wars.
Approaching the Lincoln Memorial, I squeeze between two empty strollers parked right in the middle of the path but flanked by two huge groups of people. Not that there is a clear walkway with all of these people milling around.
I can only hope my logic serves me well. Arlington is a stone’s throw from D.C. Being this close on Independence Day, the thing to do is to watch the huge fireworks display. And, knowing what JoJo said about visiting the Lincoln Memorial—well, I hope she didn’t come see the memorial earlier in the day and isn’t waiting for the show at some rooftop restaurant somewhere—or watching pay-per-view in a hotel room in Arlington.
I let my gaze flit from one female face to another. Any woman with dark hair draws my momentary attention. Even if Jo’s here, I’ll be hard pressed to find her in this veritable ocean of ponytails, sun visors, and ball caps.
As I get closer to the memorial, the nagging suspicion that I’ve miscalculated starts to sink my hopes right along with that rock that’s parked in my gut.
This is useless. Too many people.
Wait.
About halfway to the top of the memorial steps, a bright white tank top catches my eye. Dark hair. Beautiful legs.
JoJo.
I speed up—as much as I can, anyway—picking my way over coolers and picnic baskets.
Up one step.
To the right three.
“Pardon me.” I pull my damp t-shirt away from my back.
Up another.
I point toward the top. “Excuse me, if I can just get by. Please.”
To the left three steps.
Up again.
“Coming through.” I lose sight of the shirt but continue on my upward journey in the general direction she was moving when I saw her.
Almost to the top, I stop to survey the area. A huge group of people, spread over about four steps, all wear the same bright white t-shirts. Sixty percent of them are women. Most of those have dark hair and aren’t facing me.
Fuck.
“Josephina Jordan!” I call out over the hum of voices.
A few heads turn my way, but none are JoJo.
That had to have been her. I’m sure it was her.
A boom cracks above us.
All heads lean back, anticipation of the coming show rippling across the sea of faces.
I spot Jo. She sits next to a man in the same shirt, but he also wears a red cap. His hand at her ear, he whispers something.
What the ever lovin’ fuck?
Waving my arms, I try to get her attention.
No good.
I cup my hands around my mouth. “JoJo!”
I move toward her, but there’s at least twenty-five feet of people packed between us. And she doesn’t hear me over the booming reports of the fireworks. I keep my gaze on Jo as I traverse the steps, climbing over and behind people, slowly working my way to her.
The longer it takes me to get there and the more chit-chat that dude does with his hand at my girl’s ear, the hotter my gut burns.