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“Where are we going?” Charlie asked, squinting her eyes in the midday sun, and I watched a few freckles dance on the bridge of her nose when she scrunched it. I liked seeing her like this: loose and happy and free. I’d been attracted to her from the minute she’d fallen through the ceiling and shown me that sharp tongue of hers, but there was something special about this side of her. It made me feel like I was in possession of a precious, fragile jewel. I wanted to cherish it.
“You’ll see.” I smiled and took her hand, pulling her along. She let me squeeze her dainty fingers in mine, and I felt the rush of her sweet skin.
We walked up 10th Street toward this historic landmark, preserved with its white archways and red-brick façade, and flanked by a building constructed within the century. The sign connecting the two structures came into view.
Charlie gasped, clasping her free hand over her mouth. “Ford’s Theater?”
“The one and only.”
She looked at me with her big blue heritage-loving eyes, and I grinned at her anticipation. “Oh, I’m so excited! This is one of the oldest theaters in the country.”
She couldn’t get inside fast enough. I followed her into the museum exhibit. Wandering from plaque to plaque, Charlie read each one, taking in all the Lincoln artifacts. I, on the other hand, found my attention wandering to her face—soft cheekbones, pillowy lips, and the little wrinkle that appeared between her brows when she focused on something.
She caught me staring again. “What?” she asked, a fresh blush on the apples of her cheeks.
“Nothing. You have a little…” I swept my thumb over her chin, and her lips parted. She looked up at me and I felt her breath on my skin as I pulled my hand away.
“Did I really have something on my face?” She brushed her chin after me.
I bit my lip, having flashbacks to the last time we visited a theater. “No.”
The corners of her mouth turned up into a coy smile, and she turned toward the staircase. I was on her heels when we walked out onto the balcony inside the legendary auditorium, but it still wasn’t close enough. She walked along the scarlet-colored carpet to the brass railing and looked out.
“I thought this place might give us some more ideas since it’s been maintained for nearly two hundred years with a modern addition,” I said.
“Pretty smart, Sebastian. I was just thinking how great it would be to have some kind of static exhibit about the history of the Monticello. I know Gladys at the museum has some great photographs and old records of when it was being built. There’s this one picture of Warren Beatty when he visited in the sixties. But I think it was by accident because he meant to go to Jefferson’s Monticello in Charlottesville. Happens all the time, actually. Maybe we should change the name.”
“Yeah, we can call it the Washington Reeves Hotel,” I said with a wink.
“Sounds better than the Anderson Hotel,” she shot back, and I laughed. Charlie turned her head toward the iconic balcony on the right. “So there it is. That’s where Lincoln was assassinated. Like right there!”
Creamy yellow curtains hung from the open archways, and the ledge was draped in American flags. In the center, facing the theater, hung a framed photo of George Washington. I stood for a moment of silence with Charlie and took it all in. Just a hundred and fifty years ago, Lincoln, one of the greatest American presidents to ever live, was here in that exact spot. I tried to imagine if this venue had been destroyed by modern, money-loving yuppies like me. I’d have no way to connect with the past. To learn from it.
Or connect with Charlie and learn from her.
I couldn’t stand that somber look on Charlie’s face, eyes turning pink, so I pointed at the frame and said, “I don’t know who’s in charge around here, but they have the wrong president pictured.”
Charlie laughed and nudged me with her shoulder, and I felt instant relief. “No, they don’t. That’s how it was decorated the night Lincoln was shot. They wanted it to look presidential.”
“Ah, and who’s more presidential than George Washington.”
“Exactly. Can we go see the Lincoln Memorial now?”
“Sure. We can walk there.”
I took her hand again as we trekked toward the National Mall. Being here with Charlie felt right. It made sense. If I were being honest with myself, being anywhere with her felt right—even in New Elwood. Walking the streets of DC, I began to notice the hybridized fusion of time-honored properties and contemporary architecture. How the architects and planners blended the two styles so seamlessly, giving the district its own unique vibe.
I thought coming here with Charlie would be a nice day trip for her. I hadn’t expected to look around and be forced to examine all the ways that I’d been wrong since I inherited those properties from my grandmother. But with Charlie’s fingers braided in mine, it felt like the gentle click of puzzle pieces falling into place. She’d been right, and I’d been right. We were better when we worked together. For a moment, I let myself imagine that the rest of my life would be just like this. I could hold her hand and enjoy the floral-scented air of spring. I could make plans and get her input. I’d get to see that brightness in her eyes that made me feel like I’d just won a million-dollar lottery.
“I have to say I’m really glad the bulbs weren’t ready. We’d be halfway home now, and I wouldn’t get to experience this. With you,” she said, an echo of my own thoughts. My chest warmed, and I gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
The sun had begun to fall behind the Lincoln Memorial as we walked up the shaded stone steps. The crowd seemed to disperse for us. Lincoln’s larger-than-life statue greeted us at the top. Charlie placed her hand over her heart in a silent honoring.
“Sebastian, please tell me you can’t stand here and not have respect and appreciation for history.”
I studied the light and shadow playing on her skin, the line of her neck, the way her eyes traced the monument like she could see the man and not the marble. “I do,” I told her softly. I appreciated history because I appreciated her.
“Something old, something new,” Charlie said, as if lost in thought. Just like DC. It wasn’t stuck in time. We’d brought the most important pieces of it with us.
