Page 46 of Engulfing Emma

I impulsively pull her into my arms. I cup her face. I kiss her.

At first, she resists, and I think this was a horrible idea, but then she kisses me back. She kisses me hard and grabs onto my sides, locking me to her. She kisses me like a drowning woman who has come up for air. It’s desperate. Deliberate. Passionate.

It’s the first kiss I’ve shared with a woman other than Amanda in almost a decade. And I could be wrong, but I’ll bet it’s the best damn first kiss anyone has ever had.

I’m not sure how long we stand here and kiss, but eventually she pulls away. “Why did you do that?”

“I thought you needed a new memory of this place to replace the old one.”

She wipes her bottom lip, and I see the hint of a smile.

She turns to the administration office. “I need to do it all. Get it over with.”

I gesture to the inner doorway. “Lead the way.”

She carefully walks through the door, taking us behind the glass wall that separates the office from the reception area. She gazes at the corner where the gunman kept most of the hostages. She keeps moving until she’s in front of the storage room door. Her hand shakes.

“Do I need to kiss you again?” I joke.

She looks at me, her eyes focusing on my lips as if she’s about to take me up on my offer. “I’m … I’m fine.” She looks at the door again. “Do you think you could …?”

I step up to the storage room door and open it.

She slowly follows my path and pokes her head in cautiously, as if she thinks something will jump out and attack her. “Don’t let the door close.”

“No way,” I tell her. I’m not too happy being back here either.

She glances around the storage room from the doorway, looking at the tables and boxes. “Everything is back in its place. There’s not even a trace of blood on the floor. Isn’t that strange? I mean, I figured they’d clean it up, but it’s like nothing ever happened.”

I smile. “You did it, Emma.”

“I’d like to go to my classroom, if that’s okay with you.”

“Sure thing. Let’s go.”

She backs out of the room and watches the door as it closes, shaking her head like she can’t believe what once happened behind it.

She leads me through a door to a back hall, where we pass dozens of classrooms. “Here’s mine,” she says, pointing to one.

“It doesn’t even look like a classroom,” I say.

“That’s because they move almost everything out for the summer. It’s much nicer during the school year. Here, let me show you.”

She pulls out her phone and scrolls through some pictures, then stops and hands it to me. “Here’s what it normally looks like.”

She is with her students, standing in front of a white board that has her name written in large block letters:MISS LOCKHART. Around the edges of the white board are colorful drawings, presumably made by her students. I notice how happy she looks. Happier than I’ve ever seen her.

“You love teaching, don’t you?” I ask.

A smile brightens her face as she looks at the picture over my shoulder. “I do. I’ve been so worried that I’d never be able to do it again. But now …”—she looks around her classroom—“I feel like nothing could ever keep me from it. Not even Kenny Lutwig.”

A huge sigh escapes her, and I can see the tension draining from her body. “Thank you, Brett. I don’t know that I could have done this without you.”

“You’d have done it. Because anyone who loves teaching as much as you would do anything to keep doing it.”

She studies me thoughtfully. “Is that how firefighters feel about their jobs?”

She’s not talking about me. She’s asking about her dad. “Every single one I’ve ever known.”

---