Page 33 of Engulfing Emma

He spends the next few minutes asking me about her work and then, before I know it, we’re back where we were on Friday, across the street from the school.

“Here we are.” He motions to the bench we sat on the other day. “Want to sit for a minute?”

“No.”

“Do you want to cross the street?”

“No. Yes. No.”

“Well, would you look at that? A woman who can’t make up her mind,” he jokes.

I playfully punch his arm.

“Ouch,” he says, rubbing it melodramatically. “You must work out a lot.”

“Oh, shut up, Lieutenant.”

He smirks. He likes it when I call him that.

He motions to the school. “You have to do it sometime. Why not now?”

“Are you saying you’re going tomakeme cross the street?” I ask.

“Of course not,” he says, looking appalled that I would make such an insinuation.

I stare him down. “Are you saying that if I don’t move my legs, you’ll drag me across the street like a child, so I have no choice but to walk with you or get hit by a bus?”

He smiles. He gets my game. “Yes, Emma. If you don’t do this on your own, I will make you cross the street.”

“Well then, I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“No, you don’t, do you?” he says with a snarky rise of his brow.

I draw in a long breath and then blow it out.I can do this.

The hand on the crosswalk turns green, and Brett steps off the curb into the street. He looks back at me, waiting.

“I’m coming … maybe.”

He reaches back and grabs my hand, gently pulling me into the street with him. The crosswalk hand flashes yellow.

“Remember what I said about us being more likely to get hit by a bus?” he says. “Come on, Emma. I was in that room with you. I know how strong you are.”

His hand holding mine gives me the courage I need to cross the street. But then I stop dead on the other side. My feet are cemented to the pavement. I can’t take another step. All I see when I look at the front steps of the school is Kenny Lutwig, pointing a gun at me and forcing me back through the doors.

My heart pounds when I think about that day. “I … I can’t.” I turn my back to the school.

The worst thing I can imagine happens. Tears roll down my cheeks. I will them to stop, but I have no control over myself at this moment. I don’t want him to see me like this. I’m an emotional wreck. I look away, shielding my face from him as I turn into a blubbering fool.

“Emma?” he says, angling himself so he can see me.

The look in his eyes is one of horror, and I’m positive mascara is running down my cheeks. I frantically wipe my face. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry. I don’t understand why, uh, … this isn’t like me.”

I’m lying to him. To myself. I’m anything but fine right now. I can’t get the tears to stop flowing and my body is beginning to shake uncontrollably.

“You’resorry? Emma, I’m the one who’s sorry. I pushed too hard. You weren’t ready.”

Why is he trying to take responsibility for my mental breakdown?

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