Текст книги "From the Wreckage"
Автор книги: Melissa Collins
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
Falling asleep with her in my arms, her calm, even breaths rising and falling at my side, the feel of her kiss lingering on my skin, I know in my bones she had the same revelation I did earlier.
We are each other’s forever.
“What about this one?” Jade calls my attention to the case she’s looking at. The attendant lifts a tray from beneath the glass and Jade points to a ring all before I can get over to her side of the small shop.
“Let me see.” Trying to look over her shoulder, whatever ring is on her finger, she’s not showing me right away. When she turns around, hand extended in front of her, I have to blink hard to make sure I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing. “That’s, um, interesting.” Suddenly I’m regretting asking Jade to come along. Maybe I would have been better off on my own. “But do you think, maybe,” I try my best to put it delicately, but all I can come up with is, “That ring is hideous.” The yellow gold alone is enough for me to know that’s not Grace’s ring. I’ve never seen her wear yellow gold in the months we’ve been together and I’ve never seen a piece in her possession. In fact, she doesn’t wear much jewelry to begin with. “And a green stone?” I eye her suspiciously. “You’re not serious, are you?
Before she can say anything, Jade breaks out into a loud burst of laughter. “Fine, you caught me.” As she hands the ugly ring back to the clerk, she apologizes. “Call it a test. I wanted to make sure my girl ends up with a beautiful ring,” she declares. Hitching her hand to her hip, she adds, “So you pass round one.” In two long strides, she moves to another counter. Following behind her, I shake my head.
It turns out that round two, three, and four all involve her pointing out some of the ugliest pieces of jewelry I’ve ever seen. With each suggestion, they become less and less hideous, but they’re definitely meant as deterrents rather than legitimate ideas. “Maybe another day.” I stop her pointing with an annoyed voice.
Resting up against the counter, I apologize to the clerk once again. I had no idea bringing Jade along would be so much work. “You seem frustrated,” she assesses, standing next to me.
“You think?” Shooting her a look, I rake a hand through my hair. “This isn’t working. All I wanted to do was come here, find a ring for the woman I love and get home in time to greet her at the door.” The clerk looks on, seemingly less annoyed with us, but still not entirely on my side. “But all you’ve done is waste your entire lunch break making sure I don’t like the ugly pieces.”
“Hey now.” The clerk, an older woman who looks like she’s well into her sixties, clutches her pearls at my words. “That’s just about enough of that.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” I extend my hand for her to shake, but all she does is look at it in disgust. “Thank you for your time.”
Walking out of the store, I hear Jade strutting behind me. “I still have time,” she explains, trying to catch up.
Turning on my heel, I huff a laugh in her face. “No thanks. I don’t get it.”
“I just wanted to make sure you knew her.” Her lame explanation does nothing but annoy me more.
“Know her? I’ve memorized every curve of her body. Counted the freckles on her face as she sleeps. I can tell within the first second of a phone call what kind of day she’s had. I know her favorite ice cream is chocolate peanut butter swirl, and how she digs out all the peanut butter before even making a dent in the rest of the carton. I know her favorite poem and her favorite book and how she gets all teary eyed at certain movies. I know her love for books almost trumps her love for teaching about them. I know everything about her and I love her more than I can even put to words right now. And all I wanted was the opinion of her best friend as I picked out her engagement ring. Because . . .” I pause to catch my breath and gather my thoughts. “No matter what ring I pick out, she’ll love it. Or at least she’ll say she loves it even if she hates it. Because above everything else that I love about Grace, I’m in awe of how she loves with everything she has. Her ability to sacrifice and put on a brave face simply to make others feel important.”
Standing before me, Jade opens and closes her mouth a few times, looking an awful lot like a fish gasping for air. Grabbing my arm, she says, “Tiffany’s is around the corner.”
With much more efficiency than she had in the old lady’s store, Jade scans the counters. On the hunt now, I guess my little speech helped her believe in me and my intentions a little more. “Platinum,” she explains as I walk up to her. “It’s the best.”
Keying into the changed tone in her voice, I smile. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”
The clerk, a woman much closer to our own age, lifts a tray of modern rings out from behind the glass. “Do you have any specific cut or size in mind?”
“No, the size doesn’t matter.” My words are met with a loud chuckle from Jade.
“Oh, honey, size always matters.”
“What I meant,” I begin to explain, shooting her a look. “Was that I have a healthy budget to work with.”
“Well, then.” My words put the clerk into motion and she begins pulling rings out from the blue velvet cushions. She explains the cut and clarity of a few rings, but honestly, she may as well be speaking in a foreign language.
Somewhat tuning her out, I look at a few of the rings. I pluck one from the display and hold it in the light. “Try this on.” I hand it to Jade and she covers her mouth with her hand.
“Oh, my god. This is–”
“Grace’s ring,” I finish her sentence for her as she looks down at the ring sparkling back at her. The round center isn’t obnoxiously large and it’s not small by any measure. But what makes it stand out among the rest are the curved lines surround the center stone. Interwoven together, they form a vine like setting. Something about the way the stone rests in the center, upheld by the delicate curves around it reminds me of Grace herself.
She’s centered by her convictions, by her sense of self, and her passion for life.
But on the outside, she’s an elaborate mixture of laughter, intelligence, and beauty.
When I walk out of the store, little blue bag in hand, I feel like I could conquer the world.
Only Jade’s words bring me crashing back down. “You ran this past her dad, right?”
“I will.”
“And you know how you’re going to ask her?”
“I don’t. Not yet anyway.”
“Do you have anything figured out?”
A calm feeling settles over me. “Everything that matters.”
Jade rambles on with more suggestions about getting her father’s permission, about the most perfect proposal ever. But all I can think about is the look on Grace’s face when she says yes.
After walking her back to her office, I enjoy some peace and quiet as I ride the train back to my apartment. I decide to call her father and ask him if I can take him and Meredith out for dinner on Friday night. He agrees, calling me son as he ends the call. I’m left with a fairly good feeling that they won’t say no. Covering my bases, I shoot Jade a text asking her to make plans with Grace for the night. I’m not one for lying, but in this case it obviously needs to happen.
And as far as how I’ll actually propose, the words I’ll actually say, and the place in which I’ll say them—it’s safe to say I have more than a few ideas rolling around in my head.
But none of it matters, really.
Because all of those details aside, only one fact is important: The fact that I’m lucky enough to spend the rest of my life with the woman who I spent my entire life trying to find.
“You’ve been acting strange the last week or so.” All too casually, I drop that out there, hoping he’ll take the bait. We’re curled up on the couch, watching some random sitcom.
“Have I?” He strokes his chin, pretending as if he’s actually considering my statement. “I don’t think so, but if you say so.” The off quality of his usual sly-as-a-fox look lets me know something is definitely up.
“Whatever,” I huff with about as much maturity as some of my students. We finish out the rest of the show in easy silence. My legs rest in his lap and his fingers dance over my skin. When he starts rubbing my feet, I can’t help but groan my appreciation. “That feels so good.”
“You just love me for my hands.”
“Yep,” I agree. He stops his movements as my laughter fills the air. Nudging his arm with my toe, I wait for him to get back to work. “Ahem,” I prod “You forgot the other foot.”
“You’re impossible.” After making me wait for another few seconds, he picks up my left foot, giving it the same attention he paid the right.
“It should be illegal to have to wear real shoes all day. My poor feet are so used to flip flops. This is like some kind of medieval torture.” Stretching my toes in his strong hands is pretty much second only to sex.
“I can only imagine,” he adds, his words heavy with sarcasm. “I know when I’m at work, lugging a hundred pounds of gear up flights of stairs, in a burning building, all I can think about is how much I want to slide my feet into a nice comfy pair of flip flops.”
“Always one-upping me. Not cool.” He shoots down the finger I point at him with a stuck-out tongue. Clearly maturity is not on the menu tonight, but laughter is always more important. “I love you. And this.”
“The foot rub?” His attention is on the television, where he’s just changed the channel to a baseball game.
“Yeah.” I wiggle my toes again, making sure to nudge his body in a very suggestive way. And now the attention is back to me. “But I mean all of this. You here all the time. Coming home and seeing you here. Just knowing you’re part of my life. I know it all sounds so cheesy, but I can honestly say I’ve never been so happy ever. And I have you to thank for it all.” Sliding up next to him, I tuck myself under his arm, letting his warmth seep into my body.
“What’s got into you?” Pressing his lips to the top of my head, his question is spoken into my hair as his arm wraps around my shoulder.
Shrugging, I go with the lame, “Hopefully you later.” It at least gets a snicker out of him, but the change in my body language, or the way my arm is curled around his waist, anchoring my body to his, it all gives me away.
Angling his body back from mine a touch, he leans against the arm of the couch. When he looks down at me, his brows are knotted together in concern. “Aside from that.” He leans in, offering me a seductive kiss that leaves my head spinning. “What’s wrong?”
“You’ll laugh.” My attempt to dismiss his worry does nothing but amplify it.
Reaching forward, he lifts the remote from the coffee table. After clicking the television off, he twists in his seat, facing me completely. “I promise not to laugh, especially since it’s something that’s clearly bothering you.” The gentle vibrations of his calm voice convince me to share my apprehensions, no matter how he may react to them.
“I’m nervous about tomorrow.” Throwing that out there, I wait for his easy dismissal of my words.
“Why? Something going on at work? An observation already? Isn’t that a little early, even for a new teacher?”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Realization slides over his face, washing away what I mistook for his glossing over the subject.
“Oh.” Scratching a hand over his chin, he moves it through his hair, letting it flop every which way. “I don’t know what to say. I’m not in any more danger tomorrow than any other day. Besides, it’s probably safer for me anyway. I’ll just be down at the memorial all day. It’s not like it’s an actual day of work or anything.” Tipping up my downturned chin with his fingers, he looks deep into my eyes.
Biting back the panic, I swallow hard and nod, but the acceptance he’s looking for isn’t genuinely there. “Then can I ask something without you getting mad?”
“I’d never get mad. Ask away.”
“Then why do you have to go? I mean if you’re not actually scheduled to work, and it’s not a work requirement or anything like that, why do you have to be there?”
Without missing a beat, he says, “Because I have to.” His dark brown eyes shine with something I can’t put my finger on. Respect. Honor. Dedication. Love. He kisses my cheek softly before continuing. “Three hundred and forty-three firefighters died that day. And every year that passes, we meet with the families of the victims from our squad.” Gently squeezing my upper arm, I can tell he’s not mad with me for asking. Even I can admit, the request sounded a lot like something a petulant girlfriend would ask, but when you’re worried about your firefighter boyfriend, whose safety you’re always thinking about, spending his day off at the 9/11 memorial on the anniversary of the tragedy, being whiny or demanding were the least of my concerns.
“Over the years,” he continues, a wistfully sad sound to his words. “Fewer and fewer families come in for the ceremony. I guess they choose to mourn in their own way, so no one can fault them for not being there. I can’t pretend to know what I would do, so I won’t judge them for what they choose.”
Tenderly, he lifts my hands into his. Stroking his thumbs over my wrists, he tells me about one particular family to whom he’s grown close over the years. “There’s this one family. They come year after year. They even stay in a hotel for a day or so before the ceremony to make sure they can get to the site in time.”
“How far do they travel from?”
Dropping one hand, he waves off my question. “Not far at all. Out here on the island. But that’s just how they are. The guy wasn’t married, didn’t have any kids. So year after year, his mom, two brothers and two sisters and their families come into the city, spend the day at the memorial. His father was a firefighter, and he died a month before 9/11. The family had actually postponed celebrating his fortieth birthday because of the funeral. And his brother.” He pauses to chuckle a little. “He’s a firefighter, too. He’s a trip. If you think I’m a dork, you oughta meet this guy. He’s even got that firefighter mustache you’re so fond of in all the old school guys.” For dramatic purposes, he strokes the hairless space above his upper lip. I can’t help but laugh, because seriously, every single older firefighter I’ve ever seen has what I call The Stache.
The laughter and silliness settles as he continues. “Anyway, his brother worked the pile until he could find his body. After a week and a half of searching, they found it. It was sobering to hear him say that they were a lucky family. The fact that they recovered his body made them feel like they were one of the lucky ones.” His voice changes, taking on a quality akin to awe and gratitude. Running his hand through his hair and over his face brings him back to the end of his story. “Michael,” he explains. “That’s the brother’s name. He had to retire a few years after the attacks. The guy rides his bike hundreds of miles a week, but his lungs got all jacked-up from the debris.” Something a lot like anger touches his words and my heart bleeds for him. “They always stop down to the squad, too. That’s how I first met them. His name was David, too.”
Willing the lump in my throat to go away, I simply nod, allowing his words to permeate my silence. “One year, when the crowd was particularly light because of some nasty rain, I asked the mom why they still came in. Her response has stuck with me ever since and it’s the reason why, even when I’m not working, I’ll always be at Ground Zero on 9/11.”
“What did she say?” I ask, captivated by his story and this family.
His lips, so soft and full, spread across his face in a warm smile. “Her words were so simple, I’ll never forget them. She said ‘If I stop coming, one day there won’t be anyone left who’ll remember my son.’ Something in that sentiment changed me.”
The tears I had been holding back since he first started speaking fill my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. Swiping them away with his thumbs, he smiles at me, just a small, sweet smile. The one reserved only for me. “So I promised her that as long as I was alive, I would be at the memorial to remember her son.”
“David,” I choke on his name. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he deflects my adoration over what he considers a small tribute. When he pulls me into his arms, I feel safe and whole. Above all else, I feel so incredibly lucky that he loves me. This man, whose heart is made of gold has made room in his life for me. “It’s just how things are. If it were me, I’d want someone to remember me like that.”
If it were me.
The tears he only just wiped away return in earnest. Accompanied by soft sobs, I let my words spill out, taking on a life of their own. “That’s what I’m struggling with, trying so damn hard to get past. You getting hurt. You being taken away from me. What if it were you?”
“Shh.” He calms me. “It’s only natural to worry.” Cupping my face in his hands, he looks at me with love in his eyes. “I wish I could tell you that you’re worrying about nothing. That I’ll always be safe and no harm will ever come my way, but we both know I can’t promise that. Even if I wasn’t a firefighter, there’s no way for me to guarantee I’ll always be safe. That’s just how life goes.” Nodding, I see the truth in his words. But understanding what he’s saying with my head and feeling good about it in my heart are two different things entirely.
Recognizing my struggle, he pushes the hair out of my eyes and presses a sweet kiss to my lips. “What I can promise you, is that however many days I have left, I’ll spend them loving you.”
Sealing his lips over mine, there’s more than a simple promise passing between us. It’s enough to settle my nerves—at least a little bit. Leaning his forehead against mine, he smiles at me, making sure I’m okay. When he sees I am, he smiles even bigger. “So,” he drags out the word a little, “about that ‘me getting inside you’ business you were talking about before? Is that still on the table?”
A subtle nod and soft chuckle is all I have time to respond with before he sweeps me up in his arms and races us down to my bedroom.
Blinking away the persistent early morning light that’s determined to break its way through my blackout curtains, I hit the snooze button once more. Thank God, for first period studyhalls.
Before the hellish sound of my alarm clock goes off once more, I manage to pull myself out from under the covers. Stretching my arm to the side, the spot where David should be is warm but empty. The muffled sounds of the shower filter into my room. Getting up early has its advantages sometimes.
Not even bothering to knock, I step into the small, steam-filled room. Stripping out of my pajamas with more speed than any human should have at five in the morning, I can’t wait to be on the other side of that curtain.
Pausing for a second before pulling back the fabric separating us, I hear David mumbling something on the other side. It’s tough to make it out exactly, what with the water running and it being five o’clock and all. Before I make any sense of the conversation he’s having with himself, he grunts in frustration, cursing himself and his stupidity.
“Hey now.” Opening the curtain, I interrupt his grumblings. I’m met with a gasp of shock that quickly morphs into appreciation for me being in front of him. His admiration is paid back in spades as my eyes roam all over his soapy, wet body. With his back to the shower head, the water flows over his shoulders. The hard planes of his chest and bulging muscles of his arms are covered in soap, but every thought running through my head is anything but clean. Stepping under the water, I run my hands over his pecs and stretch up on my toes to place a good morning kiss on his wet lips. “I’m the only one who gets to talk about you that way. And I usually reserve words like that for when you aren’t around.”
“What are you doing in here?” Looping his arms around my waist, he pulls us both under the hot spray.
I may not be a fan of mornings, but apparently my sense of humor doesn’t suffer for it. “Well, let’s see. I’m naked.” To entice him a little more, I run my hands over the curves of my body, down my waist, hips and then back up to cup the round undersides of my breasts.
“I see that.” He groans, pressing the evidence of his arousal against my stomach.
“And there’s water,” I continue as if his body isn’t reacting at all to my presence. “And soap.” Reaching around him, I make sure to press my breasts into his body while grazing my hand across his hardening length. Accidentally, of course. Working the soap I drizzled into my hands up into a lather, I rub the bubbles over my body, loving that it makes him even harder. “So it looks as if I’m showering,” I continue with my little joke, trying my best to ignore his growing reaction.
Grabbing my ass in his hands, he squeezes each cheek and pulls me hard against him. Groaning, he presses his lips to my ear. Sucking my earlobe between his teeth, he tangles his hand into my hair, pulling my neck to the side. “Very funny, sweetheart.” Pretending to chide me, he licks at my neck, the heat of his mouth rivaling the heat of the shower. My knees wobble as a sigh of pleasure falls from my lips. “Now let me tell you what you’re really doing in here.” Dominance and love mingle in his words. Turning me around, he holds my wrists in one of his hands at my lower back. “None of this wise-ass ‘I was just taking a shower, fancy meeting you here’ garbage.”
Keeping my hands bound at my back, he runs his other hand down my spine. “And now.” He leans forward, keeping me locked between the tiles and his body. “You’re going to make us both late.” After lightly sinking his teeth into my shoulder, he licks over the spot, sending chills racing everywhere.
“I’m okay with that,” I taunt him, pushing my ass into the heat of his body behind me. “Are you?” I ask, eyeing him over my shoulder.
Turning me back around, his hands effortlessly glide down to cover my breasts. “I think you’ll see,” he croons. Bending slightly, he lifts my leg, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. The wide crown of his cock presses into me, eliciting a sigh of relief from both of us. “That I’m more than okay with being right here with you.” He buries another inch into me, the veins in his neck bulging under his restraint. “This is where I belong.” And then there’s no him and me.
There’s only us.
Our bodies glide together smooth and easy, a delicious contrast to the hard and fast rhythm he’s pounding into me. “I’m not going to last long at all, baby,” he warns. “You’re too hot. Too tight. Too fucking much.” Reaching between us, he runs his thumb over my clit. Thankfully he’s holding me up, otherwise I’d be nothing but the puddle of water circling the drain, swirling blissfully around and around before being pulled down into oblivion.
Between the rapid motion of his thumb, and the heavy fullness of his body in mine, I lose control of everything. My body isn’t my own. It’s his to do with as he wants. Even the air in my lungs no longer belongs to me, escaping past my lips in uncontrollable puffs of ecstasy.
With his face buried in my neck, he growls, coming in a wildly passionate blaze of heat. When his breathing returns to normal, and I return to my own body, he lowers my leg to the floor. In a gentle swipe, he pushes the wet hair from my face, which I’m sure is flushed in patches of red. “Now that’s one fine way to wake up.” His smile, my God, it’s beautiful. Warm and luscious, smooth and sexy—and all mine. It beckons me to return it with my own.
And that’s how we finish out the shower. With lingering kisses. Warm smiles. Loving touches and rinsed bubbles.
It’s not lost on me that we move around each other with ease through the rest of the morning. An impossibly huge smile spreads across my face as I realize we have our own routine. “For you,” he says, handing me my to-go mug of coffee as I adjust my bag on my shoulder. Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for me, extending his hand to the side as I walk past him.
And ever the sex fiend, he grabs my ass in the process, slapping it lightly as I walk to my car. Leaning around me, he opens my door. The sun sparkles high in the sky, casting its warm rays down on us. The leaves rustle along the ground, the early offerings of a cool autumn tumbling over our feet. “Have a good day.” Leaning in, he kisses me. Though it’s simple and sweet, it speaks volumes to me. “Love you. Talk to you later,” he says as he turns to walk toward his car.
“Love you, too.”
A kiss blown in the wind falls on his back, a subtle reminder of how much I love him to stay with him through the day.
“You seem awfully chipper this morning,” Tim observes aloud as I walk into the room. After this morning’s shower session, I have definitely been a little lighter on my toes. In fact, I doubt anyone has signed in this morning with as much enthusiasm as I have. “What’s gotten into you?”
His question, echoing the words of David’s from last night, elicits a chuckle of a response from me. “Oh, nothing,” I dismiss, setting my coffee down on my desk.
Looking over at me with an ‘uh huh, yeah sure’ look plastered to his face, he pushes forward. “Nothing?” He laughs. “No one is this happy to be at work at ten to seven in the morning. Even people who love their jobs. Spill it.” Dropping his heels from their perch on his desk, his chair creaks as he spins to turn toward my desk.
“Just happy this morning. Can’t say much more.”
“Can’t or won’t?” he presses on, taking a sip of his coffee.
“I was raised never to kiss and tell. So I’m sure as heck not going to kiss and tell twice.”
His coffee goes everywhere. Scattering like a fool, he moves to wipe up the spewed-out coffee from the papers on his desk. A few attempts at a response get stuck in his mouth, unlike his coffee. And luckily for him, a group of his first period students walk in, looking like zombies of course. They break up the non-conversation and I excuse myself as I make my way to the room in which my study hall is held.
“Today we’ll be starting some background notes on Arthur Miller and his definition of tragedy,” I begin the lecture to my second period class. Like any early morning lecture would be, my words are met with little more than a few groans of disapproval. Ignoring their not-so-silent protests as best as I can, I wait patiently while the twenty-five students open their notebooks and take out their pens. “In the model of the classic tragedy, you have a hero of very high status coming to his demise through a massive conflict. These are the types of conflicts usually affecting a nation or an entire population over whom the hero usually has control.”
A hand flies up in the third row and I bounce on my toes, excitedly calling on the young girl whose name and face I still haven’t paired up. “Can I go to the bathroom?” My hope of the epiphany of a question I was waiting for walks out the door, behind third-row-girl and her not so urgent need to use the bathroom.
“And then we have tragedy the way Miller sees it.” Clicking on a few icons on the overhead computer, I pull up an image depicting the tragic hero as Miller sees him. “You see, the real tragedy is the story of the everyday man, who has a family and children perhaps. He lives a good life, but comes to his downfall through what most would consider a non-essential conflict.”
“So he’s a nobody?” Chris, one of the few kids actually awake and listening, chimes in as I pause to pull up another graphic.
“No,” I dismiss his conclusion immediately. “Everybody is somebody to someone. Just because you don’t know the person doesn’t mean they aren’t important. You don’t have to be a national icon in order to matter.”
“Yeah right.” A kid in the back row snickers. “No one cares unless you’re Kanye or a Kardashian.”
Taking advantage of what most would call a teachable moment, I close out the icons on the screen and pull up an image of ground zero and what it looked like the day after the attacks. Lines of people surrounded the pile of debris. Forming a conveyor belt of buckets, they worked to remove an endless sea of broken concrete and twisted steel searching in vain for anybody’s somebody.
“You see Kanye in there?” I point to the screen for the emphasis that isn’t needed. “How old were you when this happened?”
A quiet voice calls out from the front, “Three.”
Nothing more than toddlers, they were protected from the horrors of that day. Having only learned what they know of it through stories and images which are seared into our collective memory, they’ve missed the magnitude of the event that only witnessing it firsthand can provide. The hellish nightmare of planes flying into buildings.
Of people choosing to jump to their deaths rather than perish in a fiery inferno.
Of heroes climbing hundreds of flights of stairs in the hopes of saving one person’s life.
Who will be there to remember my son?
“Let today serve as a reminder that a hero doesn’t need to be a national figure. He doesn’t have to be of high importance, reigning over millions of people. He doesn’t have to have a lavish fortune to mean something.” Clicking on a few more images of the dust-covered people, terrified for their lives, running through the streets of lower Manhattan, I continue, “He doesn’t even have to be a he.” Pausing, I let their silence settle in. Before continuing, I open a picture from David’s firehouse. The names of the men who gave their lives that day are emblazoned on the side of their truck. Next to it is the image of the truck, twisted around itself in a heap of what used to be the Twin Towers.
“Sometimes, our biggest heroes are the ones who, on the surface were no one at all. But I guarantee you, these people.” pausing, I point to the names on the truck, “And all the other people who were killed that day were all heroes to someone.”
“Ms. McCann,” Mrs. Gallagher’s eerily calm voice cuts through the end of my speech, mingling with the metallic sound of the bell dismissing class.
My stomach drops. I was off task. This wasn’t part of the lesson I submitted at the beginning of the week. There was no wrap up. I didn’t assign homework. Fumbling through my own short comings, I walk to the door, escorting out the final student on my way to my boss.
