Her eyes zip to mine, hopeful yet cautious.
I take a deep breath. “I never had the chance to forgive my mom for leaving me before, so I thought it might be good if I forgave Amber while I had a chance.”
Gemma’s eyes widen and her long, slim fingers press against her chest. “You forgave her?”
“That was my plan.” Silly thing, plans. Do we ever know what we’re doing? I certainly don’t in this moment. I have no idea how Gemma will react. I just know I need to tell her she was right all along. “When Amber and I spoke, we both realized how much we’d hurt each other. She ended up apologizing too.”
Gemma’s lips, stained bright with punch, part. “You aren’t mad at her anymore?”
My gaze travels her face. If we were anywhere else, I’d gently take it in my palms and show her how very happy I am. “No. And I need to apologize for comparing you to her in the first place.”
Her eyes well with tears, the flashing lights making them glisten. “It’s okay if you compare me. I know who I am now.”
Somehow, I could tell. She’s changed since I said goodbye. And not only because she’s about to sell her screenplay. There’s something more. “Whoare you?” I ask. I really want to know how she sees herself.
“I’m trouble.” She holds up a finger. “But that’s okay because it gives me a lot of ideas to write about. And more importantly, I’ve come to believe that even the bad things in our lives can work out for good if we use them for God’s glory.”
In our time apart, we’d come to the same realizations. Which is very, very good. I cross my arms in my old cop stance. “It works out for me because I love trouble.”
“No you don’t.”
“I do now.”
She bursts into laughter. Not the reaction most men would want after such a declaration, but since I’d first thought there was nothing good that could come from her kind of trouble, I deserve to be laughed at.
I join in.
Oh yeah. If I was in a place where I could kiss her, they would be very, very happy kisses. This is what falling in love should feel like.
An alarm blares over the music. I go on alert, scanning our surroundings. I see the group of kids I’d kicked out, running for the door carrying a lit flare. Somehow, they’d gotten in with that. Looks like I’ve got more safety trainings to plan for. In the meantime, I give chase just as the overhead sprinklers shoot icy water down on our heads.
Students scream, and a mob separates me from the culprits. The music screeches to a halt as the DJ tries to cover all his equipment with the bags it came in. We’re surrounded by mad panic that I should have prevented. I can at least give directions over the microphone.
“Get out,” I shout to Gemma.
She takes off deeper into the building. “I’ve got to get my committee out of the culinary arts room where they’re preparing refreshments.”
Of course she does. “No. Let a fireman do that.”
“I’ve been trained,” she yells back. As if failing at rescuing a dummy in a smoky simulation has prepared her for rescuing students from a blazing inferno.
I scan the perimeter to make sure there’s no threat other than the flare. The room is thankfully smoke-free. I’ll direct traffic, then go after Gemma.
I fight the current of slick bodies to get to the DJ booth, then tap the microphone to see if it’s still working. The tap echoes through the commons as a staticthump. That will do.
“Attention, students.” My voice echoes over the PA system. “Please remain calm. Don’t run but exit the building as quickly and efficiently as possible. I repeat, don’t run.”
The screaming lowers a decibel. I see students slowing to look around and assist each other. Most of them are out the door now, so the building will soon be clear.
Dropping the mike, I disregard my own advice and take off for where I last saw Gemma. After getting her out, I’ll circle the room once more, checking for anybody left behind and possible injuries. Then I’ll let my buddies at the fire department take over. They should be arriving soon.
Gemma emerges from a back hallway, waving a couple of girls in front of her. The girls cover their heads with their arms, though their fancy hairstyles have melted over their faces. Their skirts cling to their legs, impeding their steps, but at least they’re all heading the right direction.
I wait for Gemma. She’s an even bigger mess. She wipes at strands of hair plastered over her face only to leave a trail of black makeup down from her eyes. When I’d met her, I’d assumed she was all about image. But she looks like this right now because she cared more about her students than herself. And I adore her for it.
“Let’s go, gorgeous.”
She’s laughing again, in spite of it all. Laughing and crying and running. Unfortunately, she didn’t listen to me when I warned against running.
