Page 4 of #Lovestrong

3

Lena

The car ride from the train station to my grandparents’ house is quiet. They try to make small talk, but mostly I just give them one- or two-word answers. They know all about what happened. Dad filled them in last year. Hopefully, he also filled them in on the fact I don't like to talk about it and I prefer to just be left the hell alone.

Thirty minutes later, we pull up in front of their shop. They own the building and have an apartment upstairs. It's four bedrooms, three bathrooms, and way more than two sixty-something-year-olds need. I'm not complaining though. At least I have a bedroom and bathroom to myself.

The living room isn't at all what I expect for two people their age. There's a small fireplace in the corner with a big-screen television mounted over it. The hardwood floor is covered by a plush light blue area rug which goes nicely with the dark navy sectional sofa. The coffee and end tables are light wood with lamps made of what looks like drift wood. Family pictures are on the mantel, the most recent one of me being from eight years ago.

I walk over and run my finger around the frame, stopping to stare at the photo next to it. It's from when I was five, and it's one of the last pictures of me, my dad, and my mom— before she ran off with some guy she met online.

When I was ten, my father and I took down the pictures we had of her at home . By that time, I was over the hope she'd come back one day, and we were both sick of seeing her face around the house.

I'm glad she left while I was young. My dad did a damn fine job raising me on his own, and even though he doesn't think so, I'm proud to be his daughter. It's just been hard to show any emotion for the last nine months. One day, I pray my father will know how much it means that he stuck by me. That he sat by my hospital bed while I recovered. He stayed with me through every funeral, every panic attack, and every breakdown. He'll never know how often just his presence saved my life all over again.

"Can I go take a shower?"

"Of course, honey. Your room is the second door on the left. Grandpa already set your stuff in there. He had to hurry down to the shop and start getting things ready for tomorrow."

I look at her, confused. "What's tomorrow?"

She sets her hands down on her island countertop. "Well, it's the Fourth of July, baby. Busy day for us. Whole town will be on the riverbank watching the fireworks."

My heart stops and sweat beads instantly on my palms. Fireworks . . . I can't . . . oh, man. Why didn't I realize what day it was?

"What's wrong, sweetie," Grandpa asks as the front door slams shut and I duck and jump forward.

They both freeze and stare at me with wide eyes.

"I . . . uh . . . Dad didn't explain?"

My grandma shakes her head slowly. "He mentioned things were . . . difficult for you, but he didn't go into detail."

"Nevermind. I'm going to take a shower." I swallow the lump in my throat and make a beeline for my bedroom.

Once inside, I shut the door and sit on the edge of the bed, squeezing my fists to either temple, trying to stop the panic rising in my chest. I rock back and forth and freeze as the bedroom door creaks open.

"Lena," my Grandpa says in a soft voice.

I sit up, my chest heaving as I try to get enough air in my lungs. He sits on the bed and holds out a pair of big earphones.

"What's this?" I say, taking them from him.

"They're noise canceling headphones. They should help tomorrow night. Probably won't be enough, but I've had them forever. Used to use them when I was younger." He rubs my back gently as I stare at him in confusion. "It's the loud noises that bother you, right? Every time a car backfires or a door slams, all you hear is gunshots."

Tears well in my eyes as I nod, unable to form words.

"I know what that's like. What you went through, what you're going through now, isn't much different than what us young soldiers went through after the war. When you're ready to talk, you let me know. Even if you just want to scream and cry, and cuss the world up and down. You let me know, okay?"

I nod again as he leans over and gives me a side-arm hug. Once he leaves, I stare at the headphones a few minutes longer, reaching up to run my finger over the scar on my shoulder.

I wish I could cuss the world— right to hell and back. It won't make me feel any better. No amount of fear or anger makes it better. For nine months, I've woken up covered in sweat. And every time I try to sleep and close my eyes, my head is filled with screams and blood and the vacant look in Cameron's eyes after he lost his life saving mine.