Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 98612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 493(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
I stroke up and down her back, hoping to soothe her, aware that this story is going nowhere good. “But it wasn’t?”
“No.” Her voice is so small, like she’s trying to hide from her own memories.
“What happened then?”
She shifts a little so she can meet my gaze, her own swimming with ghosts and tears. “There was a boy in my class—or a man, I guess. He was kind of a loner, like me a bit. Quiet. Shy, but also . . . dark? He never really looked happy about anything. Just sort of cynical. But I always said hi to him even though he never looked very friendly, because no one really wants to be alone, you know? And he always nodded. It was never anything more, but I tried.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, that day he brought a semiautomatic to class, and the sound I mistook for thunder was him firing into the lecture hall. A few people got hit before he turned the gun on himself.”
“Oh God, Lainey, that must have been awful. I can’t even imagine what would make a person do that.” I tighten my hold on her as I consider how terrified she must have been.
Her eyes are sad and distant. “He failed the test, so maybe that set him off? I wondered if maybe—if I’d tried a little harder—he would have talked to me. Maybe, if he had a connection to someone in there, that would have stopped him? It’s probably stupid to think that. I mean, clearly there was something wrong with him—he wasn’t balanced—but still . . .”
I brush away her tears as they fall. “You can’t take that on, Lainey. He was mentally ill. The only time a person does something that extreme is if they’re not well. You’re lucky you were late.” I’m lucky you were late, or you might not be here.
“That’s what my family kept telling me. They still do. Because I’m here—and I didn’t see it happen, I just heard it and witnessed the aftermath.” She looks haunted in that way only people who have experienced deep trauma can be. “This isn’t . . . I haven’t really talked about this with anyone but my family and my therapist. It’s just . . . not good conversation. I couldn’t talk about it with my mom—she couldn’t handle it.”
“How do you mean?”
“She worries more than I do. And the news coverage of the incident made it so much worse.” Her fingers drift slowly along the collar of my T-shirt, eyes following the movement.
“I’m glad you feel safe enough with me to talk about it—and as hard as it is to do, sometimes it’s better to get it out rather than keep it all locked up inside.”
“I used to worry that talking about it would make the fears worse instead of better.”
“Because it makes the memories fresh again?” I rub her back, not really knowing what else to do for her.
“Mm-hmm.” She nods. “But it feels good not to hold on to it alone anymore.”
“Good. It shouldn’t be yours to hold on to.”
“That boy, the shooter, he didn’t survive.” Lainey drags her finger along my clavicle, body jolting with the next rumble of thunder. She exhales a shaky breath before she continues. “People came rushing out of the lecture hall. Everyone was screaming.” She presses her palm against the side of my neck, thumb brushing back and forth slowly along the edge of my jaw. “I was just . . . frozen on the steps. I knew I needed to move, but I couldn’t make my body follow the command. By the time I turned to run, everyone was on me. I twisted my ankle on the steps, but someone grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the way before I could get trampled. I was lucky I didn’t see any of it firsthand.”
The last part sounds more like something she says as self-reassurance. “I’m so sorry you went through that.” No wonder she was so terrified when I came to pick her up. And I realize that Lainey is far stronger than I ever could have imagined. To survive something like that and still be able to look at life with such positivity is a miracle.
“My classmates went through much worse, but now you know why I hate thunderstorms so much. I’ve always been anxious, but after that . . . I have a very hard time with crowds, so the airport was a challenge for me. And being on a plane with no way of escaping, that wasn’t pleasant either. But I used all the strategies I have to stay calm, and I made it through just fine—and then you were on the Cessna, so that helped. I should be able to handle a thunderstorm, but the memories are hard to deal with sometimes.”