"And if you have a minute, why don't we go talk about it somewhere only we know?"
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Maya Beaulieu, born and raised in Montreal, has heard the stories about Lance Stroll, the boy who grew up down the street of where she lived. All the reason to stay...
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August 8th, Montreal, Canada
As soon as I am home, I run inside my room, slamming my door shit and hide from everything that happened today.
I need to wash off the day.
I turn on the water, and quickly step under the warm water, changing the temperature up until it is burning my skin. I want to scream my lungs out—
"Mija?" I hear my dad's voice above the water, and quickly step out of the shower.
"I'm in the shower, dad!" I quickly wrap a robe around me and walk into the hallway. My dad is standing at the door, his gear still on.
His face is pitiful. His face carries sorrow. He knows.
For a few seconds we just stare at each other, the seconds after seem to take minutes.
He knows.
Tears well up, stinging at the corners of my eyes. He opens his arms and I run up to him, "Daddy—" I choke on the tears, wrapping my arms around my dad's torso.
He holds me tightly, as I let everything go for the second time today.
"You could've told me, mija. You could have told me he did this to you." He whispers in my hair.
"I'm so sorry." I mutter against his shoulder.
"You're going to be fine, I promise," My dad leads me to the living room, and sits me down on the couch. "Joey is on immediate suspension, awaiting further investigation. Christa told me, she overheard the conversation between you and Joey today, and apparently Joey bragged about it to Simon and Brody. You've got a case."
My dad's words echo in my head, 'You've got a case'.
A case. It sounds so easy, so straightforward. But the reality is far from it.
My stomach twists in knots, and my hearts starts racing so fast, I am sure my dad can hear it slamming against my chest. The mere idea of being in the same room as Joey again fills me with terror. My body shakes with fear, and I feel like I am about to throw up.
I can feel my chest tightening, and my breaths becoming shallow, my palms become clamming, "I don't want to go to court," I whisper, tears streaming down my face. "I can't face him again, dad. I don't want to relive to moment again."
My dad looks at me with a mix of understanding and sadness. He knows how much this is taking a toll on me, he can see how much I am struggling with only the idea of having a case.
"It's okay," He says softly, rubbing my back in gently circles. "We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. But remember, what he did was wrong, and he needs to be held accountable."
"I know, I know. But the thought of seeing him in court, of having to talk about what happened in front of strangers, just hoping they believe me... I can't do it, Papá. I just can't."
