"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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𝙻𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎'𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚟
My eyes widen, my breath halts for a few seconds and I feel my heart drop.
I was raped.
The words cut through me like a knife. The tears roll down Maya's cheek and suddenly I understand it.
Her reactions when I spooked her, her instinctive reaction to pull back whenever I tried to touch her hand. Her response when we kissed, and how she flinched when I tried to reassure her.
I want to wipe away her tears, but I know she probably doesn't want to be touched. I look around me and see some tissues in the corner. I stand up to grab the box and sit back down next to Maya. I reach out the box to her, and with a faint, apologetic smile, she grabs a few tissues and wipes away her own tears.
"Thank you." She whispers.
I nod, it is barely visible but Maya gives me another smile, gesturing that she noticed.
I was raped.
It makes me furious, enraged. Not only because it happened to Maya, but in general. And I know I shouldn't be one to talk, because the number of women I slept with isn't to count on 2 hands, but I always made sure that it was consensual. I made sure that the woman I slept with was sober enough to give permission, and if I noticed she was too drunk, I would go. That some other men can't accept a 'no' or deal with rejection, it enrages me.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I'm sorry that happened to you."
Maya tries to stop the tears from falling down, but it doesn't work. I carefully reach my hand out to her face, waiting for her to notice I am going to touch her. She doesn't flinch back, so I gently cup her cheek and wipe away the tears.
"Who knows about this?" I ask, my voice is soft and lanced with concern.
"My parents know. Furthermore, a colleague of my dad."
"Brent doesn't know?" I ask, I know she already said that Brent didn't know, but I want to be certain.
"He doesn't." She says, her voice is barely above a whisper, as if she is ashamed that she hasn't told Brent, but does tell me.
"Why not?"
She shrugs, but I can see at the look of her face, she does know why she hasn't told him.
"Maya?" I softly cup her cheek again, making her look at me. "Why doesn't Brent know? Is he the one...?"
"No!" She interrupts me. "Oh, god no. Brent isn't even heterosexual. But..." She looks away, sighing deep before looking back at me. "He knows the person who did it. They are friends."
Maya starts sobbing, and I offer her another tissue.
"I don't know how to tell him," She says between sobs. "They are friends, good friends. I don't want Brent to make a choice between us."
