Montana and Natasha were inseparable. Until the day they weren't.
*****
Montana Belmonte-Rowe sees her acceptance into Harvard as a fresh start. Still haunted by the tragic death of...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER TWENTY
BREATHE
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
MRS. ROUSSEAU REACHES OUT FOR MY HAND BEFORE WE STEP OUT OF THE ELEVATOR. I'm almost certain she feels me shaking, but it's not only because of the cold weather outside; I'm constantly worrying about how worse things can potentially become, especially when we're not present, but it's not like we can keep Bishop in constant vigilance. 1984 showed how damaging that can be and he certainly doesn't need a baby-sitter.
I'm still trying really hard not to cry in front of them, though. Even if my throat is tight and it feels like my heart has turned into an anchor, I swallow the lump clogging my air-ways and force myself to keep my cool. These people know next to nothing about me and this is the first time they've landed eyes on me, so I'm determined to leave a good first impression, unlike the one I must have left in his son back in September.
Perhaps they'll think I'm strong. Perhaps they'll think I have every single detail of my life under perfect control and this one is no exception. Perhaps they'll think I'm not utterly terrified.
I think she knows it's all a façade, though. When we exit the elevator, giving me barely any time to prepare myself for what we will find, as the suite is the closest one to the machine, I let them leave first, in search of every possible extra seconds I can find to catch my breath. Mr. Rousseau walks in front, leading the line, and I keep getting left behind.
"Marianne," Mr. Rousseau calls, already standing by the door leading to the suite.
It takes me a while to realize why we still haven't made our way inside yet, but then I find Mrs. Rousseau—Marianne—standing in front of me, blocking my path. My heartbeat instantly races, with my mind worrying about what she's going to say and whether she'll scold me for having been a pathetic excuse for a girlfriend, among other not so nice things, even if she isn't scowling.
I have to remind myself they love him too—after all, he's their son and the love they feel for him is a lot different than the one I feel, so there are bound to be some miscommunications. Nevertheless, the three of us are fighting towards the same goal, along with the rest of his friends—all we're here to do is to make sure he's okay and, if he isn't, we're also here to figure out how to make it better.
