Page 84 of The Mountain
The phone rings again, an ominous blare, and he curses again, a string of half-intelligible words.
“Je suis désolé…” he rasps, giving me a pained look. “I… I have to take this.Je suis tellement désolé…”
“That’s okay,” I tell him, injecting as much cheerfulness into my voice as possible, shooting him a wide smile. It pulls uncomfortably at the sides of my cheeks. “Go. We’ll talk more about this later.”
The smile he gives me in return is tight, contrasting with the sorrow lining his eyes, and my chest constricts. It must be about his grandpa, I realize. It must be a call from home. Maybe his mom or dad.
The other guys must have the same realization as me, because we watch Antoine retreat down the hall, holding our breaths until the door to his room snigs shut.
“I hope everything’s okay,” Seth murmurs, his voice low, brow furrowed.
I hum in agreement, squeezing Matty’s hand when it brushes against my own, warm and callused and steadying. I think of my own grandpa, of our conversation this morning, and that feeling of absolute acceptance and love that he left me with. If I were Antoine, I’d be completely distraught.
That thought, and the ache I feel for Antoine, it weighs down some of my earlier joy, tempering it. But it’s still there, sparkling like fresh snow under sunlight. Especially when Matty looks down at me, his blue eyes wide with wonder.
“New Zealand.” He gives me a tentative smile that has his dimples showing. Just a momentary flash, then gone again. “Never thought of going to New Zealand before.” He looks to Eddie. “Can’t say I even know much about it, except that you guys are from there.”
“You’re going to fucking love it, mate,” Eddie proclaims confidently. “Trust me.” His brown eyes flash with excitement, a small smile curving his lips as he shakes his head, damp hair tumbling across his forehead. “Can’t believe we’re all going to go to New Zealand together. Shit. It’s going to be fucking epic.”
Chapter 30
Antoine
“Antoine.”
My spine stiffens instinctively at the sound of Papa’s voice coming through the phone, brusque and smooth.
“Papa.” I reply, trying to force as much calm as possible into that one word.
It’s difficult though, when my heart is thundering and my stomach twisting. When all I can think about is our last conversation—his reddened face, those bulging eyes, the meaty fists clenched at his sides. Maman had stood beside him, her own expression implacable as always, as if she’s afraid that the slightest frown or furrow of her brow would irreparably damage her smooth obsidian complexion.
Her eyes had said everything though.
There’s a long silence on the line, and for several moments all I can hear is my father’s heavy breathing. I swallow, waiting.With Papa, silence is never good. Silence means he’s thinking, calculating. Getting ready to strike.
“I take it you’ve read the will,” he says finally, his voice deceptively flat. I can feel the undercurrent to it, like a rip churning beneath a glassy surface. “That the lawyer sent.”
I blink in surprise, my mind racing to make sense of what he’s saying. I haven’t gotten any will. Of course, I haven’t checked my email today either.
Hands trembling, I put the call on speaker, then open up my emails on my phone, scrolling through spam before finding what I’m looking for.Confidential — For Antoine Lafosse. I swallow, then tap on the email.
Sure enough, it’s a letter from my grandfather’s lawyers—the same, massively expensive law firm that advises the family businesses on everything.
Dear Monsieur,
We were sorry to hear about…
I glare at my screen, not wanting to hear some corporate condolences about my grandfather’s passing, and click on the attachment labeledLafosse — Will.
“…it won’t hold up in the courts,mon fils,” Papa is saying, but I hardly hear what he says. “It won’t be accepted, won’t be valid.”
I squint to read the text on my phone, eyes scanning through legal jargon as my mind races to parse the meaning. Because, that can’t be right. It can’t possibly be right.
“I’ll bury you in legal fees,tu sais,” Papa continues conversationally, but there’s a rumble of a threat buriedbeneath, like an earthquake rising from deep below. “You’ll be a pauper before you can even touch a single Euro.”
I scrub at my face and drop to sit on the edge of my bed, resting my phone on my knee with one trembling hand. I clasp my hands together and take a deep breath, trying and failing to calm my racing heart.
“…he didn’t even like you that much,” Papa continues, and there’s a hint of… not quite anger, but bitterness. Cold rage that’s gone ignored for too many years. “He never approved of your mother, you know. Never understood why I’d choose to marry someone like her.”
