Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
Ben
It’s been three days since I’ve seen her.
When I left her apartment, she was happy. Content. Lying in bed, half-naked, covers pulled up to keep her warm as I’d opened the window to let the cool air in to freshen the place before heading off to work.
Then radio silence. Like whatever we had is barely an echo. I hate it.
I haven’t seen her at the retreat. We haven’t had any necessity to speak for professional reasons, so my mornings and goodnights have gone unread. As if I’ve been shut out with no warning.
Something’s wrong. I feel it. Antonia doesn’t hide from problems. If I’d upset her, she’d tell me. I know something bad’s happened, and she’s avoiding me. We planned to meet last night for dinner. I got a single text saying she wasn’t going to show.
My last patient’s gone for the day. It’s time to head home, but I’ll never settle when the situations like this. Things have been too good, going too well. I’m not willing to risk it. Not willing to risk us.
I pick up my phone and call her office. Clara answers.
“Good afternoon, Opengate.”
“Afternoon, Clara. It’s Ben Jones.”
“Hi, Ben. How are you?”
“Is Antonia available?”
She goes silent. “She’s not here. She hasn’t been in for the last couple of days. I assumed she was with you.”
“No, I haven’t heard from her. Have you spoken to her today?”
Silence again. Every beat missed spikes my heart rate.
“Just for a few incidental things, nothing important. Maybe she’s at home.”
“Unlikely,” I say. “When does Antonia ever stay home?”
***
Once I’m in my car, I take the wrong turn, heading to a place that I don’t live, but where someone I love does. I drive past her apartment. The lights are off. The blinds are up. She’s not there.
Fuck. I need to know she’s alright.
I park the car anyway, walking over and pressing the buzzer, even though I know it’s pointless. At least I know I’ve tried. For a moment, I consider calling the cops, but it seems a bit extreme. She’s an adult. Clara’s spoken to her.
Something cold settles in my chest; everything tenses. I hate not knowing where she is. My mind runs through every possibility. None of them good.
If Antonia’s hiding somewhere or from someone, there’s only one place I know she would be—the retreat. So I head out of the city. A journey out of my way, but I need to find her.
If I’m right, I could text her, but she’ll tell me not to come.
That’s a chance I’m not willing to take. Seeing her feels like it’s the oxygen I need to settle myself, never mind what is going on with her.
***
The gates to the retreat are closed. I jump out of the car, nod to security, and let myself in. As I walk toward the main building, her car sits in front. The site office appears dark, but there’s a light in the hallway. My heart beats slightly harder.
I’m not sure what I’m walking into.
I pause outside the office door, listening.
There’s tapping on keys. She’s here. Relief hits first, stinging and immediate. Then, something heavier: sadness she ran.
As I peek in, the light from her laptop is the only thing I see.
It glows yellow in the center of the room.
And there she is, sitting in her tracksuit and pink wellies, hair tied back, tired looking and so white.
She looks ghastly, ghostly even, as if she’s not even meant to be here. As if she’s come from another realm.
Anxiety twists in my chest. This isn’t her. There’s a change.
Her shoulders hunch over the laptop like she’s trying to disappear into it. I take a breath, and push open the door.
“Antonia,” I say. “Where have you been?”
She looks up. Her eyes widen for a split second before she shuts it down. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve hardly heard from you in days,” I say, the worry bleeding through even though I try to stay calm. Her expression remains impassive. She says nothing. Her focus returns to her screen as if ignoring my presence means I’ll disappear.
“Antonia…” I push. “Don’t shut me out. Please.”
She sighs, not sparing me a glance. “I’ve just been busy. With the retreat, Opengate and the protesters. You know how it is.”
“That doesn’t excuse you going off-grid. I phoned Clara.” I place my hands on the desk in front of her, and her head snaps up.
“You phoned Clara, looking for me?” she says, bristling, standing straight, annoyed, eyebrows furrowed.
“Yeah. I did. Because I care about you.”
We’re standing across the desk, face to face. My knuckles whiten, gripping the wood. She doesn’t back down; she leans in, her chin lifting, defiant.
“There’s just a lot going on,” she stammers, her conviction wavering. “I’m fine.”
“Well, show me.” I gesture to her laptop. “Show me what you’re working on. Is it something I can help you with?”
She sits down, tapping the keys quickly. As I round the desk, she closes a window. I glance at the computer and then at her as she opens a different document. A spreadsheet. Numbers, figures, budgets, everything we’re aware of.
I know that’s not what she was looking at. And I need to know why.
I pull up a chair and sit next to her. Not touching, but close enough to feel the distance anyway. Her knee moves away as mine gets nearer. Her fingers tremble slightly on the keys. This isn’t her. What could’ve happened?
“Antonia, please…” I don’t hide the pain in my voice. I can’t. Losing her like this will crack open a part of me I thought was almost healed. Not perfect, but enough to live again. It’s fracturing once more.
She sighs softly. “I don’t want to do this right now.”
“Why are you pushing me away?”
“It’s complicated,” she says, sounding sad. All the light and happiness from the last few weeks is gone.
“I don’t understand.”
I reach for her hand on the laptop. We brush a key, and the window pings open.
A search result.
Nothing obtrusive.
Just: lump under armpit
I stop breathing. My stomach drops. Not because I don’t know what that means. I’ve seen those words too many times before.
I’ve diagnosed them.
Many people come into my office for consultations, asking what it means. And the answers vary so much. For the lucky, it’s benign. Hormones. Nothing more.
For the less fortunate, it’s a death sentence.
But Antonia knows that.
“How long has it been there?” I ask her.
Suddenly, I’m back in that hospital corridor, sitting in the waiting room with Bex as we wait for more results from scans, hope slipping away with each test.
Antonia swallows. “Just a few days. I thought it was hormones. I thought it would go away, but it didn’t.” Her voice dips on the last word. “And I didn’t want to worry you with it. Over nothing.”
“Nothing?” I say. “Lumps are never nothing. You never wait a few days. These things should be checked straight away.” I’m about to launch into a lecture when she winces, her arm flexing. The doctor inside me rears his head, and I try to pack him away.
This isn’t my patient.
This is my partner.
And I need to be her rock, not her consultant.
“I can’t check it for you,” I say. “It’s not ethical. But I can refer you to a colleague who can. Someone I trust. I trust them with my life, so I trust them with yours. But please, let’s move on this now.”
“Okay,” she whispers, eyes filling with tears.
I’ve never seen her cry. And every instinct in me screams to fix this, solve it, save her from this. To check that this isn’t what I pray it’s not. But none of that is what she needs right now.
A tear escapes down her cheek. I sweep it away with my thumb, then bring it to my lips. “Even your tears are sweet.”
She laughs softly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me sweet.”
We stare at each other. Both of us have been here before with people we love. And now I can’t believe we’re back here again.
The fear. The terror.
I see it day to day in my work. But nothing prepares you for it when you’re sitting in front of the person you care about. And I’m furious I’ve been dragged here again. That this could once again be my life.
“Can you call your friend?” she says.
I pull out my phone, and the reply comes back almost instantly.
“Ten o’clock tomorrow,” I tell her as I read the reply. “We’ll find out what’s going on. Or start the process anyway.”
She nods, reaching for my hand. We sit there, looking at the spreadsheet again. Looking at numbers that mean nothing. Because if what happened today could be anything, it could change the trajectory of our whole lives.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” she says.
I glance at her. “Why?”
“I didn’t want to remind you of your past when it could be nothing.”
That knocks me sideways. “But I’d want to know.”
“But you knowing is so much more than someone else,” she says. “Because you know a lot more. You know the possible outcomes. You know what could happen. You’ve been there. You’ve lived it. You work with it. The last thing I wanted to do was bring that to your door.”
Tears run down her cheeks. I touch my own face. They’re wet too.
This is the last place I ever expected to be again.
But here I am.
I take both her hands. Spin her chair toward me and pull her forward. Our knees connect.
“Antonia,” I say. “I’m here. No matter what. No matter when you need me. I’m here.”
“I want to go home,” she says, standing.
I rise with her. She wraps her arms around my waist, her head against my chest. We stand together in the middle of the dark office with only the glow of the laptop.
“The last seventy-two hours have been the worst of my life.”
“You’re never on your own in this,” I tell her.
“But I felt it.”
I lift her onto my waist. Her legs wrap around me, arms snaking my neck. Her head rests on my shoulder.
Vulnerable.
Not a word I’d ever use to describe Antonia Cole.
But tonight she’s vulnerable.
Lost.
And all I want is to be the person who guides her back into the light.
I carry her out of the site office.
As I turn to close the door, a plaque sits on the step.
Bex Corrigan-Jones Retreat
A place where time stops.
I look from the plaque to the woman in my arms. Then back again.
It feels like time is repeating itself.
And I’m terrified of losing again.