Chapter 42
Chapter forty-two
Antonia
Sitting in the half-dark, I’m holding the now-empty beer that I plucked out of the fridge an hour ago. I tip the bottle back again, as if some dregs will magically appear. They don’t. It’s still empty. I consider getting another one; it might help me sleep easier if I do.
I’m rising from the sofa when the knock comes at the door. Quickly, I check the door camera on my phone. Ben. I consider not opening it. A minute passes, then it comes again.
“Antonia.” Ben’s voice filters through the wood. I could pretend not to hear him. “Antonia, please open the door. It’s Ben.”
I give in and go to open the door.
“We need to have a conversation.” He looks ten years older than when I left him just over an hour ago. A man drained, tired, eyes dark, exhausted even.
“You should be with your family,” I tell him. “They need you today.”
“They told me to come here.”
I block the doorway, keeping him outside, placing my hand on the frame. “You should be with your family,” I say again.
He shakes his head. “It’s not the time to be stubborn.”
“Stubborn? Better stubborn than stupid,” I snap.
He winces. He knows I’m right. Today’s on him. Bad decisions led to hurt feelings and my broken heart.
“Today is a day for your family, not to be with me,” I continue, not wanting to let it go, not wanting to stop telling him why he was so wrong. The urge to cram words between us surges. If I keep speaking, he can’t. “Go home.”
“Amy and Liam told me to come. You’re here.” He pauses, taking a breath. “Bex isn’t.”
My eyes pop. I can’t believe he said that. It wasn’t nasty, just a fact. The truth. But it still feels harsh, cutting to the bone of the issue.
He swallows. “Bex had the biggest heart. She wouldn’t want you in pain or alone when you’re dealing with this. You have to trust me on that. I knew her for a long time. I knew who she was. I may not have gone about things the right way, but you didn’t need to be alone today. And neither did I.”
My shoulders straighten, ready for another argument, then suddenly I don’t have the energy. Every bone of contention fades. We’re both human. No one makes the perfect choice every time. I step to the side.
“Come in then. I suppose we should talk.” He walks past me into the hallway, shrugging out of his jacket. “Don’t be so sure. You might not be here long enough to take that off.”
He bites his lip, badly hiding a chuckle. “Really? After today, you want to argue about my jacket?”
“I’m not arguing,” I say. “I’m stating a fact.”
He laughs properly then, but puts the jacket back on. It feels like a win.
“You knew what day today was,” I tell him. “You knew why I shouldn’t be there.”
“And you didn’t need to be alone.” He looks straight at me, through me almost. “I prioritized in the moment. I got it wrong. I’m sorry.”
Somehow, we’re in the middle of the living room. I’m not sure how we got there, both moving subconsciously. Neither of us sits. We just stand looking at each other across the coffee table.
“How can I trust you when you let me walk into that tonight?”
He runs his hand through his hair, closing his eyes, exasperated. They land back on me, honest but frustrated.
“I don’t know,” he says, “but I invited you because I wanted you to be with me.” He reaches for my hand, but I pull it out of his way, the table a barrier.
“I can’t cope with this right now.”
“Just because something’s difficult,” he says, “doesn’t mean you have to run from it. Trust me, you only lose out in the end.”
Something snaps. Our eyes lock. It’s as if he’s trying to tell me something, and I don’t understand.
“If you’re speaking from your own experience, that’s relevant to you, not me.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I think you should go.”
“If you want me to leave, I will.”
I go to say yes, but my jaw locks, keeping me from speaking.
“But know this. I didn’t invite you tonight to hurt you. I invited you because I wanted you there, and because I wanted you to meet my family.” His frame sags as if defeated. “If that’s not a good enough reason, then I’m sorry.”
He makes it to the door, and his fingers grasp the handle.
“Wait. Stay. We should talk.”
He takes off his jacket as he comes back to the living room and sits down. I take the space beside him. He doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t shuffle closer. Just leaves the emptiness there between us.
Neither of us looks at the other, both staring at the floor, not knowing what to say.
“Tonight was a shock.” My words come quite easily after a pause.
“I just didn’t think…” He shakes his head, guilt etched across his face. “I didn’t think,” he says firmer. “Back in the graveyard, when you came over, and I saw… I saw how you were… I just wanted to be with you.”
That hits. His invitation wasn’t done out of anything but concern. He wanted me close.
A blush highlights his stubble covered face.
“I remember what it was like when Bex was in the middle of her treatment.” He swallows.
“I’ve seen plenty of patients with the same.
Having someone around is so much easier than being alone.
At first, Bex was on her own. I wasn’t with her.
I didn’t know it was even happening. And I saw how that affected her. ”
He reaches for my hand, twisting our fingers together. “I promise you are never going to be on your own in this,” he says, “no matter what happens.”
What can I say to that? He wants to be there with me. It’s genuine. I know it is. His eyes are clear, honest. I need to believe him.
But I’ve lost so much before.
“You can’t make that promise. Nobody knows when their time is up. Trust me, it can end when you least expect it.” I pull my hand away from his. “I built walls for a reason, and this is why I don’t let them crumble. Because when somebody gets behind them…”
I catch the sob in my throat before the tears. They come anyway, hard and fast. Ben takes my hand again. I don’t stop him, even though deep down I think I should. But I don’t want to.
I’m caught between wanting the support and hating him for it. Hating that he’s been able to get to me in a way no one else ever has.
His hands are warm. Comforting.
“Antonia,” he says quietly. “I’m here. I’m going nowhere. No matter what this is.”
The tears break into sobbing. My body shudders. He gathers me up like a small child.
I haven’t done this in years, let anyone see me cry.
The only crying I’ve done in the last decade is in the shower on my own, and by the time I step out from under the water, it’s gone again. I’m back to being the hardened version of me.
“No,” I whisper. “Ben, I lost my three-year-old son.” His jaw tightens, eyes heavy. The weight in the room is unbearable. “If I lost him, I could lose anyone.”
He pulls me against his chest. Holding tighter. As if when he lets me go, I may disappear completely.
The painful, heart-wrenching cries have been cooped up for years. I’ve never let anyone hear them, and they come all at once. His chin sits on top of my head so I’m surrounded by him, safe as I cry.
There’s no judgment. No talking away the hurt. Just space to let out all the pain I’ve been storing for so damn long.
His arms are tight, fingers strong against my body.
He doesn’t speak. He just holds me. Like nobody ever has in the past.
Not my ex-husband when our son died. Not my family. No one.
Ben lets me be me.
The grieving mother who lost her little boy years before she should have. Who should never have lost him. We sit like that. I’m not sure for how long, as I cry into his shirt. By the time I lift my head again, it’s tear-streaked, snot-stained, and crumpled beyond recognition.
I glance up at him, and he gives me a half smile. Sad, but understanding.
Ben understands loss, but not the loss of a child. He’s seen bereavement in more ways than I can ever imagine with his patients. He’s lost his wife, but not his child.
And that’s different.
And in a way, I think he knows he doesn’t fully understand.
“In the final few weeks,” I whisper. “Mikey wouldn’t let me out of his sight. I went from a mother and a career woman to a comfort blanket—in the best possible way.”
I’m not sure why I’m telling this story. There doesn’t seem to be a reason, but I just feel like he needs to know.
“Then, a few days before I lost him. Before we lost him.” I correct myself. “I went for a shower. In the past, when I went for a shower, he would lie in his bedroom and play with his teddies. Hell, I even let him watch a bit of TV.”
Suddenly, I’m back there. In the apartment, living what would be one of the worst days of my life.
“But this day, he clung to my leg all day,” I continue. “And when I opened the shower door, there he was. Curled up on the bath mat.”
My heart breaks all over again, like it does every time I remember that moment.
“Mummy,” he said. “Stay with me.”
And that was it.
I knew.
I knew we were in the final days. Maybe he didn’t know exactly what was happening, but he knew he wouldn’t see me for long.
Stay with me.
That has haunted me ever since. My little boy looking up at me and pleading.
“I suppose that’s what I’ve been striving for all these years. With Opengate. With the clinical trials. In seeking justice. I’ve wanted families to be able to stay with each other as long as they can.”
“And you achieved it,” Ben says softly.
I shake my head. He pushes a lock of hair out of my eyes, then his thumb runs underneath, clearing leftover tears. So many words left unsaid. He’s trying to convince me he’s right with only a look.
“You did,” he says again. “You stayed with him, Antonia. And he knows he was loved. Don’t ever discount how much that meant to him.”
He ignored my deflection to work, bringing our conversation right back to the root. To my son. Mikey. The boy I feel like I failed.
It’s then that I realize Ben sees me. All of me. Not just the CEO.
And suddenly, in that moment, I accept that in all of this: I’m no longer alone.