“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.