Even with the situation as it is, she still keeps moving forward.
I drain my own cup, take her wrapper, and go throw it in the trash. By the time I’m back, she’s on her knees, covered in dirt, handing me a trowel. I drop down beside her, taking one of the small white flowers, digging a hole and popping it in.
“That’s not straight,” she says.
I glance over, raising my eyebrows. “Seriously?”
“Well, if you’re going to do a job, do it right.”
She smirks but doesn’t look at me, her eyes back on her own plant. I remove the flower and move it three millimeters to the left.
We work away quietly, the bed coming to life. Small white flowers alternating with pink ones.
Each area designed with flowers to create a different theme. This is Antonia’s. Pink and white.
Looking at her in the boardroom, she’s the least pink person you’d ever imagine. All hard-nosed and black suits. But outside, she’s soft. More herself. The woman I’ve come to know.
I love the contrast.
With the flowers done, she sits back on her heels, the sun on her face, closing her eyes. I just watch her.
She’s tired. I can see that. The shadows under her eyes give it away.
But there’s a calmness there that hasn’t always been these last few days. It’s as if she’s in her own place, in her own peace. Or maybe she’s just holding it together.
“What are you thinking?” Antonia whispers.
Her eyes are still closed.
“How do you know I’m thinking anything?”
“You’re quiet,” she says. “And when you’re quiet, you think.”
That’s true. I pause, not quite sure how to say what I want to. “I’m just thinking I’m proud of you.”
She falls silent then. Her eyes open, looking straight through me.
I hold her gaze and pray that this time the story ends differently. Because I don’t think I can survive it if it doesn’t.