That’s what I’ve learned from these past few months, from this past year, from meeting Ben.
That time gives us all different chances, and we have to grasp them when they arrive, even if it wasn’t what we planned.
We all climb into the car. Ollie and Liam wrestle over who gets the front seat.
“Do you not want to sit in the back?” Ben says. “That’s the whole point of a limo.”
“No, I want to sit up front,” Ollie says, pushing his brother out of the way.
Liam gives up. He always does. I get the impression Liam understands what’s more important in life than his brother does. But I suppose when you lose your mum, that’s understandable. Little inconveniences don’t seem so big.
Once everyone’s in and settled, we head off. The city disappears, and we fly through open countryside. Savannah sips a cool glass of champagne while Ollie talks the driver's ear off. Rose takes more selfies than an influencer, posting each one to her socials and tagging us.
Liam sits quietly. A soft smile on his lips.
And Ben just holds my hand. Nothing needs to be said. This is progress.
The black gates of the retreat sit wide open. A handful of protesters stand at the edge, a few stragglers determined to hang on to the bitter end to prove that Opengate is the wrong company to be aligned with in life. So attached to the cause, they no longer read the evidence.
Most of the negative press has died away now.
Most of the hatred’s passed.
And we’re just doing good.
That’s the truth—when someone steps out into the wild, when someone puts themselves out there and does something that people want to write about, there’s always going to be hate.
It doesn’t make it wrong.
It makes it important.
It means you’re making a change.
As we pull up in front of the main building, a large red ribbon is tied across the door. Camera set up, ready to snap the perfect shot.
I’m stepping out of the limo when Julian comes hurtling toward me.
“Isn’t it amazing, Antonia? Look what we’ve done.”
I want to tell him to shut up. This isn’t all him. He’s caused so much grief over the project. But I don’t. My comments stay buried. Today isn’t for verbal warfare. And he knows I only give him as much rope that I’m comfortable with.
Ben comes to my side and slips his hand around my waist. “Well done, Julian,” he says. “Well done for the part you played in this. For putting us on the map.”
Julian beams. He accepts the compliment without any hint of the implication underneath. His chest puffs out, and he trots away to, no doubt, seek more praise elsewhere.
“Shall we?” Ben says, offering me his arm. He leads me over to the stage. The emcee shakes our hands as we climb the stairs.
The opening will be simple. Nothing too fancy. Local press and a few dignitaries scattered around. An introduction to the reason the retreat exists, and an invitation for people to look around. What we’ve built is what is impressive. Not us.
Really, this is the end of our story. We’ve made it.
Or it’s the start of a new one.
I’m not sure.
I’m ready to begin when I look down into the crowd, and there’s someone I never expected to see.
I nudge Ben. “Look. There’s Anna Collins.”