I’m not in the mood for debate. “Enough. The agreement is dead in the water. We need to move on.”
“Did they propose an alternative timescale?”
Through the window, the site is shaded gold. The sun up and ready for the day. A digger sits idle in the corner. It will be getting collected later today.
“I didn’t ask,” I whisper, moving to the window, trying to catch a breath.
My lungs have barely filled since I was woken by the phone call at four this morning. A heads up from a concerned employee of the company about the email about to land in my inbox. Without thinking, I’d dressed, pulled on my boots, and headed to the site, wanting to fix it all before daybreak. It became the new chaos to control.
My early morning calls to contractors’ cell phones hadn’t been welcomed. It wasn’t until I checked my watch that I realized how early it was. I kept trying until I had enough options in place.
“What time did you get here?” Ben asks. We both look outside at the possibilities now frozen. I don’t answer because I don’tknow for sure. He exhales, no doubt frustrated that I cut him out.
It wasn’t deliberate; it’s just how I operate.
And he knows that.
Over the past few months, I’ve shown that over and over. We wouldn’t be opening next year, never mind in summer, without it.
“I’ll guess before the birds sang,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there is a hint of amusement on his lips. “A delay wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
He walks toward the door, heading, I’ve no idea where. Nothing is happening outside. Maybe just needing space from me. The thought nips.
“Terminal illness waits for no one,” I snap. My defenses, which have begun dropping with him, fly back into place.
He stops, then turns slowly. The line of his jaw catches the morning light. I try not to dwell on it. “You think I don’t know that? I live it every day of my life. Professionally and—personally.”
Silence fills the office. The kind that steals air. His expression tightens slightly, like he’s regretting the emotional slip. Part of me wants to go to him, console him. But I stay steady. Emotion helps no one.
“You’re not the only one who understands what’s at stake,” he whispers. He steps closer again. Not aggressive. But sure. The gap between us reducing. “This isn’t just a timeline, Antonia. It’s someone’s last week. Their last Christmas with their family. The last number on a birthday cake they’ll see. If we rush, use the wrong contractor, we get it wrong…”
“Well, maybe you should trust me then to get it right.”
My boots leave trails of mud as I move to join him. He looks at the mess, and I pretend not to see it. The walk around the sitewhen I arrived, using the torch on my phone, hadn’t been my best idea. Now, the floor is decorated with remnants.
“I’m trying to keep this project on track and budget.”
“This is more than a project to me,” he says, tone sharp. “Grief can’t be fast-tracked. We need to get this right.”
“And I will.”
“I or we,” he shoots back, then exhales sharply.
Neither of us speaks, facing off across the office. He lifts a hand, running it through his hair. It’s then that the top of his shirt gaps slightly, exposing a smattering of dark strands.
“We,” I force out, pulling my eyes away from where I shouldn’t be looking. Somehow, we’ve moved closer again. Both of us leaning in. Every nerve activates, my hands clenching into fists.
“It doesn’t feel like it. You didn’t even ask about an alternative schedule.”
“I didn’t need to.” The justification leaves my lips before I can examine it. Immediately, I want to shrink but railroad myself not to.
“This isn’t a partnership, Antonia. This is you needing control.”
I freeze. He’s right. And he’s called me out for what deep down I knew I was doing.
“Message me when the site meetings are,” he says, turning away. “I’ll be here.”
He pauses at the doorway, flinching as if about to say something else, but he doesn’t. He leaves, and I’m left standing in the site office.