Dad walks in, tall, broad, beaming. He wraps me in a quick hug, kisses Mum’s cheek, then sinks onto the sofa beside me. Next to him, I look like a pocket edition.
When I was a kid, I used to think I’d grow into a giant like him. Obviously, that didn’t happen. And for a while, realizing I’d never match his height or build made me feel… small. Lesser, somehow.
People always said I was lucky to have inherited Mum’s looks, but I didn’t want to be “pretty.” I wanted to be strong. Solid. Someone you couldn’t knock over. Like Dad.
It wasn’t until I moved to Paris that I realized how many people, men and women, were drawn to softness. To delicacy. To me. Slowly, I learned to own it. To lean into what made me different. But sitting here now, beside him, I feel a flicker of that old inadequacy stir.
Not that he’s ever made me feel like a let-down. If anything, he’s gone out of his way to support me. For a man who lives and breathes finance and rowing, it can’t have been easy to accept a son who spent more time at the piano than outdoors. I even considered taking up dance once, couldn’t stop thinking about it,but I backed out before I even began. Too scared of what they’d say. Too afraid of being the source of their embarrassment.
Luckily, my talent at the piano saved me in their eyes. From the moment Miss Abigail gave me my first lesson at nursery, she told them I was gifted. They didn’t need to be told twice. From that day on, my life became a regimen of structure and discipline. Schoolwork had to be flawless, even with hours of practice each day.
If I hadn’t genuinely loved the piano, I think I might have broken under the pressure.
Meeting Maddie and Anne in secondary school was the first time I felt like I actually belonged somewhere. They didn’t just tolerate me, they liked me. That was new. Most kids thought I was odd. Too skinny, too nerdy. While they were obsessed with mud, football, and rowing, I was obsessed with Chopin and Schubert.
Girls certainly weren’t lining up for the class weakling who spent his weekends performing concert études. But Maddie and Anne? They were curious. Enthralled, even. They loved hearing about my piano competitions, the cities I’d travelled to, and the strange hotels and concert halls. Mum let them come over from time to time, probably because their families were suitably “respectable.”
Whatever her reasons, I was grateful. For the first time, I had friends, real ones. Maddie and Anne didn’t just accept me; they loved hearing me play, and that meant everything. Over time, we became inseparable, sneaking out on warm summer nights to lie on the grassy banks of the Avon, smoking, talking, sipping cheap beer under the stars.
We’d sit close, backs pressed together, arms brushing, bare skin brushing bare skin, our own quiet little universe.
Looking back now, I understand why I mistook it for something else.
Because itwaslove. Just… not the kind I thought it was.
Without Maddie and Anne, I honestly don’t know who I’d be today. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the panic attacks began after I left for Paris, after I leftthem. Back then, running away felt like survival. I didn’t have the words to explain what was happening inside me.
But now… now I do.
And there’s only one way forward.
I have to speak. I have to say it out loud.
REMI
After lingering a bit too long in the spa area, I just about manage to reach Scarlett Green on time. Francis is already outside, arms folded, eyebrows raised in theatrical impatience.
“Finally! I’m wasting away here.”
“It’s barely 12:30,” I say, still catching my breath. I basically sprinted the last stretch to avoid being late.
He pulls me into one of his trademark bear hugs and murmurs in my ear, “Doesn’t matter. I need to refuel after last night… if you catch my drift.”
I pull away with a grimace while he laughs, utterly unbothered, giving me that cheeky look of his. “Oh come on, Remi, can’t you ever take a joke? I honestly don’t know how our little pianist puts up with you…”
“Ugh, Francis. Must you?” I groan. “And don’t call Seb ‘our little pianist,’ for God’s sake.”
“Touchy,” he says, smirking. “I wonder how he puts up with you.”
“Drop it," I snap.” And spare me the bedroom updates. Anne’s like a sister to me.”
“Exactly,” he says, grinning wickedly. “Which is why you’re lucky she’s the one I’m sleeping with. Otherwise, we’d have a serious problem.”
We do have a problem, actually, just not the one he thinks. And he’s about to find out.
He slings an arm around my shoulders as we head inside. It’s my first time at Scarlett Green, though I’ve heard the hype; it’s one of London’s current hotspots. The place is all soft greys, warm woods, and deep greens, lit by rows of oversized bulbs hanging low from the ceiling. Lush potted plants spill over shelves and windowsills in that effortlessly curated way thatprobably took hours to get right. Cosy, polished, and clearly not cheap.
I just hope the food lives up to the decor, because something tells me the bill won’t be gentle.
