Ah, there we go.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I reply as patiently as I can. Nick always attacks when he’s sulking about something. His MO has always been to lash out first, make grovelling apologies later. I used to be referee between him and Emmy when she was seventeen, when the screaming matches were about curfews and Bacardi Breezers. Another stab of guilt slices up my spine.
“I’m just not sure I’m ready for all this to change,” he says, mainlining olives and stirring his drink aggressively. I wonder how many he’s had.
“It’s understandable to be nervous, Nick,” I reply. “Has something happened with Priya?”
“We had a fight.”
Of course they did.
“What happened?”
“She said that if I can’t get over my need to control everything then she’ll be raising this baby with her parents.” He finally makes eye contact with me and I can see the fear in his eyes.
“And what did you say to that?”
“I said over my dead body was my kid being raised by her parents,” he says, with a groan. I wince.
“And how did that go down?”
“She told me to grow up and went to bed.” He shakes his head. “I just… I feel like I’m fucking it all up. I can’t stop thinking that something will go wrong with the pregnancy, or something will happen to us, or that she’ll realise I’m fucking useless and leave. How can I possibly be ready to handle a tiny helpless human being?”
“You’re scared,” I say, quietly.
“Yeah,” he says, rubbing his face with both hands. “And I know I can’t control everything and that the odds are that everything will work out fine, but I can’t stop this sense of panic, you know? I can’t just relax and be happy because I’m continually waiting for the other shoe to drop, for life to turn around and go NOPE and take it all away.”
I lean across the table and squeeze his shoulder. Just then, the waitress reappears and deposits my drink, casting an alarmed look at Nick, who’s basically on the brink of tears.
“None of us can tell the future, Nick. But you can’t let your fear of what might happen steal the joy from what IS happening. You guys are having a baby. You’re starting a whole new family together. There is so much to feel thankful for, but if you keepworrying about what might go wrong, you’ll deny yourself all the happiness of what you’ve got right now.”
“You’re right.” He lets out a long breath. “I was an arsehole before. Sorry, mate. I’m all up in my head and I lashed out. I’m a dick.”
“You are a dick,” I agree. “But you’remydick.” He coughs out a rough laugh and the tension crumbles like a biscuit in tea.
I pat his hand once more and slide his glass out of reach. He doesn’t need another hit of pisco sour. The waitress swoops in with our order and two enormous pizzas land on the table. With luck, carbs will soak up the self-pity.
“So, how’s the club?” he asks, through a mouthful of pepperoni. He always calls it “the club” and never by its name. I think he’s terrified that someone will overhear and think he’s part of the kink world. The reality is that we are so small and exclusive that it’s highly unlikely someone would hear the word ‘Salt’ and have a clue what we’re talking about.
“It’s good, thank you,” I reply. “We’ve had a boost in members recently and Jessie’s planning a bunch of themed nights.”
“Sounds great!” he replies. He’s asking to be polite but I know the idea of learning too much about what goes on behind Salt’s doors is a bit scary for him.
“You know I sorted out a standing membership, if you ever want to pop down,” I remind him, giving him a grin. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, as if the idea is completely preposterous.
He was shocked when I first told him I was quitting my job to open Salt, and he tries to be supportive. But his questions have always been surface level. I learned to stop oversharing the day I got too enthusiastic describing a custom spanking bench from Italy – he went pale, muttered “gosh!” and “jolly good!” like some Victorian elder who’d caught a glimpse of a bare ankle.
I realised then and there that this was an area where our tastes and interests dramatically diverged, so I don’t give him more information than he wants and he can tick off ‘ask Luke about work’ without fear of learning anything about pegging or water play.
Realistically, I knew it wouldn’t be his scene from the get-go but I never wanted to hide it from him because Nick and I are like brothers. We don’t keep secrets.
Well, until now.
He follows my update with his own work update – a story about his boss being tricky about him taking shared parental leave – and I listen supportively as I eat my pizza.
We finish the meal and walk back to the tube together, Nick talking about the flowers he’s going to pick up for Priya. I nod, adding “mmhm” where needed, but my brain has gone back to thinking about Emmy and what I’ve got planned for her.
By the time we part ways, he claps me on the back and pulls me into a one-armed hug. “Thanks for listening, mate. You’re a good friend.”
