So, I do. Haltingly at first, then with more momentum. I tell her about our history together, about Nick, her parents, about how we ended up in this mess. I talk about the way she’s rediscovering herself, how proud I am of her, and how I’m terrified I’ll ruin it.
And then, because she doesn’t stop looking at me with that infuriating calm, other things tumble out too. Lucy. The wallsI’ve built since. How Salt became my fortress, somewhere I could control every variable, every outcome, so no one ever got close enough to hurt me again. How I convinced myself that keeping everyone at arm’s length was the right thing to do.
We talk about my childhood and my absent parents, the disinterest that lodged itself so deeply under my skin that Lucy leaving me was just confirmation that I wasn’t worthy of actual, proper love.
Dr Keane listens. She doesn’t flinch. When I run out of words, she only asks, “What would you tell ten-year-old Luke, if he were sitting across from you right now?”
The question sits under my skin like shrapnel. Ten-year-old me.
I sit in silence for what feels like an hour before I manage, “That he’s enough.”
My throat burns. My eyes sting. I stare at the floor, gripping the sofa like it’s the only thing tethering me to the planet. And for the first time in years, I don’t run.
Two months later
I’ve been going to therapy three times a week since Emmy and I spoke, and for the first time in years, I’m more at peace in my own head. Where I used to wake up with a knot in my chest and visions of her walking away, now I catch myself smiling at the thought of her. I still miss her, painfully, constantly, but the guilt and panic have eased into something quieter. Hope, maybe.
It’s been brutal at times. Dr Keane doesn’t go easy on me; she has a knack for asking the exact question I don’t want to answer.
It’s a different sort of power exchange, and I’m far out of my comfort zone, but every week I can feel myself getting closer to being the man Emmy deserves. She did make a joke about metrying to top her from the bottom so I knew I’d found the right person despite how little I enjoy excavating my past. At least she’s got a sense of humour.
Emmy and I still text most days, little flashes of each other’s lives, but we agreed not to see each other until we were ready. I need to be sure. And so does she.
Nick and I haven’t crossed paths since the night of the big row. He called to apologise a few days after – short, stiff, both of us dancing around the real conversation. But there was a crack in the ice. Enough that, if I’m lucky, we might find our way back.
I’m just settling down with a drink at Salt when Jessie sidles up to me. It’s a Wednesday night and not an especially busy one so the bar is quiet. Just quiet enough for us to have a proper conversation as we lean on the bar and survey our little kingdom.
“Have I ever told you how much I cried when you offered me the job managing this place?” she says, eyes on the stage.
“No,” I reply in surprise. I’ve known Jessie for a long time and I’ve never seen her cry.
“I remember thinking, this is a man who cares so much about consent and respect and kink, this club will be a paradise for women. And I was right. We’ve got more female members than any other club in London, if my spies are correct. And that’s down to you.”
She flicks her eyes up at me, and I look sideways at her.
“You know Keira? 23, little brunette, always wears Doc Martens?” Jessie continues. “The first time she came here, she could barely look anyone in the eye. Last week, she stood on that stage and performed a burlesque strip tease to a standing ovation. She told me she never thought she’d feel safe in her own body again until she came here. You did that, Luke.”
I shake my head. “That’s all you, Jess. You run the show.”
“Bullshit.” Her voice is calm but firm. “You built the place. You set the tone. You’re the reason people trust us, trust you. You’ve set people free.”
I swallow, looking back at the stage, the empty spotlight.
Jessie leans in. “If you can do that for the strangers who pass through our doors, imagine what you could do for someone you love. You already did, if my conversations with Sloane are anything to go by. You think Emmy doesn’t already see the type of man you are? She does. The only question is, do you?”
I don’t answer in words. I simply wrap my arm around her shoulder and give her a squeeze. She smiles and leans her head against me.
“You’re a good man, Luke. You deserve to be happy.”
And for the first time in my adult life, I think that might be the truth.
I’m about to thank her for being so supportive, for being the kind of friend who holds me accountable while making me feel loved, when my phone rings.
I fish it out of my pocket.
“Luke? It’s me,” comes Nick’s breathless voice. “Can you get to the hospital? Priya’s in labour and I’m freaking the fuck out.”
A familiar wave of calm comes over me. I’m good in a crisis. Not my own personal crises, sure, but in everyone else's.
