18. Chapter Eighteen #2
Walker's expression softened. "Dion isn't everyone."
“Growing up, I was always told I was too needy. Comfort was something weak people needed. It was all about image.”
Walker was quiet for a moment, considering.
Then he sighed. “I can’t tell you where he is.
I cannot betray the trust of a man who saved my ass more times than I can count, but I will say that next month Abby is planning an open Little night at Salvation.
I can persuade him he needs to be there to help with security.
I can’t make him listen to what you want to say.
All I can do is get you both in the building. ”
My mind whirled. “You think I should be a Little?”
Walker shrugged. “Are you a Little?”
“Not in the same way as Abby,” I confessed.
“Then don’t pretend to be anything you’re not,” Walker said. “There’s already been too many misunderstandings between you. Dion deserves your honesty, even if that means he still walks away.”
I gazed at Walker. “You’re a good friend.”
His face softened. “Be brave, and be yourself,” he whispered. I reached up and kissed his cheek, then turned. Be myself. Good advice. I just needed to know what that looked like first.
The next morning, I sat in Dr. Anna Reeves' office, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. Abby had given me her therapist's number weeks ago, but I'd never imagined I'd actually use it.
"Tell me why you're here, Emily," Dr. Reeves said gently. She was younger than I'd expected, tiny, and I loved her shocking purple hair. Apparently, it had been blue last month.
"I reckon I've ruined the best relationship I've ever had," I blurted out, then unleashed a torrent of words about the warehouse fiasco, the argument that could win awards for drama, my kidnapping, Dion's vanishing act, and my constant tango between what I wanted and what I thought I should want.
Dr. Reeves listened like a Zen master, nodding occasionally and tossing out clarifying questions like confetti at a parade. When I finally ran out of steam, she paused, probably pondering if she should charge me double for the entertainment.
"So, specifically, what do you think you've ruined?" she inquired.
"His trust in me. That I don’t need him." When he was everything I needed.
"And how would you describe him?"
"He's someone who needs to be needed, who’s got a PhD in caring for others. Someone who..." I stopped, hunting for words like a cat chasing a laser pointer. "Someone who makes me feel treasured instead of a walking disaster."
"That sounds like a jackpot worth chasing," Dr. Reeves pointed out. "What's standing in your way?"
"I don’t know how to morph into what he needs. I was always taught to be strong, fiercely self-reliant. The thought of letting someone else steer the ship, even occasionally, makes my palms sweat."
"Why?"
The question was simple, yet it sliced through my defenses like a ninja. "Because what if he decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth?" I searched around for a metaphor. “Like a high-maintenance plant.”
Dr. Reeves leaned in with a wise nod. "Emily, when you were with Dion, did you feel like a high-maintenance plant?"
I pondered, my inner honesty meter ticking away. "No," I confessed. "I felt... like a rare flower."
"Then maybe the real question isn't whether you're too much, but whether you're ready to trust that you're just the right amount." She let me ponder that. “Has Dion tried to change who you are?”
I shook my head miserably. He’d told me he’d get rid of the changing table. Would never make me use pacifiers.
"Never," I said, the memory making my chest ache. "He kept telling me he wanted me exactly as I am. Even said he'd throw out anything in his playroom that made me uncomfortable."
"And yet you're sitting here convinced you need to become someone else for him?"
The contradiction hit me like a slap. "I... yes. I guess I am."
"Emily, what if the problem isn't that you're not enough, but that you're so afraid of being vulnerable that you're sabotaging your own happiness?"
I stared at her, the words settling into my chest like stones. "You think I'm self-sabotaging?" Even if I guessed, it seemed more real when she said it.
"I think you're terrified of being abandoned, so you're abandoning first." Her voice was gentle but direct. "Tell me about your childhood. What happened when you showed vulnerability?"
The question opened a floodgate. I told her about my mother's criticism, my father's emotional distance, the constant message that needing comfort was weakness. How I'd learned to bury my softer side so deep I'd almost forgotten it existed.
"Until Dion," Dr. Reeves observed.
"Until Dion," I agreed. "He made it safe to be... smaller sometimes. To let someone else carry the weight."
"And that terrified you."
"Yes." The admission came out as a whisper.
We talked for another thirty minutes about trauma responses, attachment styles, and the difference between healthy dependency and codependency. By the time I left, I felt raw but clearer.
That evening, I called Abby.
"Emily!" Her voice was bright with genuine pleasure. "How are you? Daddy said you were okay, but we've been worried."
"I'm... figuring things out," I said honestly. "Abby, I need help. Walker mentioned an open Little night at Salvation, and I need to be there. But I also need to be honest about who I am, not pretend to be something I'm not."
"Of course!" Abby's enthusiasm was infectious. "We don't have to use the sparkly laces even if you do need to wear sneakers."
Which in typical Abby fashion made a ton of sense. "I need to understand what my dynamic actually is. Not what I think it should be, or what I'm afraid it might be. What it really is."
There was a pause, then Abby's voice came back warmer. "Want to come over? Clare's here too, and we can talk about it properly."
An hour later, I sat in Gideon and Abby's living room, surrounded by the comfortable chaos of their life together. Poppy, their golden retriever, had tried to claim my lap, her warm weight soothing my nerves.
"So," Clare said, curling up in an armchair with a cup of tea, "tell us what feels right to you. Not what you think should feel right—what actually does."
I thought about my time with Dion, sorting through memories like photographs.
"I love when he takes care of me," I said slowly.
"When he feeds me, or bathes me, brushes my hair, or makes decisions when I'm overwhelmed.
But I don't want to be treated like a young child.
I like feeling grownup most of the time. "
"Why are you worried that Dion wouldn’t like that?” Clare asked.
“Because he made decisions without involving me,” I said. “He decided what was best.”
Clare gazed at me for a moment. “Were any of those decisions to stop you from getting hurt?”
I groaned and leaned my head back, staring up at the ceiling like it was going to give me answers. “Yes.”
“And could it possibly be because Dion is a Marine who had already gotten you out of a trafficking situation where a lot of evil people were out to hurt you, and he hadn’t recovered from that?”
I stared at her. It made sense. Horrible, awful sense. “All I’ve thought about is me,” I confessed, shame curling around me. “I never thought once about how Dion felt after it all.” I’d been expecting him to make the change. Change who he was when he didn’t expect the same from me.
“I don’t deserve him,” I whispered, my words catching. “He won't talk to me. What if it's too late?"
Abby sat beside me, taking my hand. "Then at least you'll know you tried. But Emily, if Dion loves you—and I think he does—he's probably just as scared as you are."
"They take on the world,” Clare said. “Military men do that all the time. It’s in their DNA, but add being a Daddy to the mix, and it’s a very protective combination."
“I want that,” I said. “I'm just insecure enough to worry he feels I’m incapable of looking after myself.” But even as I said it I knew it wasn't true.
"I imagine he’s frightened of not being enough for you," Clare said quietly. "Of being too much. I was frightened about getting lost in this dynamic, but I feel freer than ever."
“How about we meet upstairs at Salvation to get ready for the open night?” Abby suggested, and I nodded.
The open Little night was still two weeks away. Two weeks to prepare, to figure out exactly what I wanted to say, to gather the courage to face the possibility of rejection.
But for the first time since the warehouse, I felt something other than despair.
I felt hope.