Page 90 of Vivacity
I’ve had to have a serious chat with my Seven parts about this burgeoning ‘thing’ between us. Philip guided me through it earlier this week. The story I tend to tell myself is that, when I next enter a romantic relationship, I’ll only do it with someone who’s done sufficient work on themselves.
I’m pretty strict about this, actually. I’ve put in the hours, I’ve done the work, so why should I put up with someone else’s unresolved trauma? That’s not cruel, it’s self-protective. I don’t want to be with a guy who’s clingy because he hasn’t worked onthe sources of his attachment style issues, or one who’s avoidant for the same reason. I want to be in a relationship of two grown-ups who know how to parent themselves.
The teeny problem with this is that the vast majority of people, of course, have not done the work. As Athena loves to point out with irritating regularity, that’s not actually a problem for me. It’s a get-out clause. It allows me to remain free as a bird while absolving me of all responsibility for my lack of meaningful, non-transactional relationships.
Of course, Athena was just as bad as me until she met Gabe, except that her motivations were different. She was too scared that a boyfriend would eat into her precious time meant for achieving.
See? It’s never about actions with my beloved Enneagram. It’s always, always about motivation, baby.
Anyway, because Ihavedone a lot of work on myself, and because uncovering my blind spots through wonderful epiphanies is part of how I get my dopamine kicks, my freakout when my double Seven confrontation hits is relatively contained.
Why double?
Because not only do I have tositwith uncomfortable feelings without running away to do something distracting, but because thesubjectof said uncomfortable feelings is that Ethan may, horrifyingly, be morphing from a bit of a mess, let’s face it, into a guy who is doing the work and may—may—actually be a keeper, if he stays on this path.
Yeah.
Bummer.
The absolute worst part is that Athena called it that night at Alchemy.
Look, I’m not your average Seven. I’ve done the work. I may be a butterfly, but I understand the importance of feeling safe enough to land somewhere (in theory, at least). I may operatefirmly in the happy half of the human emotional spectrum, but I make a real effort not to shy away from dark thoughts. A permanent fixture on my bedside table is a book literally calledHealing Through the Dark Emotions.
See? I’m trying here.
The really, really scary part of all this is that I’ve seen enough chinks of light in Ethan’s character, in his fragile nervous system, to realise that, fully healed, the guy may even be the perfect foil for this little Seven.
Calm to my chaos.
A safe container for my mess.
Consistency to my abandonment fear.
Stability that stops me from wanting to chase the next shiny thing.
Protective without controlling.
Okay, okay—I admit the last one may be a stretch. This is Eight we’re talking about, after all. But it’s not beyond the realms of possibility.
He told me one night in Mustique that my belief in him is the reason he has the strength, the courage, to undertake this journey of healing and self-discovery. That I’m the first person in his life to truly see him. To get past the walls and the protectors and the tests and truly see the man within.
And the worst—or best—part is that I think it might be true for me, too. The guy knows bugger all about this stuff. He’s never heard of the Enneagram. He’s super new to parts work. And he’s still standing at the very base of the mountain range that houses emotional literacy and self-awareness and nervous system regulation. He’s barely begun his upward climb.
Despite all that,it feels like he truly knows me.
And that is fucking terrifying.
Lotta Duffy,née Carlotta Montefiore-Charlton, has been the self-styled queen of parties since her parents infamously hired out the Hard Rock Cafe for her eleventh birthday, but she’s mellowed a lot since meeting Aide, who’s a grumpy self-made billionaire with a heart of gold. He comes from a pretty impoverished background, so excess and entitlement still don’t sit well with him (his wife, a tech heiress, has no such problems). I’m embarrassed to say I’ve never made it to the home they share, the home Lotta’s property development firm actually built for him before they ever met, but I haven’t exactly spent much time in the UK in recent years.
Besides, it’s somewhere out in the sticks. Only the certain knowledge that any party hosted by Carlotta Duffy is bound to be a hoot would have me venturing out of central London on a freezing night the week before Christmas.
And oh, has Lotta gone to town. Holy crap.
Ethan’s driver pulls into a sweeping driveway, the trees and shrubs lining it all dotted with the prettiest, tiniest white fairy lights. The exterior of the house itself is modern and stunning, and when we enter, my gaze is immediately drawn to the enormous Christmas tree that dominates the vast, double-height hallway. It’s decorated only in white and gold, the reflection of its twinkling lights muted on the fabulous poured concrete floor.
My tastes usually run a little more traditional, but I could totally get on board with this. And it’s so much fun to imagine Lotta here. She’s told me before how much she loves this place, even if her home growing up was full of Hermès china and Versace rugs, thanks to her flamboyant Italian mother.
The place is already filled to the brim with glamorous looking people, and Shakin’ Stevens is pumping out. I would have been very disappointed if Lotta’s taste in music had matured beyond the cheese I remember from uni. I accept a coupe of champagne from the server hovering by the entrance and grin up at my handsome date. He looks so dashing with his hair combed back and his Tom Ford burgundy velvet smoking jacket. And, honestly, I don’t care if they all hate him. I don’t care if he gives them nothing, because why should he open up to strangers if he doesn’t feel safe? I don’t care if they think he’s standoffish or arrogant or a corporate raider, because they haven’t taken the time to get to know the man beneath. They may be my friends, but they haven’t earned the right to judge him.
