The narrative follows four main sections, tracking Lucy’s romance with Susannah and examining the complications of pursuing a lesbian relationship in a small town like Crossmore. In the first section, Lucy does not fully realize her sexuality, but she senses an attachment to Susannah that gradually becomes romance. In this section, however, the romance manifests fully, with Lucy and Susannah beginning a secret relationship. The secrecy operates as both a protective mechanism and a source of erotic tension, where the risk of being discovered intensifies Lucy’s attraction but also breeds anxiety. The first half of the novel focuses on Lucy’s newfound happiness and love, and her mother discovering her with Susannah marks the shift into the novel’s primary conflict: Lucy’s need to protect her social, familial standing against her love for Susannah. 

Howarth emphasizes how Lucy and Susannah’s relationship makes them happier, with Lucy noting, “I like the person that I actually am now, because Susannah likes her. I think soon I will like myself all the way through” (124). Lucy also observes that Susannah acts out less often now that they are dating, and these elements are intended to show how, for Susannah and Lucy, being authentic in their romance is an important part of being themselves. This is a pivotal moment in the theme of The Significance of Sexual Awakening, as Lucy begins to link self-acceptance to her ability to express her desire openly and without fear. The relationship validates not only her feelings for Susannah but also the idea that those feelings can be a source of stability and joy rather than danger or shame. The mutual calming effect of their relationship contrasts sharply with the turbulence imposed by outside forces, underscoring the tragedy of their later separation. Their happiness together and with themselves raises the stakes for the coming conflict, as they will struggle to return to this contentment.

Lucy’s defining trait is her sustained self-awareness, sharpened by Howarth’s use of interior monologue, which grants the reader unfiltered access to her private evaluations of herself and others. She constantly measures how she is perceived, how she perceives herself, and what changes—good or bad—might lie ahead. Yet this awareness rarely translates into action. She admits to her poor performance in school without trying to improve it, understands Martin’s feelings for her without altering the dynamic, and recognizes how Crossmore labels her without challenging those perceptions. This inertia crystallizes after the party at Susannah’s, when Lucy leaves early to avoid the temptation of intimacy. She tells herself that she must go “before [Susannah] rolls over and gives [her] a reason to stay,” but she hopes that “a piece of [her will] be left behind” before asking, “Is that dirty? Is that fair of me?” (87). These questions capture her divided nature: She wants to remain tethered to Susannah without accepting the vulnerability that such a bond would require. Her avoidance is shaped by the environment she inhabits, both the stifling moral codes of Crossmore and the undercurrent of emotional withdrawal at home, which has taught her that maintaining appearances is safer than risking confrontation. In such a climate, wanting something too openly can feel like an invitation for scrutiny, and Lucy has learned to shield herself by holding back. Instead of confronting her feelings, Lucy retreats, just as she does with Martin, her schoolwork, and other mounting pressures. This recurring choice to withdraw becomes central to her character arc, showing how her fear of loss and exposure continually outweighs her longing for genuine connection.

As Susannah and Lucy begin dating, the theme of Overcoming Obstacles in Forbidden Love comes to the forefront. Lucy is paranoid, fearing that others might realize their relationship. Susannah is the opposite, making it clear to Lucy that she is only concealing their love for Lucy’s sake. Lucy notes that women “are blessed with an anticipated level of intimacy” (101), so they can be physically affectionate in public. Here, Howarth employs irony, as the same gestures that protect their secret also allow them to maintain the illusion of platonic closeness, creating a constant tension between safety and authenticity. These touches are limited to a hug, an arm around one shoulder, or a brief touch on the hand since Lucy knows that the girls “would not love [her] if they knew” (104). Even though the physical affection that Lucy and Susannah are allowed in Crossmore provides some comfort, Lucy knows that anything beyond that thin barrier between visible friendship and romance would lead to social rejection. For example, when Susannah brushes Lucy’s hair behind her ear and looks at her, Eimear says, “Ye dykes” (117), a slur used against lesbians. The effect of these comments is evident in Lucy’s reaction, as she comments, “It will be a full fortnight before I will let Susannah touch me in front of her again” (117). This delayed withdrawal after the insult illustrates how moments of casual antigay bias are internalized, quietly reshaping Lucy’s behavior long after the incident. These restrictions weigh on the relationship since Lucy is neither willing to expose her sexuality to social rejection nor willing to stall the progression of her romance with Susannah.

The conflict of Lucy and Susannah’s hidden relationship peaks with Lucy’s mother catching Lucy and Susannah having sex in her room. Prior to being caught, Lucy notes how her “parents don’t like to see people looking for equality, or for any change at all” (116), which foreshadows Lucy’s parents’ negative reaction when they discover Lucy and Susannah’s relationship. However, Lucy’s mother does not have an overt, negative reaction. She simply leaves the room and ignores Lucy. This silence is a form of emotional erasure, a refusal to name or acknowledge the truth, which becomes more damaging than open condemnation. Lucy thinks, “My love… is a fight to exist in my own home. Is that not exhausting? Is it worth it?” (131), showing how effective Lucy’s mother’s tactic is in forcing Lucy to suppress her feelings. Lucy says, “Let me do this, do not question me while I unearth Martin’s heart form the grave I once dug” (134), showing how she understands how unethical her behavior is but also acknowledging that she has no choice if she wants to balance her love for Susannah with the need for acceptance. The grave metaphor here frames her rekindling with Martin not only as a resurrection of something dead but also as an act that disturbs the past, suggesting that any relationship built this way will be haunted by what it replaces. By reviving Martin’s love, Lucy shifts the conflict from a mere matter of secrecy into an overt decision between Susannah and Martin. This pivot also marks the moment when Lucy consciously begins to weaponize heteronormativity for survival, even at the cost of betraying her own desires.

Although the interior monologue centers Lucy’s perspective, it also aims to shape how the reader perceives Susannah—often through glimpses filtered by Lucy’s longing, insecurity, and fear. This limited view makes Susannah difficult to know fully, yet what comes through is her remarkable tolerance for Lucy’s hesitations and retreats. She accepts Lucy’s halting expressions of affection without pushing her beyond what she is ready to give, creating a rare space of safety in a world otherwise marked by judgment. In this way, Susannah becomes both a catalyst for Lucy’s sexual awakening and a quiet counterpoint to the repressive forces of Crossmore, embodying the possibility of a relationship built on acceptance rather than conformity.