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Chapter 8

TOM

He says my name and everything in me starts fizzing, like someone’s tipped a can of Coke and a Berocca into my bloodstream. I try to walk toward him at a normal-human pace, which in my case is somewhere between “lost tourist” and “man whose shoelace has betrayed him.”

“Hi,” I say, aiming for suave and landing on breathy.

“Hi,” he echoes, smile easy, eyes crinkling. “Fancy seeing you here and not by the avocados.”

“Uh, yes, well, I’ve branched out,” I say. “I’m testing a new diet plan. Less healthy fats, more tripping hazards.”

He laughs. “Well, it’s a pleasant surprise. I’m just here for a walk while the sun is out, before it no doubt turns to torrential rainfall next week.”

“Yeah, same here.”

He gestures down the harbourside. “You fancy carrying on the walk with me?”

My brain immediately short-circuits. Walk? With him? In public? While consciously controlling my limbs?

“Yes!” I say, far too quickly and with uncomfortable levels of enthusiasm. “Absolutely. Yes. Walking. Love… walking.”

Inside, I’m screaming.

Oh god. He wants to walk with me. Act normal. Do not do that weird arm swing you do when you overthink walking. Just… be human. A human who walks. Normally.

Pete holds out a hand, guiding me forward and we fall into step. The water is slap-slap against the boats; seagulls wheel overhead, plotting crimes.

“I do this loop when my brain’s noisy,” I say. “Less therapy, more sea breeze and passive-aggressive seagulls.”

“Same,” Pete says. “Although I tend to find it’s the pigeons who are really out to get me.”

“Well, they can be particularly devious.”

It’s stupid, how quickly the conversation loosens. Tesco had felt like a fluke—two strangers flirting in an aisle built for hummus. This feels like… a sequel. The good kind. The Paddington 2 kind.

“So,” Pete says, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets. “What do you do when you’re not consulting on avocado ripeness for the community?”

“Currently? Not a lot. Sabbatical. Life administration. Long walks. Arguing with my cat.”

“Ah, a cat person.”

“Don’t put me in a box,” I say. “He won’t allow it.”

Pete grins. “How long’s the sabbatical?”

“Undefined.” I try on the word and it fits and doesn’t fit all at once. “I used to work in finance—long hours, very sexy spreadsheets. My dad died and it sort of… reoriented me. I’m figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.”

“Sorry about your dad,” he says—simple, no pity, which I appreciate.

“Thanks.” I clear my throat. “What about you?”

“I do a lot of project stuff,” he says, and proceeds to describe work in those modern terms that mean everything and nothing—stakeholders, deliverables, timelines. “Basically, I herd people and make sure things happen when they’re supposed to.”

“So, you’re a wizard.”

“I’ll put that on my LinkedIn,” he says, and we both snort.

A child on a scooter slaloms between our knees like a small, helmeted assassin.

We keep walking, swapping Bristol notes—favourite coffee spots (we both say Ahh Toots by the Christmas Steps and then argue over our favourite cakes), favourite place for a roast (I admit my booking at the Bank Tavern for October made over ten months ago better be the most wondrous roast in existence), the Balloon Fiesta (we both pretend it’s whimsical while quietly admitting watching balloons rise is only so much fun and the traffic is post-apocalyptic).

He asks if I grew up here. I nod. “Bristol-born, yes. Redland. Mum died when I was young. So, I was just mainly me and Dad…”

“And how was that?”

“Um, well he was…complicated.”

“Oh, complicated how?” he asks gently.

“Um, well…we never quite… connected,” I say. “He wasn’t the most emotional man, kind of like having a relationship with your school headmaster. We loved each other, we just never really knew each other.”

Pete nods in that way that says he’s listening and not planning his next sentence. “Family can be like that,” he says. “Like you’re both tuned to slightly different radio stations.”

“Exactly.” I smile, surprised by the relief of being understood. “What about you?”

“I grew up all over,” he says. “Bit messy, bit chaotic. Bristol’s the first place that felt like somewhere I chose.” He kicks at a loose stone. “I like that it’s beautiful without trying too hard. Scruffy-pretty.”

“Like me,” I say automatically, then die inside. “I mean — not that I—”

He laughs. “Scruffy-pretty works for you.”

I wonder if it’s possible to spontaneously combust from blushing.

We loop by the water taxis and I, in a moment of overzealous eye contact, nearly walk into a bench. Pete catches my elbow. His touch is light, anchoring.

“Careful,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say. “It would be very on-brand of me to be felled by street furniture on a first… non-date.”

“I’m sure there’s a plaque for that.”

We keep talking. The easy stuff. The little hooks you throw out to see if someone will catch them: favourite films, the worst gig we’ve ever been to, our takes on the proper ratio of crisp to sandwich.

And then the conversation tilts and deepens without either of us pushing.

He tells me about nights where he can’t sleep, and how walking the harbour calms the brain.

I tell him about the particular silence after my dad’s funeral — the way you expect the world to notice and it doesn’t.

We keep it light, but the light has roots.

At the swing bridge we pause and lean on the rail, watching the water traffic puzzle its way through. Pete squints at the sky, then looks at me with that little half-smile. “I’ve had a nice time,” he says. “It’s been nice to get to know you.”

“It has,” I say, and immediately want to make a joke to undercut it, because sincerity makes my skin itch. But I let it sit. Let it be simple.

“So,” Pete says after a beat, “how do you feel about meeting for a proper drink? Not now — another day. Somewhere with chairs that aren’t attached to the floor.”

The words ping around my skull like pinballs. I manage not to squeal. “Yes,” I say, too quickly. “Yes, that would be — good. Very good. Medium good with strong potential to be excellent.”

He laughs. “Great.”

We start walking again and that’s when he clears his throat—the kind of clearing that signals a gear change. He looks straight ahead when he speaks.

“Before we make any plans,” he says, “I should say something. I prefer to be upfront.”

My stomach does a cautious little fold. “Okay.”

“I’m married,” he says. “I have a husband.” He waves the ring on his finger that I had missed all day, hiding in plain sight.

“Oh,” all I can say at first. Like a gut punch.

“We’re in a polyamorous relationship,” he adds.

For a second, the words bounce off my brain like hail. Married lands first. Polyamorous lands second, a half-step behind, dragging a suitcase.

Somewhere in the distance a seagull laughs.

I try to keep my face neutral, regretting my choice to not continue with my quarterly Botox injections last year.

“Right,” I say, channelling calm schoolteacher. “Okay. Right.”

He glances at me. “Maybe I should have told you before we started walking—"

“No! You didn’t need to!” I feel like I’m shouting. Am I shouting?

I’m doing a very controlled internal panic. On the outside I’m composed, on the inside there’s a small choir singing ‘oh no’ in four-part harmony.

Pete winces a smile. “It wouldn’t be fair to not mention it before we go any further.”

“No, I appreciate the… mentioning now,” I say. “Pre-date mentioning.” I inhale. “So. Polyamorous.”

“Yeah,” he says. “James — my husband — and I have been together five years. We opened our relationship a couple of years in. We date other people. We’re not looking for a third or anything like that. We each have — and can have — separate relationships. James has a boyfriend.”

James. Husband. Boyfriend. My brain opens a Google Doc titled Polyamory For Dummies (Panicking Edition) and starts bullet-pointing questions.

I nod and remember to breathe. “So when you say ‘date’… you mean actual dates. Feelings. Dinners where you talk about your days. That sort of thing.”

“Yes.”

“Not a… membership card situation.”

He laughs. “No laminate required.”

“And James knows about… all of this.”

“Yes,” he says gently. “That’s kind of the core feature. Communication. Honesty.”

“Right, right, of course,” I say, cheeks heating. “Sorry. I’m new to the glossary.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “Ask anything.”

I chew my lip. “So… what does it look like? Like… do you have a rota? Google Calendar invites? ‘Polyamory Schedule’?”

“We… actually do use calendars,” he admits, grinning. “Because adults are tired and logistics are real.”

“I respect a colour code,” I say, buying time while my insides reorganise themselves. “Do you—” I lower my voice—“ever get jealous?”

“Sometimes,” he says, honest as a window. “We both do. But we don’t treat jealousy as a signal to stop; we treat it as a signal to talk. It’s not the big bad wolf. Just… information.”

“And what are you… looking for?” I ask. “With me. With anyone.”

“I don’t know yet,” he says. “I try not to bolt ‘future’ onto someone I’ve known for an hour. I just know I like being around you. You make me laugh. I felt something in Tesco beyond avocado chat. And walking with you now feels…easy.”

God help me, I melt a little at you make me laugh. Half of me is beaming, the other half is holding up a caution sign.

Daniel flashes through my mind—rules, conditions, the way love was a door you had to earn the key to. The idea of more than two people in an emotional equation makes my legs go wobbly; I’m still learning how to put myself first in a duo.

I couch it in humour. “So, if we went for a drink, I wouldn’t be auditioning for the role of Live-In Boyfriend #2 who must love dogs and alternate Sundays?”

“No,” he says. “You’d be meeting me. One person. If it grew, at some point you’d meet James. His boyfriend, he’s not a secret. People I meet aren’t a secret. He’s… part of my life. But I’m not looking to fold someone into our house like a fitted sheet. I’m not… hunting a unicorn.”

“Good,” I say before my mouth can stop me. “I’m much more of a depressed Shetland pony.”

He laughs so hard he has to pause, hand on the rail. The sound untangles something in me.

“Look,” he says when we start walking again, “I get that this might be a no. I won’t be offended. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Most guys are immediately put off by it. I just didn’t want to pretend to be something I’m not. It wastes everybody’s time.”

We walk in silence for a minute. I watch a water taxi nose into the jetty; I watch my reflection break and reform in the chop. The angry choir in my head settles to a hummed countermelody.

Here’s what’s true: I like him. I haven’t liked someone like this in a long time. Here’s what’s also true: the word married pokes a bruise I didn’t know I still had. Part of me wants the simple rom-com, the monogamy montage, the “it’s just us now” final shot.

But another part knows that simple isn’t always honest.

I try to hold all the truths at once without judging them. It’s like juggling custard, but I try.

“I’m… surprised,” I say finally. “And I’m also grateful you told me. I can’t promise I understand it yet. But I want to understand you. You seem—” I reach for a word that isn’t doom-laden—“just lovely really.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping. “Thank you.”

“And I do appreciate the honesty and the openness,” I add. “I’ve dated men who hid far less.”

And married them too, I think to myself.

Daniel’s addiction to gambling only came out later into our relationship, when he got himself stuck in a financial hole it was impossible to get out of without a significant other finding out. At the time, I did everything I could to help him out of this and it nearly ruined us.

We smile at each other in that slightly incredulous way people do when a conversation has veered off-road and somehow found a better view.

A gull lands on the rail ahead of us and stares at me like it’s waiting for a confession. We both crack up. The tension slips its shoes off.

“Look,” I say, finding myself again, “if we do go for a drink, you’ll have to explain the rules like I’m taking a language class.”

“I can do that,” he says. “I’m very patient. And there’s a quiz at the end.”

“I’m not very good at quizzes,” I admit. “Although I once won the ‘90s girlband quiz during a bottomless brunch at Blame Gloria.”

He bumps his shoulder against mine, light and warm. “That’s quite an accomplishment. You’ll be fine.”

We circle back past the M Shed. A little boy points at the cranes and shouts, “Dinosaurs!” and for a second I feel about seven, brand-new and hopeful and desperate for the day to last forever.

“So,” Pete says, stopping, turning to face me fully. His face is open, a little nervous, the kind of nervous that means the answer matters. “Do you want to see me again?”