Chapter 9
TOM
Craig’s front door opens almost instantly, like he’s been waiting on the other side with a stopwatch and a wooden spoon. He fills the doorway in that familiar way—broad-shouldered, neat beard, hair cropped close enough to look regulation even on a day off.
In his day job, he’s DCI Craig Hollis with the Avon and Somerset Constabulary, where he has worked for the best part of twenty years.
“Look who it is,” he says, pulling me into a hug that smells like garlic and laundry detergent. “Bristol’s most eligible avocado consultant.”
“I’ve diversified,” I say, handing over a bottle of red. “Today I advised a carrot on investment strategies.”
We move straight into their kitchen, which looks exactly like what you’d expect from two men who can assemble Ikea furniture without a breakup: plants that are somehow thriving, copper pans that gleam like a teeth-whitening advert, and a carefully chaotic pinboard of postcards and gig tickets.
Craig claims the space like a stage manager, stirring a pan with one hand and flicking the oven light on with the other.
Craig’s husband of ten years, Phil, appears from the hallway, buttoning a shirt with the kind of care you only give to buttons when you’re hoping someone will unbutton them later. He’s shorter and slimmer than Craig, with hair artfully tussled and a scruffier beard.
“There he is—our emotional support guest has arrived,” Phil says, kissing my cheek. “You look well. Slimmer? Are we allowed to say that these days?”
“Probably not, but I’ll take it,” I say. “It’s a new diet. Anxiety and panic-based.”
“Oh, well, that’s the best kind. Anxiety is huge this season.”
“Let me take that,” Craig says, relieving me of the wine and giving it a quick approving nod. He’s in a navy sweater rolled to the elbows, forearms tanned from some recent optimistic weekend in the garden.
Phil reaches for his wallet on the counter, glancing at the pinboard. “Okay, I’m heading out. Don’t wait up kids.”
“Text me when you get there,” Craig says without looking. Then he does look, softening. “Have a good time.”
“I will,” Phil says, kissing him. It’s unshowy and domestic and entirely lovely. He kisses my cheek again on the way out. “If he burns the rice, don’t let him gaslight you.”
The door clicks shut behind him. Craig lifts a shoulder. “Hot date. Nice guy. Teaches pottery to children, if you can believe that exists.”
“Children still exist?” I say. “I assumed we phased them out in favour of dogs with Instagram accounts.”
He smirks. “You okay with him going out? I only remembered he’d planned it when you texted you were on your way.”
“It’s your house,” I say. “Besides, he looked disgustingly happy. I’ll allow it.”
Craig returns to the hob with a pleased grunt. “Good. We aim for disgustingly happy around here.”
I hop up onto one of their kitchen stools. The seat squeaks in a way that suggests I should have been doing squats since 2019. “Smells amazing. What’s on the menu?”
“Coconut rice, sticky aubergine, limey slaw. And something green to prove I care about your health.”
“Please don’t,” I say. “I’ve had enough green for one lifetime.”
He pours us both a glass of wine. “So,” he says, “tell Uncle Craig about Tesco Mary.”
I tell him all about running into him by the harbour, our long walk together. Craig listens with a grin that grows in increments, like a loading bar for gossip. When I get to the part about the offer of a drink, he claps once, delighted.
“And then,” I add, trying to sound casual and failing, “he told me he’s married.”
“Oh.”
“Polyamorous.”
Craig’s eyebrows lift but he doesn’t miss a beat; he moves the pan off the heat with the kind of smooth economy that probably terrifies criminals. “Ah.”
“Ah,” I echo. “I know. And I did the thing where I tried to be very cool and adult and ended up saying something about schedules and laminating. I think I compared myself to a depressed Shetland pony?”
“On brand,” he says.
“I just… I don’t know.” I pick at the label on the wine bottle. “It was such a nice moment. And then — thud. Married. Husband. Boyfriend. And yet he was so kind about it. Upfront. Honest. Are people allowed to be genuine and married to other people, while also asking me out for a drink?”
Craig waves his wooden spoon around like a magical wand. “I mean, hello!”
I snigger. “Yes, obviously you and Phil are both wonderful and sensational.” I sigh. “I think we need to talk through this open relationship thing again. We’ve not discussed it for at least a year.”
Craig plates up with theatrical flourish. He’s one of those cooks who moves like he’s also conducting an orchestra: a little toss here, a squeeze of lime there, a drag of spoon to make a sauce swoosh. “Come sit,” he says. “Let’s talk.”
We eat at the little round table by the window, where you can see the dusk pressing its forehead to the glass. Craig forks rice into his mouth, nodding at my plate. “You will compliment the aubergine. I don’t make the rules.”
“It’s very aubergine,” I concede, and he accepts this as the highest praise.
“Right,” he says, settling back. “Polyamory. You know how it works for us.”
“I know some of it,” I say. “I know Phil texts when he goes out and you colour-code your calendars like a gay air traffic control tower.”
“True,” he says. “It’s… not complicated, but it is layered. Like lasagne. Or trauma.”
“Don’t say trauma and lasagne in the same sentence,” I say. “I’ll never be able to look at either again.”
He kicks my shin lightly. “For us, the big things are boring but important: communication, consent, kindness. We tell each other what we’re doing because it prevents game-playing and late-night catastrophising. We set boundaries. They aren’t punishments; they’re seatbelts.”
“And jealousy?”
“Still exists,” he says easily. “I’m not Buddha.
Sometimes Phil goes on a date with someone shiny and my stomach tries to invent an emergency.
We talk about it. We don’t treat jealousy like a crime; it’s just honesty.
Why are you spiralling? What do you need?
More reassurance? Different boundaries? A hug and a biscuit? ”
“A biscuit seems vital,” I say.
“And compersion is real,” he adds.
“Which is…?”
Craig sips his wine. “It’s that ridiculous joy when someone you love is lit up by someone else. It’s not immediate. It’s a muscle you build. But when it kicks in? It’s magic. Like watching your favourite person discover a new favourite song.”
I try to picture it: the man beside me, and the man he loves, both living in a world where joy isn’t a finite resource you have to ration like butter in wartime.
I’ve spent years slicing myself thin to make love stretch.
A greedy part of me leans toward the idea of abundance like a houseplant swivelling to the light.
“I mean, you make it sound so normal and healthy,” I admit. “But I still don’t get why you would want to be in this kind of relationship?”
Craig pushes his fork into the rice, thinking for a moment before answering.
“Look, it wasn’t because monogamy was awful, or because either of us was desperate to shag half of Bristol.
We loved each other, still do. But we both kept bumping into the same itch — this sense that love was bigger than the box we were trying to stuff it into.
We wanted the freedom to admit when we connected with someone else, without it being treated like a betrayal. ”
“But it wasn’t from day one, right?” I ask.
“No, true. We had been together for at least three years before we even dared to talk about it.”
I scrunch my forehead. “I don’t know if I can get my head around it. Hooking up with randoms, maybe. But polyamorous?”
“And that’s far enough. It’s not like these are the only options. There are plenty of variations, different people view it in different ways, but, if it’s a route anyone wants to consider, it’s all about finding something that works for both of you”
He takes another sip of wine, eyes steady.
“An open relationship never quite fit for us. Just sex without emotion? That felt too flat, too clinical. We didn’t want sneaky flings with strangers we’d never see again; we wanted the possibility of real friendships, even love, alongside what we already had.
For us it wasn’t about avoiding boredom — it was about expanding the definition of what family could look like. ”
He shrugs, almost apologetic but not ashamed. “Polyamory gave us language for what we were already craving: space for honesty, space for care, space to build something bigger than just the two of us without tearing down what we already had.”
“It sounds so romantic when you put it like that,” I say, maybe with a hint of sarcasm.
“Well, it’s also admin heavy,” Craig says, amused. “Google should sponsor us. There’s nothing sexier than a shared spreadsheet, Tom. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen two grown men negotiate a holiday schedule with colour-coded cells.”
“Stop,” I say. “I can’t believe you of all people have made me horny for Excel.”
He points at me with his fork. “Look, I know it’s different for you, being the single person here.
That said, here’s the rule that helped me the most: be clear about what you can and can’t offer.
Don’t promise boyfriend energy if you’ve only got Tuesday nights and one functioning emotion.
Don’t pretend you’re okay with casual if you know you imprint like a duckling. ”
“Which I do,” I admit.
“Which you do,” Craig confirms.
I chew, considering. “What if I don’t know what I can offer until I try? What if I get it wrong?”
“You will,” he says, cheerfully brutal. “We all do. But you’ll understand why you got it wrong and maybe it won’t be for you. It’s not a test with one right answer. It’s a language you learn by speaking it.”
Something in my chest loosens—like a tight belt unbuckling one notch.