Chapter 10
TOM
I arrive fifteen minutes early because apparently, I’m still that teenager who thinks punctuality equals attractiveness.
The restaurant is dimly lit, full of dangling bulbs and ironic chalkboards with quotes about wine.
One of them actually says “save water, drink prosecco.” I instantly want to leave.
A friendly waiter walks me to our table, but I’m too nervous to formulate enough words to generate any small talk, so just smile at him as he walks away.
I feel like a man about to be interviewed for a job he doesn’t remember applying for.
My palms are so sweaty the cutlery keeps sliding when I try to adjust it, and, within a minute, I’ve already rearranged the salt and pepper shakers into four different formations, like I’m rehearsing for some condiment-based military parade.
My heart is hammering and my left foot is anxiety-drumming so much I’m fairly sure the couple next to me think there’s a rave happening under the table.
Then Pete walks in, like he’s stepped out of a lifestyle blog. Casual but deliberate. Navy shirt, rolled sleeves, dark jeans. Stubble trimmed just enough to look accidental. He smiles when he sees me and — God help me — it’s the kind of smile that makes me forget words exist.
I feel immediately underdressed in my Marks & Spencer shirt, which I ironed twice and still managed to crease on the walk over.
“Tom!” he says, striding over. “We meet again. And not surrounded by judgemental seagulls this time. Progress.”
“Yes, and I’m sat down, so less chance of me tripping over a bollard,” I say.
He laughs, loud enough to make heads turn, and I feel ridiculously pleased with myself.
We order burgers and chips—because let’s not pretend either of us are salad people—and settle in.
By the time the food arrives, Pete is already mid-story about a guy he hooked up with once who asked for his Netflix password before they’d even kissed.
“You should’ve seen his face when I said I only had Now TV,” Pete says, grinning. “Like I’d just told him Santa died.”
I’m laughing so hard I nearly snort beer up my nose. This is Pete’s thing — he’s so relentlessly chipper it’s impossible not to get swept along.
I take a sip of beer. “I once hooked up with a guy whose mum came home early. He panicked, shoved me in the kitchen cupboard, and I had to sit there for forty minutes while she cooked a casserole. Hugely uncomfortable, but I got a stonking slow cooker recipe I still use to this day.”
Pete laughs so loudly the couple at the next table glance over.
And this is the general tone of the conversation for the next hour: hookup stories, dating disasters, the kind of anecdotes that would make our mothers faint but which feel like currency here, between us.
Every time Pete laughs, I feel like I’ve won a small prize, like my terrible romantic track record has finally found its true purpose: making him grin at me across a sticky table.
But eventually there comes a natural pause in the conversation. And I feel it’s my time to ask.
“So. James?”
Here we go. The big one.
“Have you been dying to ask all night?”
“Maybe,” I admit.
“You go for it. I’m an open book.”
“Um, well, how does this all work for you?” I ask, trying to sound as chill as possible.
Pete starts, calm but upbeat. “Basically, we decided a few years back that love isn’t this finite resource, you know? You don’t stop caring about one person just because you care about another. So, we opened things up. Carefully. Intentionally. And just decided to see where it would take us.”
“And what’s he like?” I have to ask.
“Well,” he explains, chipper but not flippant. “We’ve been married three years, together for nearly six. He’s brilliant—better cook than me, better taste in music, absolutely useless at parallel parking.”
“Right,” I say carefully. “And he’s… okay with you being here?”
“Oh yeah,” Pete says brightly. “We’re open about everything, without going into the lurid details. But we will talk openly about who we’re seeing and how we feel.”
“But it’s not just about sex?”
“No, we’re polyamorous. Open, but more about actually making space for other connections. It’s not about replacing what we have, more like… expanding the cast list.”
He says it so cheerfully I almost forget to panic. Almost.
“So, James is also seeing people?”
“He has a boyfriend,” Pete says with the same tone you’d use to say “he has a dog.” “Sam. They’ve been together about two years. Lovely guy. Bit obsessed with Lady Gaga, but you can’t have everything.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So, you’ve got a husband and he’s got a boyfriend. Very modern. I feel like I need a flowchart.”
Pete chuckles. “It’s not as complicated as it sounds.”
“Speak for yourself. I once got confused by the relationships on Love Island.”
We laugh, but I’m watching him closely now. His expression softens when he talks about James, but when Sam’s name comes up? Nothing. Flat. Indifferent. He describes him like someone describing a colleague’s desk plant.
“And how do you feel about Sam?” I ask carefully.
Pete hesitates. “He makes James happy. That’s what matters.”
Which is technically an answer, but it feels a little hollow. I file it under red flags to obsess over at 2am.
I take a gulp of beer to buy time. “And this works? I mean… no jealousy? No chaos?”
“Oh, plenty of chaos,” Pete says cheerfully.
“But also, plenty of honesty. That’s the trade-off.
It’s like…trying to build Ikea furniture without instructions.
That’s monogamy — you just wing it because it’s what everyone else does.
Polyamory? That’s the version where you actually sit down, read the manual, and have seventeen conversations about where the Allen key is. ”
I choke on my chips. “That is the gayest analogy I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re welcome.”
He leans closer, eyes warm. “Seriously though — it’s not about being greedy. It’s about being honest about who we are and what we need. There are things that James gets from Sam that he doesn’t get from me and vice versa. We’re just upfront about that, about what we want.”
I’m, of course, desperate to know what these “things” are, but just nod like we’re casually discussing the weather.
“For us, that’s about connection with more than one person. Doesn’t mean James and I aren’t committed. He’s my anchor, my person. But we don’t want to lock each other in a box either.”
I nod, trying to absorb it all. My inner voice is screaming: I struggle to manage one man, let alone a polycule.
Pete must sense the heaviness, because he grins. “Okay, new topic. Tell me about your dad. You mentioned he passed away last time.”
It knocks me sideways. I wasn’t expecting that.
“There’s not much to tell,” I say, stabbing at my chips. “He died about a year ago. Heart attack. Classic mid-seventies cliché.”
Pete’s expression softens. “I’m sorry.” He nods, not pitying, just listening. “That must’ve been hard.”
“Hard and weird,” I admit, “because I grieve, but I don’t. I miss the idea of him more than the man. Miss what we never had. Which sounds pathetic, doesn’t it?”
“No,” Pete says firmly. “It sounds human.”
Something in my chest cracks a little. I’ve talked about this before, with Craig, with a therapist, but Pete’s response hits differently. Simple, no judgement.
“I think,” he continues, “we spend so much time trying to fit our lives into other people’s expectations—parents, partners, whoever—that we forget we’re allowed to want something else.”
I nod, relieved.
“So now,” Pete says, lifting his beer, “I live by one rule: build the life you want, not the one other people think you should have. If that means polyamory, fine. If that means Netflix alone with your cat, also fine.”
“Buster would hate that,” I mutter.