Daniel opens the fake rock to find the spare key reflecting in the moonlight.
For the first time all night, Daniel smiles.
He slowly slides the key into Tom’s side door, and it turns easily, like it belongs to him.
The door yields with a soft click.
Daniel steps inside.
Chapter 7
TOM
The next morning, I’m back doing the harbourside circuit, which is basically my version of therapy, but with more blisters and opportunity for alcohol. The same loop I’ve done hundreds of times: start by the M Shed, up to the SS Great Britain, dodging joggers who look like they’re auditioning for the Olympics, and smiling politely at couples holding hands like they’ve cracked the code of the universe.
This used to be mine and Guy’s loop.
Guy, my work wife, amongst other things.
Lunchtimes, back when we both worked in finance. Guy was one of the rare ones in the office who didn’t make me want to fake my own death during meetings. We’d grab sandwiches, walk the harbour, and moan. I’d complain about Daniel, he’d complain about his partner, and somehow we’d both end up laughing by the time we got back. A friendship built entirely on shared grievances and ham sandwiches. I miss that. I miss him. And now I’ve left my job and he’s not around, the walk feels quieter.
I pass a group of tourists taking selfies by the cranes. The backdrop of industrial history on one side and the Coyote Ugly Saloon on the other. What a time to be alive.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Grindr. Again. Of course.
I swipe it open like the masochist I am: the same faces, the same men who’ve been “online now” since 2013, with the same pictures,the same “hey” from people I ignored yesterday. Then the Lazarus accounts—the ones I’ve blocked, who miraculously rise from the dead with a new profile picture and slightly tweaked bio. Sometimes Grindr is basically The Walking Dead but with more poppers.
A cock pic arrives without preamble. Looking angry and tragic. It’s draining. I’m not shocked anymore. Not surprised. Just numb. Scrolling for connection on an app where ninety percent of people think “connection” means “can you host?”
Grindr is like waiting for a train. Profiles all promise “on my way,” but you’re still stood on the platform 40 minutes later, wet, disappointed, and realising you should’ve just taken the bus. Every bio is the same: Masc. No timewasters. Into fun. Which could mean literally anything from Monopoly to fisting. Half of them say “discreet” like it’s a selling point, and the other half are blank profiles who message with a passive-agressive “?” if you don’t reply within twenty seconds.
Honestly, it’s like the world’s worst job interview process, except the HR department is a headless torso and overly eager to show you their bumhole.
I went on a date with a guy called Dan a few years back, who said he would never write off Grindr because he’d made some “wonderful lasting connections” and “close friends” through it.
The only lasting connections it’s helped me make is the Unity sexual health clinic on Tower Hill.
My experience? Not so much lifelong friendship as lifelong therapy bills. Clearly Dan was living in some kind of delusional Narnia where dick pics are ice-breakers and Mr Tumnus is discreet, into fun, no timewasters.
Well, maybe I’m just jealous. Congrats, Dan, on your wholesome, Disney Channel Grindr experience.
Although last I heard, I think he got stabbed on holiday.
I use my walk ’n’ scroll Grindr time to do something productive. I try to find Pete. Not that I know where he lives, or whether he even has a Grindr account. But I set a reasonable age range and scroll anyway, hoping. Nothing. Which, annoyingly, makes me like him more. There’s something attractive about not being there. About not being another thumbnail on the block.
Guy used to love listening to my Grindr rants. He’d lean over in the office, stealing my crisps, and say, “Why don’t they just put what they actually want? Saves everyone the drama.” I told him if gay men actually wrote what they wanted, Grindr would combust and take theentire internet down with it. He laughed and Diet Coke came out of his nose, over his monitor. I think about that now and smile like an idiot.
But then the smile fades. Maybe I made the whole Pete thing up. Maybe it wasn’t flirting, just politeness. Maybe he looked at me and thought, poor sweaty man in the fruit and veg aisle, better humour him before he cries into the avocados.
That’s the thing about loneliness—it’s a gaslighter. Even when you have good friends like Craig, who’d drag me over hot coals before letting me spiral, it still creeps in and whispers: you’re imagining things, no one actually likes you, stop embarrassing yourself.
I just want someone to share life with. Someone to laugh at stupid telly with. Someone to bring to Sunday lunch who isn’t my cat.
Speaking of which—Buster. I make a mental note to buy more tuna on the way home or face his furry wrath.
I stop by the water’s edge, watch a boat trundle past with a stag do already on their third round of pints. One of them is dressed as a lobster. Life is cruelly unfair: he’s going home tonight with someone, and I’m here, alone, desperately searching for my mystery man on a Grindr grid like it’s my last hope.
I unlock my phone again and scroll back through my texts.
