“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 likethat. We each have — and can have — separate relationships. James has a boyfriend.”
James. Husband. Boyfriend. My brain opens a Google Doc titledPolyamory 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.”
