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 atyou 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 wordmarriedpokes 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 understandyou. 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.”
