Daniel, who made me believe that control was love. Who had a love for gambling, but not the debts that came with it. The divorce should have freed me, but it only left me wary and scarred.
I close the photo app, placing the phone by my side.
As if on cue, my phone buzzes. A message. Daniel.
I stare at the notification on the lock screen. Just his name. This isn’t unusual — he texts sporadically. Sometimes just to say hi. Always Daniel, never me, but something I always find uncomfortable. Even now I feel the obligation to acknowledge and reply.
But not tonight.
I should open it. I should see what the man who once held ten years of my life in his grip has to say. But I don’t. I place the phone face down on the coffee table, heart thudding louder than the cat’s purr.
The wine glass wobbles in my hand. The house creaks. Outside, a car door slams.
Buster lifts his head, ears twitching.
I breathe heavily, uneasy. The air feels weighted, like the house is holding its breath with me.
The phone buzzes again.
I turn my head, glance toward the window. For the briefest moment, I swear I see movement in the darkness outside — a figure at the edge of the lamplight, standing too still, watching.
I blink. Gone. Just shadow. Probably.
No, not tonight, I decide.
For once, I leave my phone on the coffee table. Face down, buzzing in the dark.
Waiting.
Chapter 3
TOM
Saturday morning, and Tesco is already auditioning for Dante’s next circle of hell.
The automatic doors swoosh open to unleash a wall of humanity. Trolleys clatter, children shriek, and the man at the entrance is attempting to hand out leaflets for “Tesco Mobile” with the same enthusiasm as a hostage reading a ransom note.
I shoulder a basket and sigh. I had imagined the morning differently: maybe a little brunch, a little flat white action, a little quiet reflection. Instead, my inbox coughed up a cheery email over porridge:
Thank you for attending Bristol Speed Dating! We’re sorry to inform you that you had no mutual matches this time. But don’t give up — love is just around the corner!
They may as well have added:Please try again once you’ve grown a personality.
So now, here I am. A man on a mission to buy salad and distract myself from the fact I’m statistically less appealing than a CrossFit obsessive and a man with fourteen gerbils.
I push past a display of doughnuts, their sugar-glazed eyes begging me to adopt them, but I resist and head into the fray.
The supermarket is chaos.
A toddler wails near the frozen peas, parents negotiating like UN diplomats. An old man blocks the cereal aisle, studying boxesas if they’re ancient manuscripts. Somewhere, a trolley wheel squeaks like a tortured hamster.
I weave through it all, narrating to myself. “This is fine. Civilisation is intact.”
I toss items into my basket: olives, hummus, sourdough bread. God, when did my inheritance turn me into a middle-class cliché? I reach for a bottle of wine, think better of it. Too early. Even for me. I take two.
My phone buzzes, this time with the familiar pop of Grindr. Against my better judgment, I open it. A new message:Hey, how’s your morning going?The profile picture is disarmingly wholesome—strong jawline, kind eyes, the sort of smile that looks like it could carry my shopping bags and still ask about my day. Other pictures: walking in the forest, laughing at a coffee shop, not an ounce of flesh on display. Even the bio feels like a breath of fresh air:Dog dad. Loves Sunday roasts. Can actually cook risotto.
For a moment, my chest lifts. A man who doesn’t open with anatomy shots? Revolutionary. I start to type a reply — something light, something witty — but then my eyes flick to the fine print beneath the profile.
