She had said humans were born to be individuals and that, evolution-wise, we were never intended to be tied to one person.“We’re not fucking penguins,”she’d said, and had dubbed marriage “crusty.” Had said that getting married was the equivalent of submitting to a “crustilitarian regime.” Then she’d declared she and I were too smart for that nonsense and would always be “free agents.” At the time, I’d dismissed it as yet another linguistic vacation from my darling, bonkers Megs.
Those kinds of talks were near enough an everyday occurrence with her. Along with frequent deep dives into our sexualities, discussions on whether crows and or dolphins are smarter than people, lectures about how all men are bastards, sermons on how having lots of tattoos should make you more employable not less, speculation on starting an OF for our feet—yes, our feet, not just hers—and general commentary on the world through Megan’s eyes. She also watches a lot of alien and UFO conspiracy-type stuff and has Opinions™.
“It’s UAP, not UFO. Get it right if you must argue with me,”she’d say.
Megan glances around the now empty theatre. “I feel like . . . we should keep things as they are between us, and that if you want to kiss . . . other people of the same gender, I can be fine about that so long as I’m granted the same freedoms.”
“Oh, okay . . .” I say, my mind whirling a mile a minute, piecing all the clues together. “You want an open relationship?”
She looks at me for a moment, takes a deep gulp of air, and bites her lip. “I don’t want either of us to feel stifled, like trapped. Not able to . . . explore parts of ourselves that need exploring. But at the end of the day, I love you, and I’m not ready to hand you over entirely. Does that make me selfish?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Excuse me, sorry. We need to clean the screen now.” It’s the purple-haired cinema attendant. Megan and I nod in acknowledgment and collect our belongings.
“And if you want to explore other things with this no-name guy . . . well, that’s cool, so long as I can do the same,” she says.
“You already have someone in mind?” I don’t even know if I’m hurt by this. On the one hand, I was the one to break our trust pact by kissing my teammate. On the other, she’s premeditating it. On theotherother hand—foot?—she’s straight up giving me permission to fuck a dude.
Megan nods. “Lucy.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. Lucy works with Megs at Brille, an events planning company in central Bath. She’s trans, Amazonian, throws a meanMario Karttournament, and Megs never shuts up about her.
“Okay . . . okay . . . are we really doing this?” I puff out a long sigh. My heart is pounding frantically against my ribs.
Megan purses her lips together, her eyes wide. “What are the Ts and Cs?”
“Ooh, the Ts and Cs, good point. Um . . .”
We step out of the foyer into the crisp November evening. Christmas lights twinkle down each street, and empty market huts are being erected into position ready for the festive season.
“Are you hungry?” I say guiding her across the road to Nando’s. There’s a reason this is my favourite cinema. “Let’s get wraps.”
Megan smiles, and follows me regardless. “I always forget how much you rugby players eat.”
Inside the restaurant, only one person recognises me. He makes a comment along the lines of “Good luck on Sunday,” but doesn’t want a photo, and Megan and I find a table in the corner and remain unbothered for the rest of the night.
“So, terms and conditions?” she says. “We should always be one hundred per cent honest with each other.”
“Agree.” I take a bite of my peri peri wrap. Fuck, it’s good. “That’s why I had to tell you about P—about that guy. I don’t think we should keep secrets.”
Megan spoons rice into her mouth. I know she clocked my slip-up. She swallows and raises an eyebrow. “No secrets?”
This already isn’t going well. I close my eyes to give myself a second to muster the courage to respond, but she speaks before I can.
“This needs to be about . . .” She looks around the restaurant, probably to make sure there aren’t any kids about, but it’s ten o’clock on a Friday night, and the youngest person here is the llama head sixteen-year-old near the windows. “Only fucking. About sating a curiosity.”
“Makes sense.”
“I’m not saying don’t fall in love because that ain’t something we can always control, but what I am saying is thatifwe fall in love . . .” Heavy emphasis on the word if. “We must tell each other straight away. I don’t want to be the kind of person still fucking with the guy whose happiness literally lies with someone else.”
I nod. “That I can do. And same. I love you, but if you figure out you’ll be happier going exclusive with Lucy, you need to let me know.”
I love Megan. I really do. It’s just that I’m not . . . in love with her, and I don’t think I ever have been. I’m pretty sure shefeels the same about me. Our relationship has always been more about convenience, great sex, and having fun. Technically, we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, but the reality is that we’ve never been more than very good friends who sometimes make out with each other’s genitals.
Megan salutes me. “Aye, captain.”
“So, no secrets, no falling in love, anything else?”
