The Lunchtime Special

Chapter 33 - Self-Inflicted Wounds

"You're breaking up with me."

I want so much to tear my eyes away from the hurt and defeat on Jake's face but won't allow myself to take the coward's way out. Rubbing my chest where a knifing pain is tearing at me, I keep my gaze on his and remain silent as he continues.

"Why now? Can't we just keep going as we are? We're happy – or at least I thought we were."

It's so difficult to speak but I have to; I need to make him understand. "To what end, Jake? The longer we go on, the more painful it will be when..." My voice is close to breaking; I stop to take as deep a breath as my lungs will allow.

A myriad of emotions cross his face; sadness and confusion to begin with, a flash of anger and then a cold, bland mask of nothing. His eyes are hooded, so I can't read what he's feeling through their depths. It's a look I've never seen before and I shiver in response.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, thinking I see a brief glimpse of longing flicker over his features before the mask is back.

"Okay." He puts his shoulders back and grabs my overnight bag, placing it down right in front of me then stepping away. "Thanks for coming to tell me in person rather than over the phone." His voice is remote and impersonal and it almost breaks me. That he's given in so easily thrusts another knife through my heart, though I know logically it's better this way. I want so much to be in his arms, his warm strength surrounding me; to take back everything I've said today and just stay. I want to tell him again how much I love him and that somehow we'll work this all out, but even as I have the thought, I know it's impossible. We want completely different things out of life and there's no middle ground, no compromise position that will work for us.

Feeling cracks splintering throughout my body, I pick up my bag and shuffle to the door, fighting desperately to hold back tears. He avoids my eyes as I pass him and when I stop briefly to murmur, "I hope you have a happy life, Jake," before heading toward the stairwell; the thought of standing around waiting for the lift to arrive is unbearable. Clattering down the three flights, I lunge for the outside door, bursting onto street level and glancing wildly about. My composure is hanging by a thread. It's excruciatingly painful just to breathe and I need somewhere private to go so I don't make a huge fool of myself on the city streets; getting on the bus to the airport right now is not an option. Already my vision is blurring as I search for a safe haven, almost gasping in relief at a hotel sign only two hundred metres away. Conscious of barely a fraction of the check-in procedure or journey to my room, I have time enough only to shut the door before the tears hit me and I sink to the floor, my heart shattering into thousands of tiny pieces.

---

"You want me to do the maple sesame vinaigrette?" Rob asks as I chop more pear, pomegranate and roast butternut.

"That'd be great, thanks Rob." We need more basil balsamic dressing for the chickpea and kale salad too; I make a mental note to get on to that next.

After twenty minutes of quiet industriousness, Rob speaks again. "Hey, you know, The Winstons are playing at the Royal tonight and I'm going with Chloe and Laura; you want to come along too?" One of my favourite local bands, the duo plays songs from the Beatles and the Stones through to Bowie, Crowded House and the Foo Fighters.

"No thanks, I'm just going to head home tonight, I'm kind of tired. Long week." I don't meet his eyes when I give my excuse; I know he knows I'm bullshitting.

"Sure. Another time."

That same day I also turn down an offer to see a movie with Ames and have dinner at my parents' house.

"We haven't seen you for ages," my mother points out when I pass on dinner. I don't bother telling her that food hasn't held any appeal to me whatsoever in the past three weeks, knowing it would only encourage her to ply me with home cooked meals and badger me until I was eating healthily again – or what she considers healthily, at any rate. My mother and I don't always see eye to eye on that issue.

"It's been a long, busy week," I drag out the tried and true excuse once more. "I'd just like to go home and put my feet up."

"You can do that here," she persists, "You can stay the night in your old room to save you having to go home. We don't mind if you crash early, we'd just like to see you."

"Mum..." I close my eyes, exhausted merely from trying to resist her. "I just can't tonight."

I keep refusing offers over the next week, hibernating at home whenever I don't have to be at the shop. Sign up time for twilight netball comes and goes without me venturing out, Christmas decorations begin appearing without even a smidge of enthusiasm for my favourite holiday. My new daily routine becomes getting up from a restless night tossing and turning, working as late as I can at the shop before coming home and dropping exhausted into bed, only to find sleep as elusive as the night before.

Will is among those who ring regularly but I avoid him almost as much as I avoid everyone else, because with Will there's now Laila as well, and Laila will remind me of Jake more than I can bear. Whoever said time heals all wounds didn't know jack shit, as far as I'm concerned. Will is nothing if not persistent though, and eventually he simply turns up on my doorstep.

"God, Mia, you look like crap!"

"Thanks," I say, walking towards the kitchen, leaving him to shut the door behind him and follow me. Watching him looking around, I look too and see what he sees – I haven't dusted, polished or vacuumed in ages and my usually immaculate house is proof of my neglect. "Tea or coffee?"

"Whatever you're having is fine," he answers, turning his inspection to me once more. "You look like you could use a decent night's sleep."

Grunting at that understatement, I put ground beans in the coffee maker and fill the milk jug, already craving the caffeine hit I hope will kick-start my morning. My stomach grumbles, reminding me I didn't bother with lunch or dinner yesterday, so I hunt in the pantry, finally finding a loaf of wholemeal that's still okay for toast. Will refuses my offer for some, simply watching me as I shuffle around avoiding his eye. I pile the slice of toast with jam, thinking the sugar hit will give me energy, then pour the coffee once it's ready and give it to Will with a handle that trembles ever so slightly.

"So how much longer are you going to do this to yourself?"

I don't pretend not to know what he's referring to. "Gee Will, don't hold anything back."

He puts down his cup, removes mine from my hand and places it on the bench, then comes and wraps his arms around me, murmuring "Mi-Mi," and that's all it takes before I'm blubbering into his green shirt, sobbing and clinging to him like he's my last lifeline. I feel battered and bruised and I let it all out in a storm of emotion that leaves me exhausted, hiccoughing and sniffling once it finally dies away.

"I've soaked your shirt," I mutter into his chest.

"Doesn't matter." The rumble of his voice around me is as comforting as the strong arms holding me close and I let out a deep sigh, partly in relief at the tempest being over and partly in thanks for the steadfast friendship and support he gives me unequivocally.

"Love you, Will."

"Love you too." I'm still wrapped firmly against his chest, his strong and steady heartbeat next to my ear. "You going to be okay?"

I nod, hoping it's the truth.