Tuesday & Max

24

CONVERSATION DON'T COME EASY

BUT I'VE GOT A LOT TO SAY

IF YOU LOOK AT WHAT WE ONCE HAD

WELL, IT FEELS MANY MOONS AWAY

The restaurant is warm. Tuesday's fingers tingle as heat seeps back into them and she fumbles with her chair as she pulls it out, apologising quietly to the people she almost bumps on all sides. The room hums with conversation and it takes her a second to pull herself out of everyone else's chatter and refocus on Jack.

He was quiet all the way here. It's funny how she often prays for silence when she's with him, but now that she has it, she can't bear it.

"Here's your menus. I'm Dan, and I'll be your server for the night," says Dan the server, his smile wide but his eyes bored. He's chewing gum. "Can I get you any drinks?"

Tuesday looks expectantly at Jack. He's staring hard at his menu like it's an equation he isn't qualified to solve.

"Could we just get some water please?"

Dan the server leaves and then it's just them.

"What are you having?" Tuesday asks. Her voice is too bright. "I was thinking a pizza, or the risotto maybe. Have you had risotto? It's actually really good."

Jack closes his menu and puts it on the table. First, he rests both hands on top of it, palms down, but then they hug each other instead, fingers weaving themselves into a tight embrace.

"Do you even love me anymore?"

God, please don't.

Guilt, embarrassment and annoyance flood Tuesday in equal measure, but her voice is small when she answers. "Why?"

"Do you?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Why does that matter? It should be an easy question to answer."

Because I know you think it's because of Max, Tuesday screams inwardly, and please, please, we've ignored his for months and God, finally, maybe it's all coming out at last.

"It doesn't matter," Jack mutters to himself, picking up his menu again. "It doesn't matter. I'm sorry. I'm ruining things, I'm ruining dinner."

"It does matter," Tuesday says quietly. He throbs with hurt. The air between them is rippled with it.

"What can I get you guys for your mains?" Dan the server says, appearing amongst the tables as if he's teleported there, sensing the perfect moment to intrude. He places a water jug and two glasses on the table.

"I'm not sure if we're ready—"

"I'll have a Margarita pizza, please," Jack answers tersely.

"Do you need more time?" Dan the server asks Tuesday.

"I—no, it's okay. I'll have the risotto please."

"Great!"

Off Dan the server teleports again.

In the absence of his menu, Jack stares at the table now instead.

"I'm sorry," Tuesday says quietly. He looks up. "I'm sorry I haven't seen you. I'm sorry I'm distant. I know I get focused on things, like Lost World and drama club and my sewing stuff, and it's like I don't have time for anyone else around it."

And Max. But Tuesday just can't bring herself to be the one who initiates that discussion. All she wants, suddenly, is for everything to be okay again.

"But I do love us. I do. I'll try harder."

Jack sighs, but some of the tension leaves his body. "It's okay. I'm busy with uni too. Sometimes I just get paranoid, you know?"

No you don't.

"I get paranoid that I'm the only one left in this relationship."

Sometimes you are.

"I just think that you'd tell me. You know, if you want to be out of it. Wouldn't you?" He looks up, smiles weakly. "I mean, please don't do that. Unless you want to."

"I don't."

Do I?

Tuesday stuffs the little voice in her head, the trouble-making side of her that just seems to want to fuck everything up, deep down inside her. No. You're wrong. Go away.

"Okay." Jack looks reassured. "How was your Christmas?"

As always, it's unsettlingly easy to smooth things over. Jack loves her. Tuesday knows that. It's the only reason he listens to her and believes her unconditionally, the only reason he sees things he doesn't want to see and wilfully ignores them, the only reason he lets everything go. He loves her. He doesn't want to lose her.

And sometimes it's infuriating.

Tuesday wants to grab him by the shoulders and shout at him. Face it. Look it in the eyes. We aren't right. Why are you letting me treat you like this?

She could tell him, of course. When the risotto arrives in front of her and Jack thanks Dan the server, she thinks about it. She could sit up straight, put down her knife and fork, and say: I don't want to be with you anymore. I think I'm falling for Max. I don't know if he feels the same way, but even if he doesn't, the way I feel is getting in the way of me and you and making us unhappy. Goodbye. She could retrieve the ten pound note that she knows she has in her purse, put it on the table and get up and leave, leaving her steaming plate of risotto behind her.

But does she have the courage for that? The commitment? Is she sure that she wants to give everything up?

No more Jack, ever again. No more Netflix nights, in-jokes, soft kisses and clumsy fumbles; no more nasty flat and roommates, no more dinners at the Turner family home or kisses with the dog. Everything will be over, like one of them died. No more comfort, no more familiarity. Everything just gone.

The prospect makes panic clutch at her insides. She drops her cutlery and reaches across the table, one hand snatching his.

It's another apology, another I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, don't leave, and he acknowledges with a smile, pressing on with his story so they don't slip back into the melancholy of the early evening.

To him, this issue is finished. They can be happy now. He's bounced back.

Tuesday thinks about it all evening, anxiety holding her tight in its grip. Even after they get back to hers and go to bed she lies there, curled in his arms, eyes wide against the night.