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isla, at a restaurant in sydney
I'm with my parents for a birthday meal when my phone starts ringing. I know who it is, there's only one person who's mastered the skill of calling at the worst times.
Luke.
"Turn that off," my mother tells me, frowning at how the ringing has pulled attention to our table.
People are looking.
"Sorry."
I reject Luke's call and put the phone on silent. But he keeps ringing. Again and again. His persistence is astonishing. I can't believe he's so desperate to talk to me.
Anyone would be flattered.
But I've seen the pictures of the girl he was holding hands with outside the concert venue. And as if that wasn't enough, Lydia showed me the article about 'Luke's London love'. Quite honestly, it made me want to throw up.
Not because I'm jealous. I'm not. It just hurts hearing him confess to the things he's done. I'd rather not know.
"Excuse me," I tell my parents, when the phone rings again.
He's not going to stop unless I pick up.
I hurry to the toilets, going in one of the empty stalls. Lock the door. Look at myself in the mirror. Splash some cold water on my reddened, warm face.
I have to tell myself not to cry several times before I pick up. I don't want to seem weak.
"Hello?"
"Isla," he says, voice thick and full of sadness. "Isla, I've done it again."
Luke takes a long, uneven breath.
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologise, you're free to do what you want," I say, swallowing the lump in my throat.
"I know, but–"
"She was pretty," I tell him. Staring back at my reflection in the mirror, I wonder if he finds the other girls prettier than me.
"You've seen the pictures?"
It's quiet for a minute, but I can hear him trying to think of something to say. But there isn't anything he can say to change what's already happened.
"Luke, you don't have to explain."
"No, please hear me out. Look, nothing happened with Jay. I didn't sleep with her. We only–"
"I don't want to hear about it. I really don't."
I'm seconds away from crying.
"I miss you. I just feel so lost and confused. I know what I'm doing is wrong, but I just can't stop doing it."
This breaks me. I wipe a tear with my free hand. "We're not together."
"I know that," he says, "I just–"
"Luke, I don't have time right now. I'm at my dads birthday dinner."
I'm close to hanging up on him, when he stops me.
"Isla?"
"Yes?"
"Am I bad at sex?"
"What?" His question strikes me like a punch in the chest. It's so unexpected, I don't know what to say. "Why are you asking that?"
"Please tell me if I am," he says. "If that's the reason you don't want me."
"You broke up with me, Luke."
"Only because I knew you didn't want to commit to a long distance relationship. I wanted to spare you from doing the it's not you it's me thing."
"It's not me," I tell him, "it's you."
"I'm sorry."
I can hear him break into tears. The sounds of his breaths are full of sadness. I can see it so clearly in my mind; his bright blue eyes turning grey and then tears streaming down his cheeks.
I'm sorry, too.
The difference is, he will find some girl to dry his tears tonight. I'll have to crawl back into the bed where the sheets on the other side still smell of his cologne. I will still go to bed wearing his shirt, and cry into the pillow that smells of his shampoo.
"Please stop calling me."
And then I hang up. Because even if we aren't together, I'm still hurt by his calls and confessions.
