Page 17 of Unnecessary Drama

‘It’s fine, really. Plus I haven’t seen my dad in a long time, and he’s really excited to have dinner,’ I say. ‘Really excited’ might be an exaggeration but I have no proof that he’s not really excited, so I’m running with it.

‘It could be your gallbladder. My mum had gallstones and she said it was worse than childbirth,’ Penny says with concern.

‘My dad thought he had gallstones but he had a hernia. Is there anything, like, pushing out of your stomach?’ Harper asks.

‘No!’ I say, horrified at the thought, but I touch all over just in case. Why does everyone have to have a bad story? Why can’t one of them say, my cousin had really bad pain one day and it turned out to be absolutely nothing at all and the next day her skin was glowing and she met the love of her life and adopted a puppy.

Penny frowns and looks at Jesse.

‘You should drive her to the restaurant,’ she says.

‘Yes,’ Harper says.

‘No!’ My voice is close to shouting. ‘No,’ I say again, more calmly. ‘I’ll get an Uber.’ I can’t really afford an Uber, but I do not want Jesse to drive me.

‘I can drive you,’ Jesse says, and he grabs his keys off the table.

Penny and Harper smile encouragingly at him. Ugh. Saint Jesse. Martyr Jesse. He’ll be giving himself feel-good credits for helping me out: he’ll go to sleep tonight thinking, I’m such a good person for helping poor, pathetic Brooke today.

‘It’s fine, really,’ I say, sitting up a bit and trying very hard to keep my face neutral, no annoyance, no pain. Let nothing show.

‘Don’t be silly, let Jesse drive you,’ Harper says, looking at me with concern. I open my mouth to reply, but then think of the no drama house rule.

‘Fine,’ I say to Harper. ‘I appreciate your help,’ I say to Jesse, hoping he picks up the dark undertones in my words.

He smiles. ‘Happy to give it,’ he says. ‘Not a big deal.’

It might be the pain I’m in, but his face, I realise at this moment, has a very slappable quality.

I walk slowly out to the car behind him.

‘Have you taken some painkillers, or an anti-inflammatory?’ he asks.

I want to scream, ‘Stop helping me! Stop pretending you care!’ I don’t say this, obviously, but the urge to be mean, to test his niceness—to prove how flimsy it is, that he’ll turn it off at the slightest obstacle, that he’ll abandon me—is overwhelming.

‘Yes,’ I say, trying to sound pleasant and also walk normally, even though I really need to press into the painful area with my fingertips to take the edge off the pain.

‘I wasn’t doing anything tonight anyway,’ he says, getting in the car. ‘It’s not a big deal. Driving you.’

‘When you keep saying something isn’t a big deal, it makes it sound like it is a big deal,’ I say, opening the car door.

‘Well, when you keep resisting help and telling people you’re fine, it makes it sound like you’re not,’ he says, starting the car.

I show him how to get to the restaurant, and then look out the window and ignore him until my guilt kicks in. I huff out a sigh.

‘Thank you for driving me, and helping me earlier, and checking my pulse and all of that,’ I say in a rush, because I don’t want to seem ungrateful, and I also don’t want him to have any possible reason to think he’s a better person than me.

‘You’re welcome,’ he replies.

We drive in silence and I tap my fingers on the seat, which I know is annoying, but I can’t help it. I’m a finger-tapper, a pen-clicker, a nailbiter, when I’m nervous. And the closer we get to the restaurant, the more nervous I feel. I want to get my phone out and double-check what I look like—Dad hasn’t seen my face in person in so long—but I can’t do that in front of Jesse, so instead I tap my fingers and practise in my head the things I’m going to say. I even spent some time this afternoon googling drones and paddleboarding. I can do this. It’s good that I’m going to do this. We’re going to bond, we’re going to have fun, the whole night is going to be better than I expected, and I’m just going to casually keep one hand inside the waist of my pants and pressed into my pelvis while eating to reduce the pain.

We’re almost there when my phone lights up with a message from Dad.

Hey darling, I’m really sorry to do this last minute, but I’m caught up with work people. Can we reschedule, do brunch tomorrow instead? Thanks, Dad xxx

Of course. Of course, of course, of course.

Of course he cancelled at the last minute.