Page 25 of Unnecessary Drama

‘Because I am about to rewatch a show I know you wouldn’t be interested in it.’

‘How do you know? I’m interested in lots of things.’ He sips the tea, makes a disgusted face. It is a tea to be endured, not enjoyed. ‘What is in this?’

‘Flowers and herbs.’

‘Huh.’ He sips again, swallows, and looks pained. ‘Is this like that turmeric chip from the party—an acquired taste you learn to love?’

‘No, it stays pretty bad.’ I sit back on the couch and fold my arms, waiting for him to leave.

‘Just tell me what the show is.’ He squishes a pillow behind his back, wriggling to get more comfy.

‘No.’

‘Brooke. I’m not as judgmental as…’ He trails off.

‘As who?’ I say.

‘As nobody.’ He pretends to be very interested in his tea.

‘Were you going to say not as judgmental as me?’ If he thinks this is my first rodeo, my first time being told I’m judgmental, my first time hearing criticism, then he’s a fool. I grew up in a household of women, a household where faults and flaws are discussed freely, sometimes shouted at you mid-argument (Lauren to me) or itemised on a piece of paper slipped under your door (me to Lauren).

‘I mean, you’re not not judgmental.’

‘People think I’m judgmental because I don’t drink,’ I say, which is true. I think sometimes people hate me for not drinking because then I’m just there as a sober witness to everyone’s mistakes, and that really kills the vibe, I know it does.

‘It has nothing to do with you not drinking,’ Jesse says.

‘Then why do you think I’m judgmental?’

‘You’re not. Forget it.’

‘You don’t need to protect me. I know all the reasons people don’t like me, don’t worry.’

‘That’s very self-aware of you.’

‘I’m uptight, I’m controlling, I’m anxious, I worry about things too much, I’m not “fun”—’ I tick them off on my fingers as I go.

He is watching me with a kind of fascination.

‘You’re really hard on yourself,’ he says.

‘Is that an observation or a flaw to add to my list?’

‘Um, both, I guess?’ he smiles.

‘Too self-critical. Got it. Adding it in,’ I say.

He shakes his head. ‘That’s…No. Wait. I’m scared to say anything now in case you add it to your list,’ he says.

‘I think it’s healthy to know your flaws,’ I say.

‘Okay. Do me,’ he says.

‘Do you what?’

‘Do my worst traits.’

I look at him, that eager face, every feature somehow enhanced by his black-rimmed glasses.