Page 43 of Unnecessary Drama

It’s Harper’s birthday, but she says she doesn’t believe in celebrating birthdays or buying presents because it’s childish, it’s attention-seeking, it’s stressful, it’s capitalism run amok. I accepted this and swallowed my urge to make a fuss, lecturing myself internally about respecting Harper’s wishes and not buying her a gift even though I am exceptionally good at gift-giving and already had three options planned. Then Jesse suggested we go to the pub for a few drinks as a household just to mark the occasion in some way, and Harper agreed, and she invited Penny, then some of her friends, and Penny invited more people, and suddenly it’s a whole party, and I had to buy a present in a rush and ran out of time to wash my hair.

Now I’m sitting at the pub, holding a soda water, which is my default drink when I’m out, even though I don’t like it. I wish I had ordered a Coke but somehow, I am less embarrassed ordering a soda water than a Coke. I don’t know why—there is just a random hierarchy of non-alcoholic drinks in my head and how ashamed of each one I should be, and Coke is at the bottom, the most shameful, because someone from school once rolled their eyes at me when I pulled a can of it out of my bag to drink at a party. The always-hovering psychologist in my brain says, let’s analyse why you attach shame to soft drinks at all. But no, that is a thought for when I am lying in bed or sitting in an Introductory Microeconomics lecture, not now.

We have commandeered a bunch of couches in the corner of the pub, and Penny is sitting across from me. She’s wearing a slinky satin dress she found in an op shop, and her red hair is in a long ponytail, trailing over one shoulder. Her skin looks like she has somehow applied a flattering photo filter to real life.

She leans over, suddenly.

‘Okay, I have a surprise for you, Brooke.’ Her face makes me nervous.

‘What is it?’ I say, trying to look like I’m open to surprises, like I’m a perfectly normal person who enjoys unexpected things.

‘It’s a good surprise,’ Penny says. But if someone has to clarify the surprise is good, that means they think it might not be good.

I falter a little. ‘What is it, Penny?’ I say.

‘Henry is here!’ Penny opens her arms wide.

‘What, here here? Now?’ I stand up, then quickly sit down. Jesse is looking all around, in a very unsubtle way. I want to yell at him to stop it.

‘Yes!’ Penny says. ‘He just walked in.’ She starts waving someone over.

Oh god, oh god. We’ve had no interaction since I told him I ate bad yoghurt exactly one week ago. He never replied to that message and I don’t even know if that counts as ghosting, since I was the one who stood him up, and it wasn’t even the kind of message you can respond to. I sit up straight. I wish I could check my face, my breath, my armpits, maybe just run to a private bathroom and strip totally naked and examine every flaw, spray myself down, get dressed again and double-check nothing is tucked where it should be out or out where it should be tucked, but there’s no time. He has walked over, and he’s sitting down right in front of me on the couch opposite.

The eyebrows really aren’t as notable as I thought they’d be. He’s cute, but a bit less cute than the waiter was, maybe. He has heavy stubble, almost a beard, which he didn’t have in the photo that Harper and Penny showed me, so I was never going to recognise him. They really set me up to fail. He’s also shorter and more muscular than I’d expected.

‘Hi!’ I say, way too brightly.

‘Hi,’ he smiles, with an equal amount of false cheer.

‘Great to finally meet you,’ I say. I did not have diarrhoea. How do I quietly slip that into the conversation?

‘You too,’ he says, nodding. Oh god. This is awkward, it’s terribly awkward. We have nothing to say and everyone is watching and I can’t bring up the failed-date elephant in the room. My stomach is cramping like I actually have eaten bad yoghurt.

Penny introduces him to everyone else, and she starts telling a story about her family, and Henry looks relieved, because he can chime in. They laugh together about an argument between his mother and Penny’s mother, and everything is going well, except Henry and I haven’t exchanged a word since he arrived. Maybe I need to move closer to him. Would sitting beside him be easier? No, opposite each other is best.

There is a break in the conversation, and Henry politely leans towards me.

‘How’s uni going?’ he says.

‘Good! How about for you?’ I say.

‘Yeah, good.’ He nods.

‘That’s good.’ I nod as well. There’s too many ‘goods’ and too much nodding. But my mind is completely blank, totally void of all conversation topics. I need to say something. Anything. What do I know about him? Dogs, St Kilda football club, comedy, flute. Knowing he likes dogs doesn’t really help with conversation. What am I going to say, have you seen any great dogs lately? What’s your favourite breed? They are not starter questions. The football team would help if I knew anything about football, but I don’t. Comedy? Ask him to tell a joke? God no. The flute. That’s the best option.

‘So you play the flute?’ I say.

‘Yes I do,’ he says. More nodding.

‘For how long?’

‘About ten years,’ he says. He looks incredibly nervous, and I can see him subtly wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, which softens my heart a little.

‘Amazing,’ I say. Is it amazing? Only by fairly low standards of what one might consider amazing, but I am reaching for any word that might help liven things up.

‘What are your hobbies?’ he asks me.

‘Um,’ I say. Hobbies, hobbies. Watching cleaning videos. Browsing fancy furniture websites for things I can never afford to fit out a house I will never own. Watching YouTube compilations of couples from TV shows I’ve never even seen, because I like to know the whole relationship story before starting the show. No, no, no. These are not hobbies you talk about.