Page 48 of Unnecessary Drama

‘Oh, I made her watch it,’ Jesse says.

‘So how does it work? Getting together while living together?’ Tristan asks. He’s leaning forward, sleeves rolled up, ready to dissect our life. He’s holding a beer, thank god, because I need him to lose some of his sharpness. Tristan doesn’t handle his alcohol well. He’ll turn from sober and thoughtful to a gluggy mess very quickly, and the faster he gets there right now the better.

‘Well, we have a lot of rules,’ I say. Rules seem the obvious solution. If you were to date a housemate, it could work, with the right structure, the right boundaries, the right system. A contract even.

‘What kind of rules?’ Tristan asks.

‘We really limit any displays of affection around Harper. No kissing unless it’s a peck hello or goodbye. Small amounts of couch snuggling,’ I say.

‘Except when I have Penny over, and then it’s, like, we’re on more equal ground,’ Harper interjects.

‘And we have set nights that we spend in each other’s rooms, and set nights we spend on our own. And we still go on dates outside of the house, every Thursday night. And we have an agreed-upon code word we use, when we want or need space from each other, and you can use that word up to three times a week, without the other person getting offended.’

‘The code word is wackadoo,’ Henry blurts out, apparently also wanting to be included now. He smiles nervously at me, and I look at him in slight horror. Why would he say that? Why would he even pretend to know our code word? And why would it be wackadoo?

There are too many people trying to help and get involved now.

‘Wackadoo. Okay, sure,’ Tristan says. ‘That’s a lot of rules,’ he adds, but without judgment. Tristan knows me. This all seems normal to him. He helped me colour-code my study schedule six months in advance, blocking in time for ‘intense study’, time for ‘light study’ and time for ‘productive rest’ to absorb everything I had learned.

‘I have the rules all typed up, and spiral bound. They have a table of contents and everything,’ I say, because I can see it, in my mind’s eye, a lovely black folder of rules that keeps a relationship on track, contained, safe.

I feel Jesse’s shoulder press into mine ever so slightly, a warning, perhaps, that I am taking it too far.

‘Huh,’ Tristan says, and shakes his head. ‘Brooke and Jesse. Jesse and Brooke. I just never would have picked it.’ That’s the part bothering him most, I can tell. That he can’t understand it, that he doesn’t see how it could have happened. Maybe he’s not convinced. I feel acutely aware of him watching us closely. We’re still sitting up against each other, but it might have been long enough that we should have touched in some other way by now.

I try to think of a natural way to touch Jesse. How did I used to touch Tristan? He was very touchy-feely. I don’t remember ever thinking about it, other than wishing he wasn’t touching me so much. He would come up behind me and rub my shoulders, which should have been a lovely gesture, and it was, but it always got on my nerves. It made me feel like I was wearing a heavy, oversize, itchy jumper that I just wanted to pull off. It was suffocating. It’s things like that that make me think I’m not cut out for intimacy.

I glance at Jesse, and he looks back at me, and there’s a lot we are both trying to communicate in a two-second exchange of facial expressions, and I don’t think either of us successfully gets anything across.

I go to touch his knee and then I chicken out, and kind of oddly brush my hand across his thigh, and then to cover that up, I pretend there is something on his leg that really does need wiping off and I swipe a few more times. I can see an amused what-the-hell-are-you-doing look in his eyes.

A waitress brings over a platter of food Harper ordered and puts it on the small table between our couches. I lean forward and pick up a warm olive. As I sit back, Jesse reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear, like he did when we took the photo. It’s a very quick, soft movement, his hands brush against my neck with the lightest touch, and suddenly I have goosebumps all over my arms.

Why did he have to do that? Why did he have to be tender? It’s becoming very clear to me this isn’t a good idea, emotionally. Seeing Tristan, meeting Henry, pretending with Jesse. My heart and my head are getting all mixed up.

Tristan, Jesse and Henry are making cheerful small talk, and I keep eating, because if my mouth is full, Tristan might not ask me any more questions. Then Henry suggests a game of pool, and suddenly it’s Tristan and Henry pairing up against Jesse and me.

I follow Jesse over to the pool table. Tristan was supposed to have returned to Kendra by now.

‘You’re up first,’ Jesse says, handing me the pool cue.

I only have the vaguest idea of how to play. I hold the cue loosely in my hands and then try to copy what I’ve seen other people do. It feels very unwieldy.

Jesse watches me for a second. ‘Can I show you how to use it?’ he says.

‘Are you going to mansplain pool to me?’ I say.

‘I think it’s only mansplaining if you already know something. If you don’t, then it’s just regular explaining,’ he says, smiling.

‘Now you’re mansplaining what mansplaining is.’ I smile back.

‘I’m honestly just trying to stop you tearing up the felt,’ he says, gently nudging me with his shoulder.

‘Okay, fine, show me.’ I put my hands on my hips and watch him demonstrate proper technique.

I try to copy him, but the cue feels big and cumbersome in my hands. I really do hate being bad at things. Jesse walks behind me. ‘I know it’s a cliche, but I have to do it like this,’ he whispers in my ear, leaning his body over mine and adjusting my grip. We are pressed entirely against each other, my back to his chest, his hands over mine as he shows me how to hold the cue. Goddamn it. Why are my hormones so weak, why is my body so weak, why does he smell so good? This is about me. It’s only because I am sex-starved, attention-starved, touch-starved. I would react this way to anyone right now—it’s not Jesse-specific. Well except I was just thinking about how I didn’t like Tristan to touch me. But that’s different, that was last year. If it was Henry pressed against me right now, my body would react in the same way. Probably. Maybe. I look at Henry, earnestly chatting to Tristan, nodding enthusiastically about something, foam from his beer on his top lip, and my certainty falters.

I pretend to adjust my grip, but really it’s as an excuse to step back into Jesse’s body a little more. I accidentally step onto his foot.