Page 70 of Unnecessary Drama

‘Really?’

‘Yes. And do you remember how you were never bullied on the bus to and from school? You got to sit there and read your book and talk to your friends and not be harassed by fucking Josh Kelly and his mates, who would go up and down the aisle making other kids give them food.’

‘That was you?’ All this time, I had imagined I was invisible, that I was safe because I read books and worked hard at school and did the right thing and was responsible and the universe was rewarding me.

‘On your first day, I told Josh if he ever so much as spoke to you, I would ruin his life. He was a creep who harassed the younger girls.’

‘He was a creep. I had no idea you did that.’ I wish she had told me.

‘Well now you know.’

She rolls back over.

‘I worry about you, Brooke. I do. It’s just different from the ways you worry about me. I wanted to make sure no one bullied you, I wanted to make sure your life was easier when I could make it easier, that no one preyed on you like they did on me.’

I look at her back, and listen to her breathe.

‘Thank you,’ I say.

‘You expect so much of people, sometimes you can’t see the good parts because you’re dwelling on the ways they don’t live up to who you want them to be.’

‘I don’t…I mean. Yeah. I guess I’m too judgmental.’

‘Of me, for sure.’

‘You make it hard sometimes.’

‘I know.’

‘I worry about the way you drink.’ I’ve never said this out loud before, but it’s not a surprise, of course—it’s there in the subtext of our entire relationship.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Not always, though.’

‘No. Not always. But you can’t live your life being careful about every single thing and taking no risks.’

‘There’s a difference between taking no risks and living the way you do, and you know it. Sometimes, you remind me of—’

‘No. Don’t go there.’ Lauren’s voice is sharp. She knows I’m going to say Dad. We have an unofficial rule that we can only talk about Dad in certain ways, and this—talking about the dark parts of him and which of those parts might be inside of us—is not on the table for discussion. She never lets me talk about the things that would make her uncomfortable.

‘You keep throwing yourself off cliffs and hoping someone is there to catch you, and I’ve been doing it for a long time but I’m not there anymore. I can’t catch you anymore, and it keeps me awake at night.’

‘Just let me fall off the cliff,’ she says, yawning.

‘I don’t want to.’

I don’t know where we go from here. She’s not going to stop drinking. She loves drinking in ways I will never understand. And I know I won’t stop worrying. How do you change who someone is, fundamentally, in their bones? I’m a worrier. She’s a drinker. This is going to be it, for our whole lives, maybe.

‘My hand hurts,’ she says.

‘Do you want me to get you some Panadol?’

‘No. But remember when we were little, and we would get into the same bed and Mum would stroke our hair until we fell asleep?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can you stroke my hair like that?’