Page 39 of Unnecessary Drama

‘Henry is not a serial killer, he’s Penny’s cousin, he plays the flute, and his name has always been Henry,’ Harper says to me.

‘He could be a future serial killer. Brooke could be his first victim,’ Jesse says.

I am actually more worried about the fact he might use the date as future stand-up comedy material.

‘Are you trying to sabotage this date?’ Harper says, and Jesse’s face goes a little bit red.

‘Of course not,’ he says, looking back at his screen and adjusting his glasses.

‘Then stop talking about serial killers.’ Harper shakes her head, and turns to me. ‘You look great,’ she says. Again.

‘It’s going to be fine,’ I say to the room at large. ‘I’m good at dating.’ I don’t know why I add this last bit. I’m trying to convince myself. I’ve never been on a date before, not like this, not a date date, where you meet someone you don’t know at a predetermined location. Tristan and I got together at a party with all our schoolfriends around, and most of our time together was either hanging out at home, studying, being on school committees together, or seeing each other at school. We didn’t have a dating period. We were separate and then we were together.

‘I mean, he might be awful,’ Harper says. ‘I can’t know for sure, I’ve only met him at Penny’s family stuff. Staking your reputation on a guy who you don’t know very well is risky, it’s risky, but I think it will be fine.’ This makes me lose a bit of confidence.

‘He’s very nice over text,’ I say.

‘Nice guys are the worst,’ Jesse says. His negativity is starting to piss me off now.

‘So we can’t trust arseholes but we can’t trust nice guys either? Who do I trust then?’ I say.

‘Women,’ Harper says, then pauses. ‘Some women. About sixty per cent.’

‘You can trust about thirty per cent of men,’ Jesse says.

‘Stop it,’ I say to him.

‘Henry’s in that thirty per cent,’ Harper says. ‘He’s related to Penny, so he has to be.’

‘We’re not getting married. It’s just a very low-key coffee date,’ I say. I am proud of the confidence I’m projecting. I look in the mirror one last time. I look fine. I want to look like the me of the photo or, even better, look like Lauren or Harper or Penny, all of whom have beautiful faces and their own distinctive style, but I’m stuck being a deeply ordinary, mostly unremarkable person to look at.

‘You could fall in love today,’ Harper says, clasping her hands together. Jesse’s head snaps up from his computer, eyebrows raised.

That is somehow more stressful to hear than the possibility of death by serial killer. Fall in love? No. Horrible. I don’t want love.

‘Don’t say that,’ I say.

I head towards the door.

‘Brooke,’ Jesse says.

‘I don’t want to hear it,’ I say, turning around with my hands on my hips.

‘I was just going to say. You do, um. You do look good,’ he says, and then clears his throat and coughs and looks back down at his computer screen.

‘Oh. Thank you,’ I say, quickly turning away because now my face feels hot.

‘Good luck!’ Harper says. ‘Text us the minute it’s over!’ She’s so stressed about this. She wants it to go well so badly, and I want to please her so badly, that I’m already digging in, telling myself, be open to love, be open to love, be open to love, as I walk to the cafe.

18

Now that I’m sitting in a busy cafe on a Saturday afternoon waiting for Henry to arrive, I understand that dating is hell and I want to die. I see why people date at night. If you’re in a busy bar, there is darkness and crowds and noise, or in a restaurant there is a whole meal to be discussed and then ordered and then eaten and focused on and, if you’re lucky, the lights are dim. And then there is the best option of all, the one I should have chosen, which is to see a movie together. True darkness and sitting facing forwards and no possibility of talking and something to entertain you and snacks and maybe a recliner chair.

I can’t remember what Henry looks like. I only ever saw that one quick photo on Penny’s phone. Calm down. Yes I can. Brown hair, notable eyebrows. Brown hair, notable eyebrows.

I text him to say I’m at a corner table.

A few minutes later, a brown-haired guy with thick eyebrows approaches the table. He’s in jeans and a black T-shirt, and maybe it’s Henry. He’s walking towards me with confidence and looking friendly, looking like a guy who plays the flute, and so I smile, and he smiles back. Yes, it’s Henry, it’s definitely Henry.