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Back Unnecessary Drama Save as PDF
Chapters (49)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. TEXT LOGO PAGE
  3. ABOUT THE BOOK
  4. DEDICATION
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  46. ALSO BY NINA KENWOOD
  47. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  48. PRAISE
  49. NEW MARKETING PAGE

‘It was supposed to be, yeah. And then I smudged it, and tried to fix it, and it got worse. And then I thought, why would she even want a mug with her face on it? So I tried to make it look more generic, just an anonymous person on a mug, which seemed even weirder, so then I tried to make it look like Harry Styles because you loved his song, and that’s when it started looking really bad.’

I am laughing hard now too.

‘So you painted the mug, and then what?’

‘I gave up. I put it all in a box under my bed and told myself I would figure it out on the weekend, and then I kept putting off thinking about it because I was so anxious about it, until it was too late to give you anything, and then we just never spoke again.’

A part of me wants to travel back in time and hug fourteenyear-old Jesse.

‘So why did you dig it out now?’ I say.

‘Because I want you to know. I felt so bad back then, Brooke, for what I did and then losing you as a friend. I want you to know I didn’t just move on with my life. I really wanted to fix things, I just didn’t know how.’

I smile at him.

‘I’m glad you told me. It does make me feel better about everything. And I can’t wait to use the mug.’

‘We don’t need to actually use it.’

‘Are you kidding me? This is my number-one mug from now on.’

He smiles, and we drive in silence for a moment.

‘You can trust me,’ he says, suddenly. He says it so calmly, so matter of factly, that it gives me a little jolt in my chest.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You can trust me. With your writing. As a friend. With anything. With everything.’

‘I don’t think I really trust anyone,’ I say, with a small laugh, even though it’s not funny. It feels like something I should be saying to a therapist, write in my journal, put in a dramatic letter to my father on his deathbed with the addendum and it’s all your fault! It’s a fundamental truth I don’t want anyone else to know, but here I am, saying it out loud at 9 am on a Sunday morning in the car with the boy I have never trusted.

‘You can trust me,’ he says again. ‘I know, with our history, you think you can’t, but you can now, you can.’

I want to believe him. Every time he says it, I feel it, in my chest, a rumbling. My heart, pricking up its little ears like a hopeful puppy.

‘Okay,’ I say finally, because I want to, I really do want to.

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