BooksBarbecue
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

‘No!’ An ambulance. How ridiculous. You need to be screaming in pain for an ambulance. I am only in lightly writhing, soft-moaning pain.

‘What then?’ He sounds frustrated but he puts his hand gently on my arm, and it feels surprisingly warm and soothing.

‘I’ll just lie here until I feel better.’ My voice is shaky.

‘I’m not sure that’s the best plan.’

‘Well it’s my plan. So get on board.’

‘Okay,’ he says. I curl into a ball and deep breathe, and he sits next to me, and I can hear him breathing in tandem with me, his hand on my back. It’s extremely comforting to know I am not alone out here, to have his hand on me, but I don’t want him to know that. I don’t want to feel that. I want to hate his hand on me, I want to hate his very presence, I want to be strong enough to not need anyone right now, but especially, especially not him.

I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as possible and count to thirty. By the time I reach thirty, the pain seems to be receding a little, and then a little more.

‘It feels a bit better,’ I say. I’m too scared to move.

‘Okay. Here’s what we’ll do. My car is parked not far away. I’m going to run and get it, pick you up and drive us home, okay?’ he says.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘That sounds good.’ I know I should say thank you, for being with me, for getting your car, for not dismissing my pain, for checking my pulse, for comforting me, for not leaving, but I can’t quite bring myself to. It’s too much, to be lying on the ground in a public place and then to have to be grateful to him. This does not make us even. I do not forgive you.

11

11

I have changed outfits four times for this dinner with Dad. Which, when you consider the fact that my pelvic pain has remained fairly intense all afternoon and I am walking around with a heat pad pressed to my stomach, is the equivalent of changing outfits ten times or more. I texted Dad a list of restaurant options, all of which look nice and trendy but are reasonably priced, in case I need to pay. I won’t need to pay—he’ll pay, I’m sure he’ll pay—but I like to be prepared, just in case. Everything with Dad is just in case.