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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

We drive in silence and I tap my fingers on the seat, which I know is annoying, but I can’t help it. I’m a finger-tapper, a pen-clicker, a nailbiter, when I’m nervous. And the closer we get to the restaurant, the more nervous I feel. I want to get my phone out and double-check what I look like—Dad hasn’t seen my face in person in so long—but I can’t do that in front of Jesse, so instead I tap my fingers and practise in my head the things I’m going to say. I even spent some time this afternoon googling drones and paddleboarding. I can do this. It’s good that I’m going to do this. We’re going to bond, we’re going to have fun, the whole night is going to be better than I expected, and I’m just going to casually keep one hand inside the waist of my pants and pressed into my pelvis while eating to reduce the pain.

We’re almost there when my phone lights up with a message from Dad.

Hey darling, I’m really sorry to do this last minute, but I’m caught up with work people. Can we reschedule, do brunch tomorrow instead? Thanks, Dad xxx

Of course. Of course, of course, of course.

Of course he cancelled at the last minute.

12

12

I do have this recurring fantasy about Dad. One where I’m not picturing repairing our relationship, or starting over, or finding common ground—all the things I try to keep at the forefront when I think about him. This other fantasy is about having a fight with Dad. The Fight. Where I yell at him in ways that make me feel ashamed to think about. I imagine reaching deep inside and touching anger, nothing but intoxicating anger, all the way down. I imagine just letting go and saying the cruellest things—things I won’t be able to come back from, things that would hurt him so badly, things that would haunt him, things he would never ever get over, and saying it all in front of his girlfriend and his work friends and strangers and Mum and Nanna and Lauren and anyone else I can think of. Really letting loose. And, god, it would feel so good.

That anger, that imagined fight, the perfect punishment, comes to me again now as I sit in Jesse’s car, still heading towards the restaurant, looking at Dad’s text, my abdomen on fire. Except now I’m starting to worry that even if I screamed every nasty, dark thought I’d ever had at him, threw every barb and weapon I have, it wouldn’t affect him at all. He might just shrug and move on, and this huge power I imagined I secretly had over him is no power at all.