I write: I’m so so sorry, I wasn’t feeling well, I had to leave

I feel like I owe him more than that, he drove here and found a car park in a busy area, that’s a lot of effort, so I need to add another line, a bit more detail, to make it more believable, something drawn from real life, maybe.

I ate a yoghurt past its use-by date yesterday

Well. That’s certainly something. If standing him up didn’t put him off, the implication I have explosive diarrhoea certainly will have.

I stop in a bookshop on my walk home, to calm myself, taking long shaking breaths at the nonfiction table, holding a Jane Austen to my heart, rereading a passage from my favourite YA novel until I am no longer on the edge of hysteria, and then I go home, trying to walk in the door as quietly as possible.

‘Brooke! You’re home already? Oh my god, how did it go!’ Harper shouts, rushing out of her room. She must have been watching from the window.

‘Um, not super well,’ I say.

Jesse puts his head out of his room. ‘What did he do? Did he have serial-killer vibes?’ he asks.

‘He didn’t do anything,’ I say.

‘So. Tell us,’ Harper says, following me into the lounge room.

‘I can’t. It’s too embarrassing.’ I have a feeling brewing in my chest and I honestly can’t tell if it’s laughter or tears.

Harper looks at my face, and she sits next to me and takes my hand in hers.

‘I promise I won’t laugh,’ she says, and her face is gentle, and I’ve never felt more like we’re friends than right now.

‘Or get mad?’ I ask.

‘Why would I get mad?’

‘I might have mucked up your assignment.’

‘You won’t have. All data is useable data. Also, who cares about the assignment.’

‘Okay.’

Jesse is watching me, and his eyes are worried. I don’t want to see them turn to amusement, or derision.

‘I need Jesse to face the wall. I can’t do it looking at his face.’ ‘Come on, Brooke,’ he says. But there are only so many humiliations I can handle him witnessing.

‘If you want the story, those are my terms,’ I say.

Harper makes a ‘do it’ face at Jesse, who sighs, and turns around to look at the wall.

‘Happy?’ he says.

‘All right,’ I say. ‘I will tell you.’

‘Good,’ says Harper.

Deep breath. I can do this. Like ripping a Band-Aid off.

‘I hugged the waiter.’

‘What does that mean?’ Harper says.

‘A man approached the table. I thought it was Henry. I hugged him. And kissed his cheek. It was the waiter.’