Chapter 20: Shutout: Chapter 20

Google is not my friend.

I should have waited until I had the results back from the genetic testing. Instead, I went ahead and dove headfirst into the scary side of the internet. Now I’m home alone while the guys are gone for a road game, and I’m freaking out.

Some preliminary research I’ve conducted says that if I have the BRCA mutation, my risk of developing breast cancer in my lifetime could be as high as almost eighty percent. That’s not including my chance of developing ovarian cancer, which would also be significant.

I throw myself down on the pile of clean clothes covering my duvet and hug a pillow to my chest, staring up at the ceiling while Doctor Wilson’s words echo through my head.

Fifty-fifty. That’s it. A simple coin toss.

It’s been weighing on me ever since that day in his office. I’ve tried to stuff it to the back of my mind as much as possible. Tried to pretend it never happened. Tried to believe everything will work out.

And I’ve been failing miserably.

Panic seizes hold of me and I reach for my phone, swiping into my message thread with Abby. I start to compose a text to her before I catch myself, holding down the backspace button to delete it in a single swoop. Navigating life or death decisions isn’t her forte. It’s not like she wouldn’t try, but she has no frame of reference for what I’m going through, and I can’t escape the feeling that she wouldn’t quite get it.

I stare at the screen for a few more seconds, debating whether to call one of my friends in Arizona instead. That doesn’t feel right, either. We’ve drifted apart in the short time since I’ve been here, and this seems like heavy subject matter to throw at someone I haven’t spoken to much lately.

Chase isn’t an option, obviously. That leaves Tyler. I almost wish I could tell him, but for what? I don’t even know one way or the other yet. He’s made it abundantly clear how much pressure he’s under, and I can’t see him wanting to add to that with my hypothetical problems.

Plus, something this heavy seems like it might be a little beyond his paygrade. He’s my friend—not my boyfriend. Part of me is afraid it might scare him away.

Then I remember a support website Doctor Wilson recommended to my mother during her appointment. Opening my MacBook, I enter the name into the search engine and pull it up, skimming through the posts in the aptly named “Limbo Land” forum. Everything I read confirms my gut instinct to do the testing. After all, I could be negative, which means I’d be able to move on with my life and focus on helping my mother get through her own treatment.

Or… I could be positive. Could be faced with the decision whether to wait and see if cancer catches up with me or take drastic preventative measures.

Either way, I need to know. The uncertainty will hang over my head until I do.

As I’m about to exit the site, another forum titled “Family and Relationships” catches my eye. I pause with my mouse hovering over the link, and curiosity compels me to click it.

After another couple of minutes sifting through the threads, my already fragile state of mind sails straight off a cliff. Post after post from women whose boyfriends and husbands bailed after finding out they were BRCA carriers. The details are different, but the underlying themes are all the same. They couldn’t empathize with the trauma of the diagnosis. Couldn’t face the prospect of their wife having major surgery. Couldn’t handle the caretaking after the procedure.

I wish I could say I’m surprised, but the news that so many men are lacking an empathy chip hardly comes as a shock.

Sure, there are exceptions. When I dig a little deeper, I find the occasional story from a user whose partner stood by her side, took care of her through everything, and was her rock. One man shaved his head when his wife was going through chemo as a gesture of solidarity while another took a leave of absence from work until his girlfriend was fully recovered from a double mastectomy.

I know unicorn men like that exist because that’s exactly how my brother would be if anything were to happen to Bailey. But in a sea of thousands of message board threads, those happy endings remain the exceptions—by a wide margin.

Seriously ill women divorce at a rate of over twenty percent versus three percent for men. Wait, what? That can’t be right. Blinking, I re-read the statistic again. A one in five possibility of losing your partner while you’re sick. My stomach balls into a knot at the potential implications.

Is that going to happen to my mother and Rick? Is he going to decide things are too difficult and bail when she’s at her most vulnerable? Even though I’ve never been a big fan of the guy, I like to think he’s better than that. No, he has to be better than that. She already lost my father; she can’t go through that again, least of all right now.

Blowing out a heavy exhale, I lean back in my desk chair. My breathing turns shaky, and the screen before me turns into a blur.

In my communications class last semester, we covered how the internet has a negativity bias. People are more likely to share and complain when things go wrong, and far less likely to engage to share positive news. That means, in this case, if someone has successfully navigated their BRCA diagnosis and has gone on to live a happy and fulfilled life, they’re less inclined to post about it. They’re too busy doing all of those other things.

Knowing that doesn’t make me feel any better.

I know I need to book that testing appointment, and I will. Just not today.

The doorbell rings, snapping me out of my daze, and I sit up. I don’t think I’m expecting any deliveries. I’ve tried to curb my online shopping lately, at least until I get more organized.

Closing my laptop, I wait for footfalls to confirm the person has left. I’ll check and see what the parcel is as soon as they’re gone. Then the doorbell rings again. I resign myself to answering and push to stand. Fine. Maybe it’s a delivery someone needs to sign for.

When I open the front door, Abby is standing on the step, and I am deeply confused. She’s more decked out than a Christmas tree. Her blue sequined dress is short, sparkly, and dangerously low-cut, with a neckline that plunges to a V in the center. If that wasn’t enough, she’s paired it with a smokey eye, coaxed her copper hair into loose waves, and topped it all off with the slightest hint of shimmery bronzer.

She gives me a once-over, clearly also confused. Because she looks hot—and I look like the “before” on a makeover television reality show. I’m wearing baggy gray sweatpants and an oversized ASU T-shirt, with zero makeup and my hair in a messy bun. Since the guys are gone, I thought I’d take advantage and go into sloth mode. Advanced sloth mode.

“Hey.” A gust of winter air kicks up, freezing my bare toes. “What’s up?”

“We had plans. Remember?”

Stepping aside, I motion for her to come in while I frantically rack my brain. Plans… Finally, I land on what she’s referring to. There’s a DJ spinning at some club downtown tonight, and I agreed to go with her ages ago.

“Of course.” My attempt to sound cheerful comes out fake. “Come in, I’m just running a little behind schedule.”

A trickle of guilt creeps in for having forgotten. I’ve been preoccupied lately, and maybe I haven’t been the best friend. Then again, neither has Abby. When was the last time she texted to check in with me about my mom? Or about anything other than getting drunk?

I don’t know how we grew up attached at the hip only to end up like this. What happened to the Abby I used to have sleepovers with? The one who stayed up with me past bedtime giggling in the dark until our parents yelled at us to go to sleep? We used to do things like play with the Ouija board and paint each other’s nails. Or we’d invent silly dances and try to bake cookies without following a recipe (an epic fail every time, unsurprisingly). Sometimes we’d spy on Chase just to annoy him.

Obviously, we grew up, and I don’t expect to do all of those things anymore—least of all spy on my brother—but the dynamic itself has shifted, too. Abby was the first person I told when I got my period, and she brought me a tampon when I was trapped in a bathroom stall at school. Now I can’t even trust her not to lose track of me at a party.

Knowing she doesn’t have my back is unsettling. I’ve always had hers.

“We have lots of time,” she says breezily. “Lana and Destiny said to be at their place around eight. DJ Banner isn’t even on the program until ten, and he always starts late.”

I have no idea who DJ Banner is, and I’m not particularly excited at the prospect of going out tonight, least of all with Destiny and Lana. Still, I lead her into my room and reluctantly go through the motions of getting ready while she flits around, sifting through my makeup and clothes.

Abby holds up my black patent Louboutin pumps, examining the red soles. They were a birthday present from my mom last year; a splurge I’d never buy for myself. I reserve them for only the most special occasions, and I’m relieved her feet are way too small for her to ask if she can borrow them.

“You’re not going to rejoin Kappa, are you?” She tosses my shoes aside, and I cringe inwardly. “I mean, I don’t know why I’m even asking. It’s too late now. We’re well into the semester.”

“In the interest of total transparency, the whole sorority thing hasn’t even been on my radar.”

“See?” Glittery pink nails sparkle as she gestures to me. “This is what I was talking about. You got a boyfriend, and now you don’t want to do anything anymore.”

“Tyler isn’t my boyfriend.”

“Fuck buddy. Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “Same thing.”

By definition, they are not. But it seems pointless to argue.

Rifling through my closet, I try to settle on something to wear. Nothing appeals to me. I take out an emerald-green halter dress and hold it up to myself, then immediately put it back. Then I do the same with three more dresses. Maybe I could get away with wearing jeans.

We’re interrupted when the doorbell rings again. Unless Chloe is standing at my front door, I don’t have any friends left that it could be. Which is a little sad, upon further reflection.

This time, it is a delivery. The van roars away in the distance as I haul the oversized brown Amazon box inside, studying the label. It’s addressed to me, but I haven’t placed any orders there recently, let alone one for something this big.

Abby rushes up, peeking over my shoulder. “What is it?’

“No idea.”

She trails behind me as I bring the parcel into the kitchen. It isn’t very heavy, but there’s something reasonably large sliding around inside. Taking the kitchen scissors, I run them along the length of the packing tape to open the cardboard flaps. A flimsy white slip that looks like a receipt sits on of the top brown packing paper, face down. I turn it over and read the printed message, angling it away so Abby can’t see.

“A gift for you from: Hades.”

Blinking, I read it again to make sure I’m not hallucinating. What kind of gift? Hopefully not a dirty one with Abby standing right next to me watching my every move.

I shove the gift receipt in my pocket and lift the packing paper. A smile pulls at my lips when I spot a second, slightly smaller box. A coffee maker.

And it’s pink.

In addition to that, there’s a pound of organic decaffeinated coffee and a massive bag of pink Starburst. I’m shocked Tyler even remembered the last one. I’m fairly sure I only mentioned it to him once in passing.

My heart swells, and an unfamiliar feeling brews within me. One I can’t identify; one I’ve never felt.

“What’s this?” Abby pokes around in the packing box, sifting through the contents because she has zero concept of privacy. She pulls the appliance out with a smirk. “A pink coffee maker, Sera? That’s a little extra, even for you.”

“What’s wrong with being extra?” I snap, taking it from her hands. That’s it: I’m reclaiming the word “extra.” Everyone says it like it’s a bad thing, right up there with “basic.” Both terms get wielded against me by other people, and I’m tired of it.

“I like pink. It makes me happy. Why does everything have to hinge on what other people think? Yucking someone else’s yum is shitty.”

“Damn, girl. I was kidding. I meant that your brother and his friends might not want a bunch of pink stuff taking over the house.”

“I sincerely doubt they care.” Turning away, I set the box on the counter and take a deep breath, counting to five. Bailey and Siobhan invited me to watch the guys’ game with them on TV at their place, and their offer is looking better by the minute. So is staying home alone and eating pizza by myself. Or a million other things that don’t involve being trapped in a sweaty nightclub while Abby drags me around trying to get her attention fix.

“You know what?” I whirl around to face her. “I feel a headache coming on.”

She arches a brow, studying me skeptically. “A headache, huh? Seems awfully sudden.”

“Must be PMS. Could even turn into a migraine. I’d better nip it in the bud before it does.”

“You know, you’ve been super flaky lately.”

My body tenses like a steel trap, and it takes a significant restraint to keep my tone level. “You haven’t been so great yourself. I’m going through a lot right now, and it doesn’t seem like you even care.”

“Everyone has problems, Sera.”

Of course they do. Does that make mine less valid?

Tears spring to my eyes, and I grit my teeth to hold them back. “I think you should go.”

Abby storms out in a huff, and the aftermath of our confrontation leaves me spinning.

Our friendship is more on the rocks than ever. Does it even count as a friendship at this point? Do I care?

Once she’s gone, I unpack the coffee maker before putting the candy and coffee in the cupboard. Standing in the kitchen, I look at Tyler’s gift again, and some of the turmoil in me eases. My life feels like it’s going in ten drastically different directions. Some things are going better than I could’ve ever imagined, and others are going down in flames.

I grab my phone to send him a message, knowing he’ll be getting on the ice soon.

A heavy ache settles into the pit of my stomach because I’d give anything to see my dad again.

He reads my message immediately, eliminating any chance I have of unsending it. Did I really just write that? What am I doing? Granted, it’s true. A lot of other guys try to eat your face, and it’s not a good time. Or there’s an aggressive amount of tongue.

With Tyler, it’s another story. Maybe because it feels like he’s kissing me instead of kissing me. It’s a subtle, but important, distinction. In the former scenario, it’s an unspoken form of communication; an act of giving and taking. He knows when to deepen the kiss and when to pull back. It always feels like he’s fully in the moment, responding to me as things unfold.

In the latter instance, it’s someone jamming their tongue down your throat.

I’m still not sure I should’ve told him that. Every so often, I let something TMI like this slip around him. Now I’m staring at our text thread trying not to cringe.

I think my heart just exploded.