Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(40)
“And you almost busted me with Chase,” I add, slipping a tank top over my head. “Just text next time, Abbs.”
“You’re not going to get a boyfriend and turn boring on me, are you?”
Excuse me?
Tugging on a pair of yoga pants, I glance up at her. “Why would a boyfriend make me boring?” There’s an edge to my tone I can’t hide.
She lifts a shoulder. “Because then you won’t want to go out and do fun things anymore.”
“Last night wasn’t exactly fun for me. Where were you, anyway?”
What upsets me most of all about this scenario is that I would never do the same to her. In fact, I’ve taken care of Abby countless times, both back in high school as well as when I came back home for visits in college.
“I was in the living room the whole time. I would’ve helped you if I had known. I’m sure it would’ve passed quickly if you waited it out.”
I’m not so sure that the first part is true. Abby isn’t exactly the nurturing type. She might have patted my back for a minute, but would she have really stayed with me until I calmed down? Either way, there’s no chance I could’ve stayed at the party. Between the lights, the music, and the people, it was complete sensory overload.
Shame seeps into the pit of my stomach. Why did I do that, anyway? I’ve never taken hard drugs before. In the moment, I’d been overwhelmed by everything that had happened at the doctor. Fear, grief, sadness, anxiety. It was too much; all I wanted was for it to stop.
In retrospect, it seems like such an irresponsible choice.
Does Tyler think less of me now? Ugh. I always screw things up.
“I need to cut back on going out anyway, Abbs. I have to pick a major ASAP and I need to make sure my grades stay up.” Although this is a legitimate concern, it isn’t the only reason. I’m more than a little annoyed with her after last night. And if that’s an average weekend outing for Abby, I’m not sure we’ll be hanging out much.
“Psh.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Who cares about all that? Just get an M-R-S degree.”
“M-R-S?”
“Yeah,” she says. “A Mrs. degree. A.k.a., marry rich.”
I groan. “Abby…”
“What? That’s my plan.” Abby tips back her coffee. “I guess it’s different when you already have lots of money like you do. You can become a sugar mama and have a rotation of hot pool boys.”
While that idea might appeal to her, it sounds highly depressing to me. My father left me an inheritance to ensure I would be financially stable and could pursue my dreams, not loaf around and pay hot younger men for sexual favors.
Thinking about the future brings me back to what happened at the doctor’s office yesterday. My stomach sinks to the floor. What if the test comes back positive? I’m sure that would be a great icebreaker on dates.
“By the way, I’m nearly guaranteed to develop cancer, and I need to have children sooner than later.”
No pressure there, right?
I hate that I have to think about this right now. I hate that Mom is sick in the first place.
All the emotions from yesterday start to well up again. I draw in a breath, holding it for a beat before I exhale slowly, counting to five inside my head. It doesn’t help. My entire body is brimming with anxiety, threatening to overflow.
Clearing my throat, I paste on a neutral expression as I work to conceal the turmoil inside. “I hate to kick you out, Abbs, but I have a ton of schoolwork to do.”
She makes a face. “What? It’s not even noon.”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Super swamped.” In truth, none of my assignments should take overly long. I need some time by myself to process everything. Or try to, at least.
Once I escort a protesting Abby out the door, I go back into my room and lock myself inside. A sigh of relief slips through my lips. She seemed more than a little miffed, but I don’t particularly care.
Instead of feeling better like I expected, my thoughts grow a thousand times more upsetting the moment I’m alone. The doctor. My mom. BRCA. Tyler. School. Picking a major. Everything circles in my brain as my mind races, panic ramping up a notch. I’m on the verge of having an epic meltdown. Whether that’s another anxiety attack or crying or something else, I can’t be sure. Maybe all of the above.
Grabbing my noise-canceling headphones, I sit crisscross on my bed and pull out my MacBook. Then I start to free write, channeling everything onto the page. At first, it dredges up everything I’m trying to hide from, and I feel a thousand times worse, but with more time and more words, I slowly start to feel better. Not happy—but lighter, at least.
My calendar pops up at the bottom of my page reminding me about my creative writing assignment due tomorrow. Normally, I wouldn’t start on this for another few hours. I put the “pro” in “procrastination”, and I work best under pressure. Since I need the distraction, I retrieve my textbook and read the first two chapters as assigned. Then I submit a response paragraph including my “Writer’s Purpose Statement” to the online forum for class discussion.
An iMessage notification appears on-screen from Tyler.
Hades: Grabbed you breakfast. I knocked but you didn’t answer. Wasn’t sure if you were sleeping.