Shutout (Rules of the Game, #2)(57)
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.