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.