Shutout: Rules of the Game Book 2
Shutout: Chapter 12

SERAPHINA

“I hate him.”

At the manicure station next to me, Abby glances over with a raised brow. “Do you hate him because you wanted him to kiss you, or because you didn’t want him to kiss you?”

“I hate him because I wanted to kiss him and he hugged me, Abby. Like I was his grandmother.”

It’s been three days since the kitchen incident, and my fragile female ego is still wounded. I know Tyler wanted to kiss me. Hell, he even started to lean in. Then he stopped short like a switch flipped in his brain, and he left me hanging like a fool.

I suspect it all circles back to my older, and decidedly overprotective, brother—despite the fact that who I hook up with is none of his business. Chase is clam-jamming me without even realizing it.

That, or I’ve misread the situation to a catastrophic degree. That can’t be the case, could it? Tyler admitted he still thinks about that night at XS. Unless, god forbid, he was trying to spare my feelings. Usually I’m pretty good at reading guys, but I’m starting to second guess myself.

Maybe I friend-zoned myself when I suggested that the day I moved in. That would be ironic.

Abby shrugs. “No one ever said guys were smart.”

“They definitely aren’t.” Which is why I’ve never wasted much time or effort on them, and also why I’m extra irritated I’ve let that change.

Despite my venting, there’s no denying my stomach does a happy little somersault every time one of Tyler’s messages pops up on my phone. They’re like little dopamine hits throughout the day. I’ve been living for every single text.

Can girls be simps? Because right now, I feel like one.

Abby gives the manicurist her right hand, placing her left beneath the LED light to cure her burgundy nails. “Are you ever going to reaffiliate? I hyped you up to Allie and Gina, and they keep asking me when you’re going to submit your application. Allie is the president, and she’s a third-generation Kappa, which means…”

I try to follow what she’s saying, but it’s hard to make myself care. There are more pressing items on my plate than rejoining a sorority, like picking a major and figuring out what I want to do with my life. Worrying about my mom’s health. Things that have long-term implications.

“Are you even listening to me?” Abby’s voice breaks in.

“Yeah. Um, I’ll try to get that Kappa paperwork done as soon as I can.” I clear my throat. “Just having a bit of a rough time right now, that’s all.”

“Don’t worry, Rob’s party tonight will help you take your mind off things.”

“Hopefully.” I’m not overly optimistic. Not even a fresh manicure is turning this day around. My nails are transforming into the most glorious shade of pale pink, and I’m still grumpy.

I have to replace some way to get over it, though. I’m taking my mom to a checkup with her oncologist after lunch, and the last thing she needs is a cranky daughter. It doesn’t help that I’m running on approximately three hours of broken sleep after tossing and turning all night, dreaming up all kinds of terrible hypotheticals. I’m a nervous wreck. What if we get bad news? What if she’s not responding to treatment the way they hoped? It’ll be ten years this spring since my dad died. I can’t lose her, too.

If I’m being honest with myself, I might admit my mood has a lot more to do with all of that. But it’s easier to blame Tyler.

Two coffees later—a decaf white chocolate mocha for me, and a hazelnut latte for my mom—I exit the Starbucks drive-through and head for the highway to her house. It’s an additional twenty-minute drive from town, so I pass the time with more of my audiobook. The hero just angrily kissed the heroine in the kitchen after she was flirting with someone else. Toxic as it may be, I live for a good jealousy scene.

Unfortunately, the story only helps so much. The closer I get to my destination, the harder it is to focus on anything other than what lies ahead. In a way, I just want to get it over with, and I feel bad for that.

Mom climbs in the passenger side, and my gaze lingers on her, concern creeping in. As recently as Thanksgiving, her chestnut hair was thick and wavy, all the way down to her collarbone. Now it’s wispy and short, tucked beneath a blue-patterned scarf. Her already-thin frame is even thinner, too. She’s as beautiful as ever, but she looks fragile.

In the console, my screen lights up with a text from Tyler—or Hades, as he’s listed in my phone—and a tiny thrill runs through me. It’s immediately followed by a whopping dose of guilt. I should be focused on other, more serious things right now.

“You look smitten, Ser-bear. Who’s the guy?” My mother teases me, her tone playful. Her cancer treatments have taken a toll on her energy level, but she still has the same upbeat attitude.

I glance over to replace a knowing smile on her lips, her sparkling emerald eyes crinkling at the corners as she studies me. Either I’m being painfully obvious, or mother’s her intuition is better than I realized. I’m hoping it’s the latter.

“Oh, um… no one.” Even if I wanted to tell her, it feels weird when we’re en route to her oncology appointment. Not sure how she’d take the news that I’m living with the guy I’m crushing on, either.

“Sure seems like someone.”

“Just a guy I’ve been talking to. It’s not even a thing.”

And at this rate, it never will be.

“Mrs. Carter?” A petite nurse in pink scrubs stands in the doorway, scanning the waiting room until my mother stands up. “The doctor can see you now.”

My heart races as I follow my mother and the nurse down the wood-paneled hallway into Doctor Wilson’s office. With a sprawling glass desk and two leather guest chairs, it looks more like something I’d expect to replace at a law office rather than a medical practice. But he’s one of the best oncologists on the East Coast, so that might explain the decor.

The first half of the appointment involves a lot of medical jargon, some of which I didn’t fully understand, but I ask questions and take ample notes because the chemo gives my mom brain fog and she likes to be able to re-read things later. I relax slightly as Doctor Wilson explains that they expect her to respond well to the protocol they’ve designed, and her overall prognosis is excellent. For her type and stage of cancer, the rate of survival is nearly ninety percent with early aggressive treatment like she’s receiving. Probably even better in her case because she was in such good health before. All things considered; she’s doing great.

While everything has been encouraging until this point, the mood in the room shifts markedly when he mentions something about genetic testing, reaching for a folder on the tray next to his desk. My nerves skyrocket again, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue. Did they replace something else wrong with her?

He clears his throat. “As we discussed, we conducted a comprehensive genetic testing panel during the diagnostic process. The results have come back, and you’re positive for the BRCA-1 mutation. It’s helpful that your daughter is here with you today; when a patient has a positive result, we recommend testing all immediate relatives since there’s a fifty percent chance they’ve also inherited it.”

My vision tunnels, and the room turns sideways on me.

BRCA.

Fifty percent chance.

I try to make sense of what he just said, but I’m lacking critical information. I don’t know what it means other than it’s something bad, and I might have it too.

Mom reaches over and covers my hand with hers, giving it a squeeze. “I know it sounds scary, sweetheart, but it’s better to get tested and replace out. If you’re negative, it’ll be a weight off your shoulders.” Despite her reassurance, her expression is tight, and there’s fear beneath the brave face she’s putting on for me. She looks more upset than when she told me about her diagnosis.

“Why? What does it mean if I’m positive?” I ask, trying to hide the wobble in my voice.

“Sera, let’s not get ahead—” she starts.

“No, tell me. Please. If you don’t, the first thing I’m going to do when I get home is Google it, and that’ll be worse.”

Doctor Wilson laces his fingers together, giving me a sympathetic look. “I need to emphasize that statistically speaking, there’s an equally good chance you’re not a carrier. With that said, individuals who carry the BRCA gene are at a higher-than-average chance of developing breast cancer and are more likely to develop it at a young age. There’s an increased risk of ovarian cancer as well.”

This is more or less what I expected, but somehow hearing it out loud makes it even worse.

“Routine cancer screenings begin sooner and are conducted more frequently,” he adds. “Some patients may also opt for a prophylactic mastectomy and/or salpingo-oophorectomy to reduce their risk of cancer down the road. Even if you test positive, you have some time to weigh your options in that regard.”

“Sal-what?” I echo, not even able to process the mastectomy part that preceded it. When I came here today, I had no idea we might discuss anything in relation to me. Part of me wishes my mother had warned me in advance, but I also understand why she didn’t. The stricken look on her face says it all—she was hoping the results would be negative and that she wouldn’t need to.

“Removal of the ovaries and fallopian tubes,” he clarifies.

In other words, surgically eliminating my ability to get pregnant.

Panic claws at my throat. “How much time are we talking?” I’m in no hurry to settle down but I want to have children someday, and I assumed I had plenty of time to make that happen.

He hesitates. “It depends how aggressive the patient wants to be. Most risk reduction strategies recommend the procedures between the ages of thirty-five and forty or when childbearing is complete, whichever is sooner. The risks are incremental, and they increase with age. Statistically speaking, most women with BRCA1 develop breast cancer eventually.”

The good news is the intervention timeline isn’t as immediate as I feared. I’m almost twenty-one, so we’re talking roughly fifteen years in the future.

The bad news is that working backwards, this wouldn’t give me as much time as I thought I had to start a family.

The worst news is being a carrier would mean I’m a ticking time bomb.

My chest is so tight it aches. “I see.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says, shuffling the papers on his desk. “The first step would be to book you in for testing. We can facilitate that if you’d like. After that, you can be referred out for additional genetic counseling if necessary.”

“What about men? Could Chase be a carrier?” He made me promise to message him the minute we finished, but this isn’t a conversation for text.

He nods. “Men can carry the gene too.”

“Seraphina.” My mother touches my forearm, drawing my attention to her. Her lips press into a grim line. “If you don’t mind, honey, I’d like to hold off on telling him about this for now. Just for a couple weeks. He’s got a lot on his plate to deal with, and I don’t want to add to his stress.”

I swallow the boulder sitting in my throat. “Right. I won’t say a word.”

We gather our things and I numbly trail behind my mom, my head spinning and ears ringing. When we step back into the lobby, I spot a woman standing at reception. She’s hardly older than me—well under thirty for certain—and like my mother, she’s clearly sick. A pink-and-purple scarf covers what’s left of her hair and her olive complexion is wan.

My eyes dart in her direction again. She’s beautiful, with wide dark eyes and full lips. I can’t get over how young she looks. Twenty-four or twenty-five, if I had to guess. How old was she when she was diagnosed? Did she even suspect she might get sick? Did she do the same genetic test Mom’s doctor mentioned?

Could that be me someday?

The reality of what I’m facing slams into me. People always say you have your twenties to figure everything out. I always assumed that was true, but everything seems different when you’re looking down the barrel of a diagnosis.

While I have a hazy, imprecise understanding of what I want out of life, I couldn’t articulate it if I tried. My plan for the future is vague and amorphous, filled with terms like “one day” and “eventually.” Like an apparition you see out of the corner of your eye that vanishes when you try to grab it.

I want to get married eventually—that much I know for sure. And if I’m a carrier, that has consequences for both of us, not just me. It could even impact how many children we have. What if I can’t have kids in time? Or what if I do, and then I get sick?

Deep down, I know it’s irrational to get ahead of myself before I get tested and receive the results. There’s a decent chance I’ll be BRCA negative. But what if I’m not?

I’m spiraling and I can’t help it. There are too many unknowns—and many of them are terrifying.

Fueled by a morbid sense of curiosity, I steal another peek at the young woman. A million questions swirl through my mind. I wonder how much life she got to experience before her diagnosis. Did she get the chance to fall in love? Does she have a partner to help her now? To my stepfather’s credit, he’s been there for my mother more than I expected, even picking up cooking and cleaning around the house. I’m not sure she’d be doing nearly as well without him.

As we pass, I overhear part of their conversation.

“Still with Cigna?” the receptionist asks.

“No, that’s not—I have new insurance. We just got divorced. I’m not on his anymore.” Her voice is shaky as she looks down and rifles through her purse. “I’ll replace it, I know it’s in here somewhere.”

A pang of sympathy tugs at my stomach, followed by overwhelming nausea. I can’t imagine going through a divorce while battling cancer. Losing your marriage on top of everything else would be heartbreaking. I’ve heard it happens not infrequently. Something about the stress of the illness straining already struggling marriages. Whatever happened to in sickness and in health?

Sure, dating isn’t on my current priority list—I don’t need another disappointment on top of everything else. But she’s older than me. She’s had more time to meet someone, and a lot could change after graduation. If I’m lucky enough to replace the right person later, would they stand by me through something like that?

Would they even want me in the first place? I bet it would be a dealbreaker for a lot of men.

Maybe living in the moment is the only way to keep my sanity and heart intact until I know.

“Sera?”

“Pardon?” My gaze slides over to my mom, who’s looking at me expectantly. We’re standing next to my car in the parking garage beneath her doctor’s office. I have no recollection of taking the elevator down.

“I said, do you want to go for dinner?”

“Sure,” I say distantly. “You pick.”