Under the Texas Sky

CHAPTER 14

KIAN

“Your test results are back, and you were positive for oral Gonorrhea.”

My jaw drops and I let out a noise that sounds like a wounded animal, because do-freaking-what-now?

I have to applaud the doctor, because her level of calm surpasses even the monks that live on the mountains and have to walk five million steps one way just to reach the nearest town for necessities.

“It’s very common and nothing to be ashamed about. It’s also very easily transferable, so if you have any partners you’ve been with recently, they’ll need to get tested as well.”

Tested as well? How am I going to explain to Trent that I got an STI? Even in my mind, nothing is adding up. My brain is coming up with all these wacky ideas that do not make any sense. An oral STI, so what? I drank after someone and caught it, and then unknowingly gave it to my boyfriend?

“My boyfriend,” I croak out in mortification.

An STI. A sexually transmitted infection that has made me terribly sick, and now has put my boyfriend at risk. I have to call him. I don’t know what I’ll say, but I can’t risk him getting sick, not like I was.

“Have him make an appointment and all we’ll have to do is swab his mouth and wait for the results.” She says “all” like it’s still not a big deal. But I’m sorry, ma’am, have you ever had to tell your boyfriend that you caught an infection, and you have no idea how, but now he also possibly has it? No, I don't think so.

“Okay–um.” I hesitate, because what do I say now?

“We’ll get you started on these antibiotics and set you up for a check-up appointment to make sure the infection is completely gone.” She sets her clipboard on the counter and comes back to stand in front of me. When she reaches for my palms, I have to wipe them on my jean shorts one more time so she can’t feel how clammy they are. “Do not stress about it. Do you know how many people get STIs?”

I shake my head, because most of what I know came from science class in the sixth grade, and every slide of infections on there showcased people’s genitals in a very negative way.

“One in five people. But can I tell you something else?”

I nod my head waiting for her to continue.

“I have herpes, which is also under the classification of sexually transmitted infections. Mine isn’t curable though. I got it from kissing a boy in the sixth grade."

Well, dang. That’s not what I expected to hear.

My silence must cue to her to keep talking, because she keeps reassuring me that its common. Common. More common than I think, according to her words. And she tells me of the advancements in medicine to help with infections like this.

The drive back to my apartment is a blur of bright sunshine and cement roads, so at odds with the storm brewing inside me. My left ass cheek is sore from the shot, the tender muscle flinching when I put too much pressure on it. She recommended I keep using the oral rinse to help keep my symptoms down until the antibiotic kicks in.

At home, I pace my apartment. Thirty steps to the left and I end up in front of our fridge. Forty-seven steps and I’m in front of the TV, looking at the couch where I used to rest my head on Trent’s lap while he wrote away in his journal. Twenty-three and I’m in the hallway outside our bedroom. I stare at the unmade bed, the sheets still covered with Trent’s scent because I refuse to sleep in our bed without him.

A thought niggles at the back of my mind as I stare at our bed, but I quickly shove it away. He wouldn’t do that to me.

The mirror is still covered with all the love notes he’s written to me, but he doesn’t know about the shoe box under the bed. Last time we moved, he asked me about it and I lied, making up some excuse about wanting to keep the box because it was great for future storage. He accepted it so easily, I almost caved and told him what I’m hiding. But in the end, I couldn’t. This is a secret for me and me only.

I crawl under the bed and reach for the red and brown box. It’s covered with the Vans logo on all the sides, but what I’m craving is what’s on the inside. This is my guilty pleasure when I’m feeling sad, the one hit of dopamine straight to my brain. I gently lift open the lid, a bag of dried flowers resting on top of all the different shapes, colors, and textures of papers and pictures. The oldest note in here is the first one he ever wrote me, after that day at the clearing in the park.

I remember it like it was yesterday.