Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
CASEY
“This is going to be okay,” I mumble to myself as I walk down the aisle at the pharmacy around the corner from my apartment.
It will be okay. While a piece of me is slightly concerned at the news Brandon called to share regarding his positive HIV status, I know I was safe when we were together. Condom and PrEP. Self-testing every three months and lab testing at least twice a year through my family doctor. I don’t have a lot of random sex with strangers, but when I do indulge in a hook up, I make damn sure I’m prepared for it. My mother, the sexual health nurse, wouldn’t have it any other way. I think I was the only kid growing up who knew more about the birds and the bees than anyone else in my grade. I can still remember sharing information with my grade four classmates on the playground that the teacher hadn’t covered in our rudimentary sex education class. I can also remember the conversation my mom had with me after school where she gently informed me that some kids weren’t ready for the knowledge I had, and that when it came to anything about the human body, I needed to stay silent and let the teacher teach her curriculum. How was I to know that sex education was more about labeling penises and vaginas at that age than it was understanding what all those parts were meant for? I thought Mrs. Burke had simply forgotten to mention semen and eggs, labia and vas deferens while she was teaching us, and took it upon myself to fill in the blanks with what I knew.
I’ve been well versed in sexual health since long before I came stumbling out of the closet, wide eyed and terrified about a boner I’d sprung while thinking about kissing Justin Bieber. That’s how I know I’m going to be okay here. The chance that I’ve contracted HIV from Brandon is minimal at best, but I’ll still test just to be sure. If only to ease his poor mind in this moment. I will have to test again a few months out because sometimes certain things take time to build up in blood, but for the moment, I can assure him that I am HIV negative since that is what he needs. He was a wreck when he called me, and the sound of him crying into the other end of the phone still rumbles inside my brain, though it’s been at least an hour since we hung up.
I grab a couple of self-testing kits off the shelf at the back of the pharmacy, then turn and make my way to the front to pay for them, passing by displays of knickknacks and snacks as I go, but when I reach a small display of discounted items, I stop to take a look. There’s a bunch of sale makeup thrown into the bin, but beside them sits a grey fleece blanket printed with blue snowflakes. I reach for it, thinking of Brandon’s apartment and the colors he’s chosen. He told me that his soft grey couch was the first thing he’d bought for himself when he finished his schooling, and this blanket matches the color I vaguely remember from that night. He’d fucked me in his darkened bedroom, but when we were done and cleaned up, we’d sat in his living room for a few moments with glasses of water in our hands, chatting in that awkward way one does after letting a complete stranger wring pleasure out of their bones.
I can’t remember what he does for a living, but I remember the small pride in his voice when I’d commented how comfy his couch was. I remember his smile, the way it curls up one side of his mouth a tiny bit higher than the other, like a friendly smirk, and the dark chocolate of his eyes. His short near black hair, and the tattoos of birds and vines that run up his one arm to crest over his chest like armor, half outlined, half colored in with another booking needed to complete the lot. I remember the back of his right hand, inked with a hawkmoth, and the way his touch was gentle, like butterfly wings against my skin as he’d explored me with his fingers. When I caught his eye from across the club, I had noted he was attractive. I hadn’t imagined that he’d be so fucking hot up close and personal, but thinking about Brandon Tremblay’s talented fingers and smirky smile has my entire body heating up as much as his phone call has made me feel for the journey he is now on.
I grab the blanket as I think about Brandon and his couch, the truth of what he’s learned about himself heavy inside me, and his tears rattling in my ears. He’d said he’d been sick for a few weeks with what had appeared to be flu symptoms, but the tests his doctor had done ruled everything out, except for HIV. I’d been his first phone call when he’d gotten home from his appointment, and that also sits inside me.
Brandon could have called anyone to come be with him in the moments after he learned of his diagnosis. A family member, or a friend, perhaps, who loves him and would sit beside him as he processes this news. Instead, he called me to apologize and let me know that I need to take a test. I didn’t think to ask if he had anyone to call to come and be with him so he’s not alone right now. Should I have asked? Does he even want anyone there? I’ve never been in a situation like this before with any of the people I’ve slept with, but the thought that Brandon is alone after hearing such devastating news doesn’t sit right inside me.
With a sigh, I turn and head back into the depths of the pharmacy to grab more items. A box of orange pekoe tea bags. A bag of gummy candy and a box of chocolate chip cookies. A box of chicken noodle soup packets, the good kind that you cook on a stove in a pot, and a sleeve of the best crackers to go along with it. I pile all of this into my hands and carefully make my way to the till to check out, hoping that I can remember the way to Brandon’s apartment. If he wants to be alone, I’ll drop off this care package for him, but the summer classes I’m taking for extra credits towards my education degree are done for the day, and with nothing else to do, I have time to sit with him if he needs someone.
There are worse things than spending an afternoon with an incredibly handsome man.
Brandon opens the door to his apartment, his eyes widening as he sees me standing there. It didn’t take me long to get my bearings and figure out how to get here. I did stop by the identical building next door first, but a quick look at the names by the front door told me I was off in my assumption. I finally found his name on one of the nameplates by the door of this building, though, and knew I’d made it. I didn’t ring the buzzer for his apartment, choosing instead to sneak in when someone else was leaving. I don’t know Brandon well at all, and he may have completely ignored the ringing.
“Casey?” he asks, bewildered. His cheeks are red and blotchy, and though he’s still stunningly gorgeous with his high cheekbones and scruffy jaw, he looks absolutely shattered. His eyes are sad, and as I offer a smile, they grow even sadder somehow.
“I came to bring you some things,” I say, holding up the reusable bag printed with the pharmacy logo on it. “Can I leave it with you, or can I come in, maybe?”
He hesitates, but only for a moment, before opening the door wide and taking a step back to let me in. With a grin, I step into his space, holding out the bag to him. He takes it from me carefully as I kick off my shoes in the entryway, placing them beside his heavy work boots on the tray by the door.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, holding the bag like he’s unsure of what it contains.
“I got the feeling you might be alone and that didn’t feel right to me. You can kick me out, but I thought maybe you’d want company.”
“Oh.” Brandon glances down at the bag, then back up at me. “And this is?”
“Supplies for health,” I offer, turning to head into the living room beyond the door. Though my heart is a bit fluttery inside me with nerves and the hope that I’m doing the right thing, I make myself at home on his couch. Brandon slowly walks into the room and sits down carefully on the complete opposite end of the couch. He places the bag on the table beside a brown envelope with the logo for a local HIV education non-profit on it and a small stack of white prescription papers.
“You didn’t get them filled?” I ask, gesturing to the papers.
“Not yet. I’m not quite there yet in my head, but I will go get them tonight. The doctor said starting them sooner rather than later is best, obviously. I just needed…” He trails off, shrugging his shoulders.
“Time to process?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, closing his eyes. “Time to process.”
“Have you called anyone else?”
“Nobody to call.”
I leave that alone, but I’m a bit saddened that he has nobody else who he’d go to for comfort or reassurance. No parents or friends that he could call for support. Just me, the stranger he fucked three weeks ago. We sit in silence for a few moments until he opens his eyes and looks at me, still seeming a bit confused as to why I’m here. I offer a smile back and gesture to the bag I brought. “Care package. It’s all yours.”
Brandon nods, opening the bag and pulling items out. He places them one by one on the table beside his unfilled prescription papers, a small smile growing as he sees what I’ve brought.
“Lipton chicken soup?” he asks, holding up the box.
“It’s the best one.” I nod. “My mom always made it for me when I wasn’t feeling good. It’s comfort in a bowl, even though it’s from a package.”
“Never had it. Soup came in a can when I was growing up.” He pulls out the sleeve of crackers and places them beside the soup, then reaches in and lifts the snowflake blanket out of the bag. Brandon holds it for a moment, then suddenly, a tear slips down his cheek. He wipes it away, offering a small, uncomfortable laugh. “Fuck.”
“You can totally cry if you need to. It reminded me of your couch, so I grabbed it. Thought it might be nice for you to have. It’s super soft, and when I’m not feeling good, I just want soft things.”
“Same,” he replies, his voice a little hoarse. He sighs and wipes the tears from his cheeks with a hand, then places the folded blanket on his lap, running his hand over the soft fabric again and again, like it’s soothing whatever is happening inside of him. Finally, he turns and looks at me, eyes still a bit confused, though now he just looks exhausted. “Did you take a test yet?”
“Not yet. I bought a couple, and I’ll take one tonight. I’m sure it’ll be okay, though, Brandon, we were so safe that night.” He nods, but I don’t quite think he believes me. He doesn’t have much of a reason to, if I’m being honest. Brandon knows my body, but he doesn’t know me aside from the scant pieces of conversation we had after he fucked me that night. “Condom and PrEP.”
“I know,” he replies with a sigh. “I just keep worrying that I had a cut on my hand from work or something, and that when I put my fingers inside you, I transferred it somehow into you. Casey, I don’t know how I’m going to go ahead if I’ve gotten you sick. I can’t even imagine what knowing I did that to you would feel like.”
“Who…” I trail off, not sure if I should even ask where he got it from.
“My ex,” he responds. “He cheated on me and brought it home to me somewhere along the way. I don’t know if he knows yet, and I know he shouldn’t get my sympathy, but he does. Even if he cheated on me and gave me HIV, I can’t help but feel for him. Stupid, right?”
“I don’t think it is at all. I think it’s just your heart reminding you that even though it’s broken, it exists.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs, sighing. “I’m more worried about your heart, though, right now.”
That my health is his focus strikes me as being wrong, when he is the one with the life changing diagnosis. “What about you, Brandon? Are you worried for you?”
“I don’t know. I should be, I suppose. I was thinking earlier about having to take my couch back to the store, and how I was going to let them know that I can’t afford the payments anymore. I also sent an email to cancel my booking with my tattoo artist, which sucks, but I won’t be able to afford the cost anymore. If I have to leave work permanently instead of the handful of sick days I’ve been granted, I mean.”
“Why would you have to leave work for good?”
“I get banged up a lot,” he offers with a small half smile that seems more sad than happy. “Cars have tight spots, and I have big knuckles. I get lots of cuts and scrapes trying to reach in to get the parts I’m working on. What if I cut myself and get someone else infected that way?”
Ah. Mechanic. That tracks with the work boots in the entryway and the faint scent of gasoline and oil coming from his clothing. “Did you work today?”
“Before my appointment, yeah. I called them to say I have the flu and need to be off until I’m not contagious. They understood, but I’m always contagious now, I suppose.” He looks down at his hands like he anticipates seeing a plethora of cuts and gouges, blood seeping from beneath his skin.
“Let me see.” Without thinking twice, I scoot over on the couch so I’m right beside him and grab his hands, holding them in mine. His palms are callused where they rest on mine, and I smile as I look down at his fingers and the moth tattoo on the back of his right hand. Brandon is shaking a bit in my grasp, but he lets me turn his hands over as I search for hidden cuts and wounds. There’s nothing but his skin against me, no blood seeping from whatever cuts he has imagined he may have. “No cuts, Brandon. It’s okay.”
“But there could be,” he responds. “I’m not the most careful.”
I glance down again at his hands, seeing the faint lines of a scar that almost encircles his thumb. I run my fingertip over it gently. “What was that?”
He surprises me by laughing. A real, true laugh. “Got my thumb stuck in a can of grease. It had a hole popped in the top of it, and like a dumbass, I thought I’d just stick my thumb in and peel the rest of the tin top off. That fucker was sharp as shit around the rim.”
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Okay, so you may have to be more careful then. That’s possible.”
Brandon sighs, taking his hands out of mine and putting them on the blanket on his lap. He yawns so wide I can almost count the fillings in his back teeth, then slumps back into his seat. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if you’re positive, Casey.”
“Well, how about we just find out together?” I offer, thinking of the self-tests I have downstairs in my vehicle.