Chapter 8 Jamison
Jamison
“No, Char, I do not need you to come over,” I insisted, tucking the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I paced my apartment. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a nervous wreck,” my sister insisted from the other end of the phone. “I bet you’re pacing right now, aren’t you?”
I froze. I was not pacing. I wasn’t! “I’m not pacing. I’m sitting calmly on my couch talking to my darling sister. Who worries too much.”
She snorted. “Says the guy who’s talking about trading HIV test results with someone he had fucking unprotected drunk sex with.”
“Would you fucking lay off with that? People make mistakes, I do not need you to continually remind me what a fuckup I am.” Because I did that plenty on my own.
Sure, I gave off an air of insouciant confidence.
And sure, most of the time I was confident.
But I’d spent plenty of time beating myself up over The Mistake (?) already, I didn’t need her to do it too.
And I knew she spoke out of love and concern.
I knew that. Charlie had been taking care of me for as long as I could remember.
Our parents hadn’t been the most attentive of folks.
I mean, they made sure we had what we needed and such, but mommy-hugs and claps on the back from dad were few and far between.
Instead, I got most of my attention and affection from my three-years-older sister, who got stuck with babysitting duty far more than any tweenager should have been.
The trouble was, now I was almost thirty-two years old, she was thirty-five, and she still treated me like I was seven a lot of the time.
“Sorry.” Her voice had dropped a bit, a sure sign that she was feeling emotional.
Usually she stayed in her alto register without effort.
“I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m just so damn worried about this, about you, and it’s making me feel like I need to stay on top of you to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Once is more than enough, you know?”
“Trust me, Char, I’m living it. I know,” I assured her.
“But honestly, it’s almost certainly fine at this point.
If either of us was infected the initial tests and then the ten-day tests would have picked up on it.
These tests and the three-month tests are basically just out of an abundance of caution. ”
She sighed. “But how do you know this guy wasn’t out banging his way around town the day before you, you know, met him? It’s possible he picked it up right before you, and then the tests might not register for weeks or months, and -”
She’d been googling again, clearly. “Charlie. I told you to stop over-researching.” Not that I'd expected that to work. Charlie was a worrier and a reader. Nothing would stop her from googling the everloving shit out of something like this. “You’re more stressed about this than I am, and that’s stupid.
It’s my body. Even if I do come up positive, you’ll be fine. ”
“Fine?” she snapped. “You think I’ll be fine if my little brother has fucking AIDS? Jesus, Jamie, I’m going to lose my shit if you…if it…” Her breath hitched.
“Hey,” I said, modulating my tone to its most soothing register that I used when she got like this.
“Even if I have HIV - and it's HIV, not AIDS, remember - it’s a chronic illness these days, not a death sentence. This isn’t the 80s or 90s.
There are effective medicines. And don’t forget I’ve been on PrEP for ages, which means the chances of me catching it even if Henry had been pouring out virus like crazy are minimal. Breathe, sis.”
“Sorry.” She sniffled. “Sorry. I know. I’ve read this. My brain won’t stop doing circles, though.”
“And we know that’s a thing for you,” I finished for her. “But it doesn’t mean that you have to believe the shit your brain throws out.”
Charlie reminded me a little of Hen when she was like this.
They both sort of exuded anxiety. I wondered if Hen had chronic anxiety the way Charlie did.
She’d been diagnosed as a teenager, and I’d long been used to talking her down when I could and being a calm force beside her when I couldn’t.
Maybe that was why Hen and I got along so well; I already knew how to work with his brain.
I shouldn’t go diagnosing someone I hardly knew, though, I knew that.
Maybe he had anxiety, maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was just an introverted guy.
Still, the tools I’d built up thanks to Charlie paid off in managing the awkwardness with Henry, and I was grateful for that.
He was a fun guy when you got him talking; the trick was just getting him talking and keeping things moving along so he didn’t have too much time to overthink.
“I love you, Jam. I’m sorry I’m such a mess.”
“Hey, no.” I waved a dismissive hand as if she could see me. “You’re not a mess, you’re my Charlie.”
She chuckled. “Charlie the Mess, you mean. So, when are you supposed to get the next set of results?”
I sighed. “Any time now. They said within a week and it’s been just about seven days. I’m getting antsy, though. And I haven’t heard from Hen about his. I mean, I’m assuming he got tested again like we agreed to, but it’s not like I asked him straight out when we hung out -”
“Wait, what?” she interrupted, her voice rising. “You hung out? Like, just casually? When? Why?”
I wasn’t sure if this was Ooh, my brother might have had a date excitement or What the fuck, you saw the guy who screwed you over again? excitement, so I was careful with my reply. “Last weekend, we went out to lunch. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. He’s good company, though.”
There was a low hiss on the other end of the phone. “Did you sleep with him again? I swear to god, Jamie -”
“Nope,” I cut her off. “No. We are not having this conversation. It’s not your business who I sleep with or not. And even if I chose to share that with you, which I don’t, you wouldn’t get to judge my choices.”
“But Jamie -”
“Nope. Don’t make me hang up on you.”
“I’m just saying, if you do it again, maybe put the condom on under your own power, huh? Make sure, you know.”
I snorted. “Thanks, Captain Obvious. Because I didn’t learn that lesson the hard way already. Good to know you think I’m an idiot.” I loved my sister. I loved my sister. My sister was bossy and lacked boundaries, but I loved my sister, I reminded myself.
“I don’t th-” Her voice cut out momentarily as my phone buzzed in my hand. “-ust reminding -” Buzz. “-can’t know.” Buzz.
I pulled my phone away from my ear to check the screen. A new notification from my doctor’s office. My breath caught. Slamming my phone back to my ear, I interrupted whatever Charlie had been saying with a breathless, “I gotta go, I think my results just came in. I’ll text you later.”
“But Jamie -” she started, a hint of a whine in her voice.
“Talk to you later, sis.” I jammed my finger on the hang-up button before she could protest any further and quickly switched to my notifications pane.
I tapped the app notification and waited impatiently as the app launched.
Splash screen, sigh. Loading message, argh.
Click here to…CLICK. I tapped my foot impatiently as the “Lab results” screen loaded, but finally, there it was: HIV antibodies: non-reactive.
I let out a whoop that probably scared my neighbors. Clear! Almost reflexively, I flipped to my texts and opened my conversation with Henry.
Me: Got my latest results. Negative, woot woot!
There was no reply, so I switched to Charlie’s text thread.
Me: Negative. Now stop worrying, and for the love of god stop lecturing me.
Charlie: Just because you got lucky this time doesn’t mean you don’t need to be careful next time, Jamie.
Me: Oh my god you’re exhausting. I know to be careful. I already knew to be careful, this was just a single mistake in my whole adult lifetime. Chill.
Charlie: Oh, if only I could.
Me: Take a damn benzo and sleep it off.
Charlie: Rude.
Me: Pushy. Don’t you have your own life to stress about?
Charlie: Honey, the biggest thing I have going on in my life is whether to do my laundry today or tomorrow.
Which, yes, I can totally find a way to stress about that, but on the scale of things I worry about, it doesn’t rate compared to you.
Hey speaking of which, when was the last time you did laundry? I know you hated doing it as a kid…
Me: You’re insane. That was like twenty years ago. I am on a schedule now. Laundry every Friday night, so I have clean clothes for the weekend. I’m good, stop feeling around for things to worry about.
A new notification popped up atop my text window, informing me that I had a new message from Hen. I flipped to his conversation.
Hen: I don’t know why you always get your results before I get mine. I suspect a conspiracy, frankly. Maybe they want me to pay extra for a rush job. But anyway…
Hen: FUCK YEAH NEGATIVE FOR YOU!!
Me: Hell yeah. When did you do your test?
Hen: Last Friday. Technically I was supposed to wait until Saturday, I think, but the timing just worked better for Friday. And mayyyybe I got a little anxious. Just a smidge.
Me: Can’t exactly blame you there. Fwiw the lab tech told me that if there’s a high viral load the results would come back faster, so it taking extra-long for you is probably good news? I think?
Hen: That actually makes me feel a little better.
Buzz. Charlie. I flipped back to her.
Charlie: Ok, fine, but if I can’t worry about your laundry then we’re back to worrying about your sex life.
Me: No. Nope. Nein. Nyet.
Charlie: At least you have a sex life, unlike some of us.
Me: TMI, Char. I don’t wanna know about whether or how much you want sex.
Charlie: Just sayin’, I’m a healthy adult girl.
Me: Nooooope.
I couldn’t with her. I switched back to my conversation with Hen.
Me: My sister is driving me nuts. Send help.
Hen: Is she on your back about safe sex again?
Me: Somewhat. But now she’s taunting me with hints about her sex life, too, which is just wrong.
Hen: Poor baby. But shouldn’t you be aware that she has a sex life already? She’s older than you, no?
Me: There’s being aware and then there’s being aware. Besides, she was just trying to tell me how horny she is because she’s not having sex. I don’t wanna know that shit!
Hen: Ok, fair, I wouldn’t want to hear that, either. Sisters should be asexual as far as brothers are concerned. And vice versa, to be fair.
Hen: Hold on, new clinic message.
I caught my breath and held it.
Hen: Fuck yeah! Negative!
My breath whooshed out of me.
Me: Why is that such a huge relief when I knew the risk was already minimal? I mean yes, relief, ok, but I just let out the world’s largest breath as if it was a life-or-death emergency.
Hen: Probably because it still kinda feels like life-or-death no matter how many times we do this and how often we assure each other that HIV is a chronic, controllable condition. Societal conditioning is a bitch.
Me: When’d you get so smart?
Hen: Must have been some time after I randomly forgot to use a condom during a hookup, eh?
Me: [laugh-cry emoji] [laugh-cry emoji]
I actually felt a little bit like the personification of the laugh-cry emoji, so it seemed appropriate. I knew, logically, that I was at almost no risk because of my PrEP, and the risk was dropping with each "non-reactive" result we got. But damn, I needed a hug every time we had this conversation.
Hen: I feel like I need a hug and a stiff drink.
Was he reading my mind? I stared at my phone for a long moment. We were still companions in the same boat. Maybe I should…?
Me: I can actually provide both of those, if you want. Want to, like, come over? Or I can come to you?
I winced. Too forward. We were, at best, sex friends. At worst, partners in wtfery. And yes, we’d had lunch that time, and it had been fun, but that didn’t mean he wanted to just hang out like we were buddies. Actually, I started to type, that was du-
Hen: That actually sounds really good. Maybe you could come here and I, uh, I could show you my workshop? And you could meet Curie?
Me: You offer me a cat? I can’t say no to that!
Hen: Hey just to be clear I’m not offering you my cat. I’m offering visitation with my cat. Don’t be trying to escape with her stuffed down your shirt.
Me: Moi? Would I do that? (yes)
Hen: Lol. Cat thief. I’ll be sure to warn her before you get here.
Me: Speaking of, where’s “here”? Gonna need your address so I can stalk your cat. I mean so I can find you.
A minute later, I had Henry’s address loaded into my maps app.
It looked like about a twenty-minute trip, not too much to expect out of a ride-share driver.
Still holding my phone, I jumped up and headed for my bedroom to change.
This may have been a low-key hangout, but I wasn’t wearing sweats to it. I had standards.
Me: See you in maybe half an hour or so. Want me to bring anything? Movies? Vodka? Condoms?
Silence for five long minutes, and I decided to just get on the road before I dug myself any deeper. I kicked myself over the bad joke as I stood at the curb waiting for my Uber.
Me: Sorry, that was a joke. A bad one. I am, however, actually bringing vodka, bc I wasn’t sure what you’d have on hand and vodka goes with everything.
Hen: Lol.
That was the weakest laugh I’d ever perceived in a text message. I slammed the door of the car behind myself and settled back in my seat with a sigh, vowing to be on my best behavior for the rest of the day. No making Hen uncomfortable. No bad jokes. Definitely no references to unsafe sex.
I was gonna be a model visitor.