Chapter 24
Jamison
Hen had come out of his group meeting pensive last Thursday, and he’d come out of his first therapist appointment even more pensive on Friday. All I’d really gotten out of him was that he was ok, but he needed to decompress alone.
So of course, I was a nervous wreck.
He did make a point of texting me at least once each day, probably just to make sure I didn’t break down his door again, but it wasn’t enough.
We’d gone from seeing each other almost daily to his breakdown and now to being…
text friends? Was that what we were? I mean, we hadn’t officially broken up, but goddamn, calling this a relationship right now felt like a stretch.
And I knew that wasn’t fair. I knew he was going through the life upheaval to end all life upheavals, and that he couldn’t - and it wasn’t fair of me to want him to - prioritize me over his own health and sanity. I knew all that. But it didn’t stop me feeling hurt and alone.
So now it was Friday and we hadn’t made any plans.
Again. I flopped sideways on my bed and sighed, wondering if I should call him and try to get him to…
something. Anything. Even nothing, as long as it was nothing with me.
I fingered my phone, then lifted it above my head and let my face unlock it.
My texting app was already open, and I tapped a finger on the thread between me and Hen.
His last message to me, sent this morning, sat at the bottom of the screen.
Hen: Plans for tonight? Nah. Curie and Solo and I are just going to chill at home.
I read the text again, wondering if he’d been expecting me to ask if I could join them.
Or maybe he definitely didn’t want me to join them, and me proposing it would put pressure on him?
But what if me not proposing it would make him feel like I’d abandoned him?
How much enthusiasm was each of us supposed to put in, and how much was too much, and how little was not enough?
Argh. I gritted my teeth and started typing.
Me: Sounds nice. You, uh…want some company? Happy to just sit on the couch with you and the cats.
Hen: I’m not very good company, Jamie.
Me: I’m not asking you to entertain me. Hell, I’ll bring my Kindle and we can sit silently next to each other, petting the cats and reading, for three hours. I just…want to see you.
Hen: You’re still worried I’m going to hurt myself, aren’t you? Honestly, I’m fine.
“Fine, my ass,” I muttered to the empty room. Better than he was, I’d buy that, but “fine”? Nope.
Me: At this moment, actually, I’m not particularly worried about self-harm.
But I am worried about you isolating yourself when you don’t need to.
And I know you’re more introverted than me to begin with, and I’m definitely not expecting you to want to, like, go out to a club or something, but I also want you to feel like you can exist next to other people in calm and safety.
It took a few minutes before he began typing his answer, and I wondered if I’d pushed too far. Finally, a response came.
Hen: You sound like my therapist.
Was that a good thing? Bad? In his head was I now wearing glasses and carrying a clipboard?
Me: Uh…thanks?
Me: Soooo…am I coming over?
Hen: Argh, you're like a dog with a bone. Get over here. Bring your Kindle. What do you want to eat?
Me: Ooh, you’ll feed me? Thai! Get me a chicken massaman curry, mild. And coconut rice. And a Thai iced tea.
Hen: Your wish is my command.
***
An hour later, I parked in front of Hen’s house and picked up the cake I’d bought on the way over. Ok, yes, I’m extra. It was probably stupid. But he was letting me hang out with him and dammit, I felt like celebrating that! At least I hadn’t bought roses.
The door opened before I got to it, and Hen stood silhouetted in the light.
For a moment, all I could see was his dark shape, and I took a moment to wonder whether I was going to get work-clothes Hen, possibly covered in sawdust; human-disaster Hen, in dirty clothes; or normal-Hen in whatever he threw on after his latest shower.
Each of those would tell me something about how he was feeling.
When I drew closer, I discovered that it was normal Hen I’d be facing tonight. He looked clean enough, and his face was calm. I wasn’t sure why I felt that was notable; had I expected him to open the door sobbing? Hell, maybe. All things were possible in this suck-ass new world.
“Hey,” Hen said quietly, stepping back so I could walk in. “Food’s in the kitchen. Should still be warm.” He paused and gave a tiny laugh. “Assuming the cats haven’t stolen all of it yet.”
“Well to be fair,” I shot back, “if the cats ate it, then it’d still be warm. It would just be…warm inside cats.”
“Gross, dude.” He shoved my shoulder playfully and I couldn’t stop a grin.
We stood there, smiling at each other, for a beat too long before I thrust the cake at him. “I brought dessert.”
His eyebrows went up. “Oh, really? What kind?”
I cleared my throat, drew myself up to my full height, and intoned in plummy accents, “Tonight’s offering is a chocolate cherry cake with chocolate ganache frosting and sour cherry jam filling.”
The eyebrows went a little higher. “How…fancy. Not sure it entirely goes with noodles, but sure, I’m not gonna say no to cake.”
“It’s really good cake,” I promised. “I’ve bought from this bakery before.”
“Well, then, I’m definitely going to try some. C’mon.” He gestured me into the kitchen, where we found two curious cats inspecting the take-out containers sitting on the counter. Hen clapped once, loudly, and the furballs scattered. “Told you they’d try to eat it.”
“That you did.” This felt so…normal, and that felt fucking weird after the couple of weeks we’d been having.
I was genuinely unsure how to interact with this Hen; I felt like if I said the slightest thing wrong it might send him spiraling again.
Swallowing, determined to not be weird, I went to the counter and started sorting out the containers, which were helpfully labeled in black marker.
Five minutes later, we settled on the couch, each with a takeout box and a fork. I took a sip of my Thai iced tea and sighed. “So good. My precious.”
Hen snorted. “You sound like you’re in love with your drink, and I gotta tell you, I draw the line at bev-philia.”
“That is not a word,” I challenged through a mouthful of curry.
“It is now.” He pointed his fork at me. “The English language is a living thing and can be actively changed and added to by its speakers, and that’s not wrong English.” Taking in my slow blink at that pronouncement, he shrugged and hunched slightly. “I read a book about it,” he said defensively.
Of course he had. Hen had never gotten the memo that people who worked with their hands were supposed to be meatheads who didn’t do things like read. I liked that about him. “Tell me more,” I urged. “How does it go from one guy making up a word to an official English word?”
He drew in a deep breath. “Well -”
***
An hour later, the coffee table was strewn with empty food and drink containers and we were both slumped into the couch nursing our food babies. “That was so good,” I groaned, patting my belly, “but I shouldn’t have finished the rice.”
Hen tipped his head to the side, resting it lightly on my shoulder. “I warned you,” he teased with a smile.
“You did.” Couldn’t argue with that. “But it was so tasty, and it’s never the same once it’s been reheated. So basically I had to.”
He gave me a skeptical look but said nothing, sighing lightly and letting more of his weight rest on me. I lifted a hand to smooth down a piece of his hair that was tickling my cheek. “This is nice,” he said quietly after a minute. “I’ve missed you.”
My breath caught in my throat and I stifled the sudden urge to sob. “I’ve missed you too,” I managed thickly. “How…are you? Really?”
He sighed, picking up my hand and starting to play idly with my fingers as if to give himself something to focus on other than my question.
“I don’t know. Surviving? Coping? What do you call it when things suck, but you’re coming around to the fact that you can’t stop them sucking and you’ve just gotta live with the suck? ”
“Hm. That’s a lot of suck.”
“A lot,” he agreed.
“I guess I’d call it coping,” I said, then sighed. “I hate that you feel like you need to live in suck, though. I mean yes, the HIV stuff is suck, but surely everything else can be non-suck, and maybe provide a little balance?”
“I guess.” He turned his face deeper into my neck and drew in a breath. “I suppose I’m still pretty overwhelmed by the diagnosis and…I feel like I’m sort of numb to everything else? So it’s entirely possible that there is non-suck and I just can’t feel it.”
My poor baby. I petted his hair again. “I think that’s pretty unsurprising, even if it’s not what I want for you. I mean, you’re probably basically going through the stages of grief, except you’re mourning what you thought your life would go ahead like instead of mourning, like, a person.”
“So where am I in the stages of grief, then?” The words could have been a challenge, but they came out softly, as if he was hoping I could provide him direction he couldn’t grasp for himself.
I considered that for a long moment. “You’d know better than I would. I…haven’t really had a chance to get in your head lately, so I can only go on what I see on the surface. Which seems to be mostly depression.”
“Mmm.” He heaved a deep breath. “Calling it depression sounds so…official. Like, ‘Yes, hello, you have The Depression’. Does that mean I need to get on antidepressants?”