Chapter 26
Jamison
Hen let me into his house with a smile when I knocked on the door Saturday afternoon.
We’d seen each other on Tuesday, and though I knew it logically wasn’t, it had felt like a really long time between then and now.
I leaned in cautiously to offer him a kiss, which he accepted easily.
Oh, good, it seemed like maybe he was having a good day, then.
“Hey,” I said with a smile as I kicked my shoes off.
“Hey. How was your week?”
“Eh.” I waffled my hand back and forth. “We launched the community consultation on Thursday and we’ve gotten a lot of feedback already, so it’s been kind of crazy fielding all those emails and comments.”
He led me to the couch and dropped down to sit.
When he reached out to take my hand, warm fuzzies shot through me.
I still got the impression he was edgy more often than not, but this week it had felt a lot less like he was one wrong breath from breaking up with me.
“Has it been positive feedback? Negative?”
“Little of both. Plus a lot of requested changes to the policy draft.” I sighed. “Never mind that we had twenty community members contributing to the draft before we even sent it live. There’s always someone who has some other idea.”
He made a thinking noise, then smiled. “That’s what I like about wood. It doesn’t argue with me.”
“Hey,” I countered, “that’s not what you said Tuesday when you were ranting about that piece of cedar that refused to cooperate with your shaping.”
He scowled. “Ok but like, that piece was out to get me.”
I grinned and stroked his hair soothingly. “Of course it was, dear.”
He harrumphed and took my hand. “I hung out with Jamal Wednesday night.”
“Oh? How’d that go?” I twined my fingers with his and focused on our hands rather than his face so he didn’t see my avid curiosity.
As far as I knew, Hen hadn’t seen Jamal since our little home-intrusion intervention a few weeks ago.
I’d suspected it was a function of knowing he’d be expected to talk about The Thing and wanting to avoid that as long as possible, so it was promising that he’d made the effort now.
He, too, focused on our hands, apparently not wanting to meet my eyes. “He has questions. Lots of questions. And he brought about fifty pages of research he’d printed out.”
That was…a lot of dead trees. I winced, knowing without being told that Hen had gone into their hangout hoping they could talk about anything but the diagnosis and had been disappointed. “Oof,” I said commiseratingly. “What kind of questions?”
He sighed and leaned back against the couch. “‘Have they sequenced your viral DNA? What meds did they put you on? What’s your viral load?’”
“I mean,” I said cautiously, “those are mostly all things I’ve asked you too. And you don’t have to answer them, to any of us, if you don’t want to.”
“Yeah, I know.” He sighed again. “But then he got into, ‘How does Jamison feel about all this’ and ‘did you tell your mother yet’ and ‘so what are your plans’ and I was like ‘I don’t know!’”
“Well.” Still moving cautiously, I leaned my weight against his side. “Jamison feels like he’s happy you’re doing better with everything and that you saw Jamal. So there’s one answer.”
His arm came up around my shoulders and I smothered the urge to sigh contentedly. “I know you worry a lot -”
“I don’t,” I said indignantly.
He ignored my protest. “- so I’m glad you think - see? - that I’m improving. It’s still hard as fuck, you know? Like hell no, I haven’t told my mother, and I honestly don’t plan to unless I absolutely have to. She’d flip and she would absolutely assume it was my fault. Which, I mean, fair.”
“Fair?” I barked, jerking back upright. “How is it your fault that your ex was a cheating scumbag? No, ‘scumbag’ is too nice. Dickcheese. Douchecanoe.” I waved my hand as I searched for the words. “Festering boil upon the buttocks of humanity.”
“Ooh, that’s mean.” He chuffed a laugh. “You’re eloquent when you’re pissed.”
“Well, he’s a fuckwad. And if your mom thinks it’s your fault that he cheated on you, then…I don’t know, she’s a she-fuckwad.”
“Okay, maybe not always so eloquent.” He tightened his arm around me, bringing my head back to his shoulder. “She just expects a lot out of me. She’s not a bad person, but she expects me to make Good Choices - capitalized - and if I don’t, then it’s karma, whatever I get.”
I grumbled a “Fuck her” into his sleeve and he patted my head. I knew Hen’s relationship with his parents was ok most of the time, but I did not like what I was hearing now. I wanted to protect him from shitty parenting. And everything else.
I took a moment to remind myself that I couldn’t protect him from everything, and sometimes I couldn’t even protect him from anything.
That was just part of adulthood. I mean, I hated it, but it was.
I fumbled for a way to change the subject before I really started ranting.
“But I assume eventually Jamal ran out of questions and you were able to just hang out?”
“Mmm.” He shrugged a little, jostling me. “I guess. I could tell he wasn’t satisfied, but I think eventually he could tell I was on my last nerve and he dropped it. We watched a movie and ate popcorn and drank a couple of beers.”
“He cares,” I reminded him. “So, like, while you don’t have to answer his questions - or anyone’s, other than your doctor’s - keep in mind that he’s probably just trying to make sure you have the best of everything he can help with.”
“Yeah, I know. He left me his little pile of print-outs. Also a discount card for one brand of antiretrovirals, and a bottle of multivitamins. Because apparently I need to be taking vitamins?”
“Can’t hurt,” I said with a shrug. “Let him mother you a little. You let me do it, it’s only fair.”
“I don’t like it when you do it, either,” he grumbled. “I’m a full-grown adult who’s been taking care of himself since he was seventeen.”
I pulled back enough that he could see my disapproving eyebrow raise. “And that still doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to let other people help you. Right?” I asked insistently when he remained silent for a second too long.
He made a grumbling bear noise.
“Hen.”
Grumble.
“Henry.”
“What if this is too much?” he blurted suddenly.
I blinked. “Huh? What if what’s too much?”
He waved a hand. “All of this. Me. Being sick. It’s, you know, a lot to deal with for anyone.”
I skated my eyes to the side, trying to figure out where he was going with this sudden change of topic. “Well honestly, Hen, whether it’s too much for you or not, you’re kinda stuck with it at this point.”
“What?” He beetled his brow in confusion, and then his face cleared. “Oh, not too much for me. Too much for you. Or Jamal. Or, hell, my mother.”
Eh, the she-fuckwad could fuck off as far as I was concerned. But I didn’t tell him that. Better to keep the peace. “Too much for us?” I asked instead. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot, but…”
“No, don’t.” He sat up suddenly, dislodging me, and I made a put-out noise. “Don’t say ‘but’. Because it is a really, really lot and I just…” He sighed. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to deal with it.”
“Hen.” I placed a gentle hand against his shoulder, urging him to lean back again. “Have I given you the impression that I feel like I have to do anything? Has Jamal?” He’d better not have or he and I would be having stern words.
“No, I just…” He stopped and sighed, visibly gathering himself.
“My therapist told me that I should be more open with you about my feelings and worries. So I guess this is that. I’m worried that you’re going to get sucked down the black hole of my problems and at some point you’ll feel like you can’t escape the gravity and be stuck. And I don’t want you to be stuck.”
I did him the courtesy of not throwing back an immediate denial.
I supposed it was worth thinking about, how much would be more than I could take.
The problem was, I had a hard time thinking of where the line would be.
I mean, obviously if he became abusive or something, that would be a line, but I didn’t think that was what either of us was afraid of.
“I don’t,” I finally ventured thoughtfully, “feel stuck right now. I’m where I want to be and with who I want to be with. ”
“But -”
I ignored his protest and went on, “I mean, if you were some random person off the street who pulled me aside and was like ‘I have HIV, what do I do?’ I’d give you some major side-eye - though even then I think I’d try to help - but you’re not some random person.
You’re Hen, my Hen. I care about your wellbeing, and it doesn’t feel like, I don’t know.
” I groped around for the right word. “An inconvenience?” Sure, that would do.
“It doesn’t feel like an inconvenience to me to be here supporting you.
I think you’re probably overestimating how hard it is on your support system to be a support system.
And I’m not saying,” I went on before he could interrupt again, “that we don’t worry or stress, or that it’s not going to have painful moments.
But I get something out of being your support, too. It’s not entirely one-sided.”
He snorted. “Yeah, you get extra stress.”
I shook my head firmly. “No, I get to take care of you. I’ll get to see you dig out of the hole, be healthy, and be happy. And I really do think you’re underestimating how much joy I and your friends get out of seeing you able to be happy again.”
He still looked skeptical, but he didn’t immediately protest. Instead, he said slowly, “I’m not sure ‘happy’ is a word I’d apply to myself.”