“Ok, well first of all.” She held up a finger. “I disagree that there’s any such thing as a normal human being. Everyone is quirky in their own way or ways. But second, if we discount that: if you can’t say it, can you write it?”
“That sounds even worse. ‘Dear Jamison,’” I recited theatrically, “‘I’m a human disaster and can’t talk, so I’m writingthis to tell you that I lack the emotional capacity god gave a five-year-old and you’re just gonna have to work around that.”
She shook her head in amusement and reached for her laptop, pressing her thumb to the login button. “That’s certainly one way to say it. I’m not going to waste my breath trying to convince you that you’re wrong, but…you’re wrong. You have plenty of emotional capacity - and capability. No, don’t argue.” Her index finger came up again, stopping me in my tracks. “Our time’s up for today anyway, so I’m taking the win and declaring myself the victor in the ‘having the last word’ competition. So here’s the last word: you are far more capable than you think.” She looked back down at her laptop, then up at me when I hadn’t moved after a few seconds. “Go on. Shoo.”
I huffed out a breath and stood up. “Therapy school needs to give you a refund.”
She grinned. “I’ll let them know you said so. See you next week, Henry.”
26
Jamison
Week 20 - Saturday
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 logicallywasn’t, it hadfeltlike 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 alotof 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 piecewasout 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’tknow!’”
“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 -”
“Idon’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.”
