“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 thetime, 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 fromanything. 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 foryou. 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 itisa 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 Ihaveto 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 itwasworth 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 bealine, but I didn’tthink 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 tobea 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 Igetsomething 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.”
I offered him a smile. “But you’re getting there. And there’s joy for me in that. And honestly, there’s joy for me in just being with you. Existing in the same room as you, cooking you dinner. Kissing you,” I ventured. Was that pushing it too far? I knew he wasn’t entirely comfortable with physical intimacy anymore. Even small bits of intimacy like a kiss sent his brain spinning into worst-case scenarios.
