“He showed me the results,” Jamal supplied when I didn't answer after a few seconds. “I guess this was the bad news?”
Bad news. Hah. That was such an understatement that I couldn’t hold back the snort. Both men looked at me. “What’s funny?” Jamal asked.
“Nothing. Everything.” I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Well, you can still laugh. That’s something,” he said with patently false brightness.
I snorted again. I might be making laughing noises, but internally I was just…numb. Frozen. I’d stopped processing my emotions around the time I walked away from Jamison, and frankly I didn’t want to start again.
There was a long moment of silence. Jamal and Jamison looked at each other, and then at me, and then back to each other. Finally, Jamal slapped his knees with both hands. “Ok,” he announced heartily. “We’ve got most of the mess cleaned up. Let’s get you cleaned up, and then you’re going to tell me what you know already and what you’re doing next. We’re going to make a plan.”
How the hell did you make ‘a plan’ for having AIDS? I barely managed to stifle the urge to roll my eyes, but a little huff still escaped me.
My companions exchanged another look. “We had started making plans for treatment and just general living with HIV,” Jamison supplied, apparently deciding leaving this conversation up to me was stupid, “but then he walked away and hid in his house for five days, so…”
“Mmm,” Jamal agreed thoughtfully. “Honestly, that’s on-brand.” He patted my shoulder. “You’re a lot of great things, my friend, but you also tend to pull into yourself when times are hard. And this strikes me as one of those times where that’s a bad idea.”
“What the hell else am I supposed to do?” I burst out, startling everyone. “I’ve got a deadly, infectious disease. My entire life isfucked now. Nobody’s going to want to take on those problems. You shouldn’thaveto take on those problems.”
“Ok, that’s bullshit,” Jamison snapped back. “You’ve got a chronic, treatable-if-not-curable, disease, and you’ve got two friends sitting here fuckingbeggingto take on those problems to help you. This idea that you’ve got to isolate yourself is ayouthing, not a reality thing. And I get it,” he added before I could reply, “you’re stressed the fuck out, and you’re scared, and maybe I was smothering you last week, and I’m sorry about that, but I just wanted…” He sighed. “I want to help.”
“And don’t,” Jamal interjected, again before I could say anything, “say that you don’t need help. This isn’t about what you need.”
“It’s not?” I managed to get in before one of them could talk over me again.
He shook his head. “It’s about what we want to give. You’re my best friend, Hen. I want you happy and heal-” He winced. “As healthy as we can get you,” he corrected himself.
“I -”
“Go take a shower,” he went on, ignoring my attempt at a protest. “You stink. Jamison and I will finish cleaning up in here, and when you get out we’re going to seriously talk.”
Didn’t they get that I didn’t want to talk? Talking didn’t accomplish anything. But they were both glaring at me, and honestly, if I protested we’d just start going in circles. I surrendered. With a huff, I stood up off the couch. Fucking fine, I’d shower to make them happy.
***
I walked out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, clean, conditioned, and still slightly damp, to find Jamison and Jamal leaning together on the couch. If I didn’t know them both as wellas I did, I’d think it looked like they were about to kiss, but know them I did, so instead I strongly suspected they were somehow plotting against me. “What’s going on?” I asked suspiciously.
They jumped apart and Jamison dropped his phone to his lap. “Hey, big guy. Feel better?”
“Mmm,” I grunted noncommittally. I did, actually, but I wasn’t going to admit that. Instead, I silently sat myself on the arm of the couch, alongside Jamison. He lifted his hand and rested it on my knee, rubbing in what I’m sure he hoped was a reassuring manner.
“So, we were talking -” he ventured after a few seconds of loaded silence.
Of course they had been. Nosy motherfuckers.
“- and we agree -”
Of course they did.
“- that you need more support - and moreinformedsupport - than we can give you at this point. I mean, we can research our asses off -”
“- and wewill,” Jamal added.
“- and we will,” Jamison agreed dutifully. “But neither of us has lived the experience of being diagnosed with a life-changing illness, or has counseled someone through that, so we can only be so useful. You need peer support, and probably also professional support.”
Ugh, the therapist thing again. It wasn’t that I wasagainstgetting a therapist; I was just completely overwhelmed by the steps involved. Also I wasn’t much enthused at the idea of needing to start from scratch with a new therapist, either, after the comfortable, established relationship I’d had with my last one. “Look, guys -”
Jamison’s hand came up and covered my mouth. I was so surprised by the action that I allowed it. “And we’re going to take as much of the burden that comes along with that as wecan, because we care about you. So if that means Jamal searches your insurance coverage and I make a bunch of phone calls, and your job is just to show up at the therapist’s office for the first appointment, that’s what we’re gonna do.”
