“He could have been honest before we had sex,” I reply, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one is eavesdropping.
“And you could be less dramatic. It’s not as if he refused to use a condom. From what you told me, you were the one who wasn’t really into the idea of using a condom for oral.”
I still can’t bring myself to accept that Henrique was right to hide this from me, but it seems like my silence is all Sandra wants to hear. So I change the subject.
“Why don’t we meet up? You know, to celebrate?” I ask.
“It’s Tuesday, Victor. We have class in the morning. How about over the weekend?”
“Deal. But if you flake, I’ll never speak to you again.”
Maybe she’s right about my penchant for drama, but hell if I’ll concede that I agree with her. Deep down, she already knows, anyway.
“If you say so” is all she says before hanging up.
I shove the phone into my pocket, smiling.
“Congrats.” A voice catches me by surprise.
I was so relieved by the good news that I didn’t even notice someone had sat down next to me at the bus stop—the same guy who’d left the therapist’s office before I walked in.
He’s still holding the folded piece of paper. His hair is shaved short, and he has a thick, well-trimmed beard over his tanned face. His eyes are two big, brown, reddened orbs, but I see no sign of tears. He has the build of someone who hits the gym every now and again, with wide shoulders and biceps popping out of the sleeves of his shirt. His jeans squeeze his legs, maybe a full two sizes too small for his thick thighs.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean …” I let the words die on my lips as my ears start to burn. I know I shouldn’t feel guilty for being happy about my negative test result, but I feel horrible for making him listen as I celebrated it.
“It’s okay,” he answers with a melancholy smile.
“Bad news?”
He nods in resignation.
I’m not sure what makes me do it, but I sit by his side, the hot wind making my ears burn even harder, and I start talking.
“You know it’s not a death sentence anymore, right?” I know I’m being such a hypocrite, but the words come out automatically. “I did some research before getting tested and read all kinds of stories about people with HIV who lead normal lives. Everything is going to be all right.”
He’s still looking down, unable to lift his gaze. I want to say he should hold his head up high and face the world, but I don’t know how I would have reacted if the news hadn’t been good for me. I’d probably be locked in the bathroom of that clinic, crying inside a stall and thinking the world was unfair as hell and that I didn’t deserve this.
“I just … thought the results would be different,” he says, still looking down, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat, takes a deep breath, and bites his lip. “We never think everything will go wrong until it does, right?”
And with that, he breaks down.
He presses the palms of his hands against his face and lets the paper with his diagnosis fall to the ground. I get up and grab the sheet of paper before the wind carries it away. His back arches up and down as he sobs, completely out of control, and all I want is to give him a hug—this guy I don’t even know—and tell him that, yeah, it will be hard, but things can still work out.
But who am I to say that? What gives me the authority? Me, who five minutes ago thought HIV was the worst thing that could ever happen to a person?
So I don’t say anything. I just stay by his side and put a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him as best I can.
He continues to sob, and on an impulse, I wrap him in a hug as he buries his face in my arm. I feel his hot tears soaking the sleeve of my shirt, but I don’t mind. All I want right now is for him to feel better, and I know that a hug is much more powerful than any word I can say in a moment like this.
My eyes water when he finally calms down. I want to cry, too, even though I don’t have the slightest idea who this guy is or what happened to him to make him end up at this clinic, testing positive for HIV. But I take a deep breath and play the strong character I never am in any other situation.
“I’m sorry, this is so … ridiculous,” he says, half laughing and half crying, pushing away from me and wiping his tears on the backs of his hands. “You don’t even know me, and … I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” I try a half smile but fail. “What are you going to do now?”
He takes a deep breath before answering.
“Probably lock myself in my room and listen to Lana Del Rey until morning.”
I can’t help but laugh at his sarcastic remark.
“If you want to really wallow in self-pity, I recommend Johnny Hooker.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s really good. If you really want to wallow in self-pity, I mean. Here …” Another one of my impulsive actions: I don’t really know what makes me grab a pen from my pocket and the paper with his test results, but when I catch myself, I’m already nervously, shakily scribbling my name and phone number on the back of the sheet. I hand it to him. “If you need to talk to someone, you can text me. A friend of mine is also positive, and I can put the two of you in touch.”
Henrique appears in my mind’s eye, and though I wouldn’t want to see him even if he were the last man on earth, I don’t think he’d be opposed to talking to someone who is about to go through all the same struggles he must have faced when he was first diagnosed.
“Thank you”—he looks at the scrawl on the paper—“Victor. And I’m sorry for all this.”
“No worries, um …” I answer with a smile.
“Ian. My name is Ian.”
“No need to apologize, Ian.” I look up and see my bus coming down the street. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah.”
I stand up and hail the bus. I get on, swipe my card to release the turnstile, and, before we pull away, look back at the bus stop.
Ian smiles and waves, and then he’s out of sight.
Even though I don’t know him, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never see him again, I hope he will be all right.
VICTOR STILL HASN’T REPLIED TO my last text. I wonder what he’s thinking.
I look at the long message I sent him, with the little Read under the balloon confirming that he’s already seen it.
Henrique:
I’m not quite sure if it’s fair to tell you this over text, but I think you need to know, especially because I’m really into you, and the last thing I want is to start whatever this is with a lie or, as I see it, an omission of the truth. No need to worry—for real—but I’m HIV-positive. I take good care of myself and take all my meds, so I’m undetectable. And since we used a condom, there’s no problem. If you still want to talk to me, I’ll wait for your reply. I’m sorry for not telling you sooner. I usually don’t, and it’s always hard to talk about this with anybody, mostly because I haven’t had great experiences in the past. So, there it is. Get back to me when you have a chance.
I lock my phone with a sigh, looking over the mess of the apartment I share with my roommate, Eric. There are sequined clothes and makeup scattered on every possible surface, and three wigs balance precariously on the backs of our dining room chairs.