She’s talking about Henrique, but he’s not the one on my mind right now.
It’s been two days since I was at the clinic and gave my number to Ian, the guy at the bus stop, but he still hasn’t reached out to me. I’ve spent way too much time asking myself if he’s okay, if he needs some kind of help.
“He apologized, and I tried to start a conversation, but maybe we don’t have a future together,” I say, talking about Henrique.
“And that’s not your prejudice talking, right?”
“Prejudice?”
“Yeah. He’s positive and you’re not … That prejudice.”
“I’d hardly consider that prejudice, Sandra. I’m just being cautious.”
“You’re avoiding getting to know someone who, if I remember correctly, was the most interesting guy you’d met in a long time. Your words, not mine.”
I brush my blue streak behind my ear, away from my eye.
Sandra smiles.
“I know, but it’s … complicated,” I answer.
“Victor, you’re six feet tall, one hundred fifty pounds, and gay, with blue hair that you say you dyed because you want to express yourself, but you make a point of dressing like a preppy law student who was raised by his Catholic grandmother.” She’s pointing out that I’m the only one here wearing a polo shirt, jeans, and leather shoes. “You’re complicated.”
I roll my eyes, and she leans her head on my arm as I let out a sigh, trying not to think about how true that statement is—I am complicated. Instead, I focus on Henrique and the fact that I don’t know if I want to be just friends with him. He’s an incredible guy, and even though I only met him a few weeks ago, I can’t help but feel that this thing between us is more than just friendship. Call it chemistry, if you will.
I want to say, “I never thought a date from Tinder could affect me like this. I mean, what are the odds?”
But I’d never admit that to Sandra, because in a way, she’s right. I don’t know if the correct word is prejudice, exactly, but the stuff you hear about HIV is so terrifying that I don’t know if I want to live forever in fear that, sooner or later, something might end up happening to me. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to live with the virus, and I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to have it for the rest of my life.
At the same time, these last few days were important for me as I learned a little more about what the hell this thing is that everyone is afraid of and how it manifests in the body. I got a bit obsessed, doing research in Incognito mode so I wouldn’t leave a trace of my keywords on the computer. I browsed videos made by HIV-positive people, read testimonials, and even watched a documentary that showed how different things are now from when the epidemic first started, when everything was breaking news. How people would associate HIV and AIDS with being gay and nicknamed the disease “gay cancer” and “gay plague.” How they said it was God’s punishment, and how an entire generation, already fragile from all the prejudice of a macho, conservative society, perished overnight.
But I also saw hope: how treatment has advanced over time, and how people have been able to pick themselves up after so many deaths and so much suffering. During the process, I learned new words—like serology, serodiscordant, seroconcordant, undetectable, PEP, PrEP, Truvada, Efavirenz, viral load, and CD4 count—looking up the definition of each and trying to understand what it meant.
I read terrible things and felt a lump in my throat every time I stumbled upon another devastating article. I learned of cases where people, revolted by their own condition, decided not to get treatment and believed that spreading the virus was the best way to get rid of their own negative thoughts. I saw people who were harassed after opening up about their positive status, and others who’ve refused treatment and are waiting for the virus to progress in their bodies so they’ll die, because they don’t think life is worth living after testing positive.
Even if Henrique told me he’s getting treated and is undetectable, can I believe him? Can I trust that he’s telling the truth, or is he one of those people who says one thing but does another? How can I know what kind of person he really is?
“I think you could allow yourself to have a conversation with him,” Sandra says. “Who knows—even if nothing happens, what’s the harm if you become friends?”
“I don’t know,” I say as all these thoughts swirl in my head. “I don’t think he wants to be just friends.”
“Maybe you don’t want to be just friends.”
She knows me way too well.
“Maybe,” I admit.
“The big problem with fear, my friend, is that while it helps to keep us from getting screwed, it’s also the enemy of happiness.”
“Since when are you such a philosopher?”
“Since you started needing advice from someone who finds being happy to be a good thing. Promise me you’ll think about it?”
I ponder it for a few seconds in silence and finally answer: “I promise.”
It’s not as if I haven’t already been thinking about it for the last few days.
+
I get a text from an unknown number around lunchtime, when I’m eating at Miss Irene’s food truck with Sandra.
Unknown sender:
Hey, remember me?
What’s the guy with the sad songs called again? I’m in dire need of more depressing songs in my life, and I’ve had enough of Lana Del Rey.
I smile, then add Ian to my contacts.
“What’s up?” asks Sandra, looking at my expression. “Is that Henrique?”
“No, another friend,” I answer as I type my reply.
Victor:
Johnny Hooker.
How’re you doing?
He answers right away.
Ian:
Scared.
Tired.
Annoyed.
Victor:
That’s a lot of feelings for just one person.
Ian:
You have no idea.
Victor:
I didn’t think you were gonna text me.
Ian:
I wasn’t going to, actually.
Idk, didn’t want to bother anyone with my problems, and you don’t even know me.
You must be thinking all kinds of stuff about me.
Victor:
If I thought you were going to be a bother … I would’ve given you a pat on the back and walked away. Have you talked to anyone about your results yet?
Ian:
No.
Working up the courage to tell my best friend.
Victor:
Why?
You think he’ll freak out?
Ian:
Idk, I’m scared something will change.