Tainted by Love

by Jones, Gillian

  “Alright, everyone. Thanks for another great session. See you all next Friday. Same time, same place,” Lindsey says, ending our meeting.

  “Cheers to next week,” we recite back.

  Months ago, Tim—one of our older members who’d contracted the disease through a blood transfusion following a car accident—had suggested that ending our sessions with a kind of “we’ll meet again”-type mantra might lift our spirits. We agreed, and Helena, a cheeky woman with an Irish accent, voiced the phrase we all soon adopted.

  “Hey, chick. You have time for a chat?” Andrew—or Andrea, as she prefers to be called now—asks, as I head to the back to put away my folding chair.

  We met a year ago when she decided to see what our group had to offer. The first time Andrea attended, she was a handsome man named Andrew who was wearing a business suit, complete with a tie—and the stress of hiding who she really was. As she spoke, I could feel the pressures she faced every day and the hardships she endured living a double-life as Andrew, when all she craved was to be accepted as Andrea. By the third session, Andrew felt comfortable introducing us to Andrea, who has proven to be a fun-loving transgender woman with a penchant for the fashions and music of the 1980s. This woman who was tired of hiding behind a suit is now comfortable in an environment where she knows we accept her.

  Diagnosed with HIV a little over a year ago, she has yet to open up to her family or workplace about her status or her lifestyle. I was in complete awe of Andrea after she spoke about her life, her struggles and how—if it weren’t for her illness—she’d love to have sex reassignment surgery to become the woman she knows she is. I went right up to her after that session to give her a hug and the offer of friendship. We’ve been each other’s saving graces ever since.

  Andrea’s disease has progressed a lot faster than many others’ in the group. She says it’s because she refused to start the medications right away, having lived in denial for more than six months after diagnosis. Some people in our group struggle with not judging Andrea (even though rule #2, after confidentiality, is not to judge) for keeping her HIV status from her loved ones, especially from Simon, the man she’s been living with now for the last three months. This is despite the fact that she’s shared and stressed about how she’d been taking every precaution to keep Simon from contracting the virus while she figures out how to tell him. It’s not that the others ever say anything mean or derogatory; it’s seen in the expressions on their faces or in the slight nods or shakes of their heads. Thankfully, Andrea doesn’t pay it any mind. But as time goes on, we’re both seeing the faces becoming more understanding, which is, of course, is all Andrea wants, to be understood.

  “Sure, I’d love to talk. Let’s grab a coffee and sit at that table over there.” I gesture in the direction of the bistro tables set up on one side of the large meeting room right beside the windows.

  After grabbing our coffees, we sit. Andrea fiddles with the silver ALEX AND ANI “Unexpected Miracles” charm bracelet I gave her for her birthday last month. Then her hazel eyes meet mine and she drops a bit of a bomb on me.

  “I didn’t want to tell the group until I spoke to you first, but I’m going to tell Simon tonight.” She pauses.

  “Oh, Andrea, I’m so happy you’ve decided it’s time. I know you’ve been worried; I’m sure he’ll take it well. He loves you, I’ve seen you two, you were adorable at your birthday dinner. He seriously couldn’t take his eyes off you all night. I really think it’ll be a good thing,” I smile, covering her hand with mine in support, and hoping like hell I’m right.

  “I’m scared. I mean, we both have friends who have the disease, and he’s always saying if either of us were ever to test positive we’d get through it together, but I think sometimes it’s easier said than done. I don’t want to lose him,” she admits, wiping a tear from her cheek. “There’s more, though. I went to the doctor’s last week and got some news on Tuesday morning. News that confirms why I need to tell Simon sooner rather than later.” She sighs, and a seed of worry roots itself in my stomach. I don’t like where the conversation is going, hearing a second unexpected bomb whistling before it crashes to the ground.

  “I’ve got Kaposi’s sarcoma. And my CD4 cell count has fallen under 200, which means I’ve progressed from HIV to AIDS. I’d noticed a little bruise on my calf awhile ago, then another under my armpit. Turns out, they weren’t bruises, but KS lesions…”

  I sit in stunned silence as her words trail off. I know in theory what having a low CD4—or T-cell—count means. It means her immune system is deteriorating, that it won’t be strong enough to fight off even the most common illnesses, so she can’t afford to get sick. A cold could kill her.

  I know all of this, so hearing my friend tell me her disease has progressed, my brain just shuts off. I process nothing. I say nothing. All I can do is cry with her, and that’s the last thing Andrea needs from me, but she’s my friend and I could lose her. The reality of this disease and its course are once again a blatant reality that’s hitting me right in the face. The virus is winning and my beautiful friend is starting to lose her battle.

  After a few minutes of silence, I finally find my voice. I question her about her treatment plan, offer to accompany her to appointments and to be with her when she tells Simon, if she wants. And, like always, she thanks me and tells me just having someone to listen to her is all she needs. Andrea rises and hugs me tight again, thanking me for listening and for never judging; she says that is always enough.

  After promising to text me later, she and I part ways in the parking lot. I feel nauseous as I unlock my car and take my seat behind the wheel.

  I need Shannon.

  And I need red wine.

  Rrrrrrrrr-rrrrrr-rrrrrrrr-rrr-rrr…

  Rrrrrrrrr-rrrrrr-rrrrrrrr-rrr-rrr…

  Rrrrrrrrr-rrrrrr-rrrrrrrr-rrr-rrr…what I don’t need is for my car not to start.

  Piece of shit!

  Digging out my phone, I call Dex, who thankfully answers on the first ring. The last thing I would want is for some stranger to see me right now. I’m dripping snot.

  “Hey, darlin’. What’s up? I’m in a meeting…”

  Thankfully, he’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Until then, I sit in the car and wait, a slumping mascara-streaked mess crying for a friend, for those I’ve already lost, and for myself, because the reality is that I could one day lose my battle, too. Being healthy today doesn’t mean I will stay this way. It’s these types of thoughts which make me realize I don’t really want to hide anymore. Maybe it’s time I put myself back out there and lived a little? Maybe even dated? I need to stop hiding behind the incident with Jared, have to stop using that as an excuse. Most of all, I need to remind myself that not all men will be like him.

  “Gotta live, Trin,” I whisper to myself, almost confidently.

  Before I know it, I hear the familiar chug of a diesel engine as our tow truck pulls up beside me, the purple and silver Ignition Inc. door logo flashing. I drag my forearm across my eyes to wipe away the tears and sit up with the best smile I can muster, feeling instant relief that my knight in shining armour has finally arrived.

  The truck door slams. But instead of Uncle Dex walking around the front bumper to come to my rescue, I see Hendrix.

  17

  Hendrix

  Walking around the front of the tow truck towards Trinity’s old silver Jetta, I smirk when I see her registering that it’s not Flynn driving the truck, but me, instead.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” is what I read on her lips as she suddenly bolts up and lunges out of her car, the smile falling from her face.

  “What are you doing here?” she grits out, and that’s when I notice she’s got black shit from her eyes smeared across her beautiful face as if she’s been crying. Instantly, my back stiffens, wanting to know who or what the fuck made her cry.

  Standing in front of her, I gently tuck my knuckle under her chin and tip her face up so she has to meet my eyes. “Why
are you cryin’, Fruitloop?” I ask gently.

  Next thing I know, I’ve pulled her into my chest. Rather than pulling away like I expected she might, she gives in to my touch and allows herself to find comfort in me. We stand, hugging, her face buried in the middle of my chest, deep sobs wracking her tiny frame. It’s like holding a live wire.

  “Trin, I’m gonna need you to tell me you’re okay. I’m about three seconds away from losing my shit.” I rub her back softly; her hold on me is iron-clad. Yeah, this girl is definitely gonna be letting me in.

  “I’m all right, I’m not injured. But I am really upset. I just need someone to hold me, even if it’s you.” she acquiesces, gifting me with a subtle smile along with her dig before pulling away. Looking up at me, her eyes beg me to let it rest, to simply comfort her—and that’s exactly what I do. I’ll question why the hell this feels so right later.

  We stand in the same position for what feels like forever before she pulls away again, as awareness of our closeness dawns on her. Instantly, I miss her warmth.

  “Thank you. I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to maul you.” She steps back, then points to my shirt. “I’ll wash that for you. I’m sorry…” she begins again, and I pull her back into my chest.

  “This is what friends do, Trin,” I say, resting my head on top of hers. Fuck, she really is short.

  “We’re not ‘friends’, Hendrix,” she mutters into my chest.

  “The hell we aren’t.” I angle my head to look down at her face. “I have the snot marks to prove it. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful thing.”

  She pauses. “I’m not sure us being friends is such a good idea. Maybe I don’t need any new friends,” she says, looking up at me, the storm clouds from whatever has her upset lingering in her grey eyes.

  “Maybe I need one, Fruitloop. Maybe I need a new friend. One who’s familiar with how to handle tools, especially tire irons. You can never have too many of those friends,” I tell her, giving her the sweetest smile from my repertoire.

  I’m almost sure I see a little grin twitching at the corner of her mouth. I wrap my arm around her shoulder and help her up into the tow truck, settling her inside before rigging up her car. I don’t even bother looking under the hood.

  Hopping back in the truck, I take her cell phone from her hand, program my number into her contacts list, then shoot myself a text. To my surprise she doesn’t protest.

  “Call me next time this happens.”

  “Okay.” It’s a quiet reply.

  Was I referring to her car breaking down, or when she breaks down? Something tells me I’d gladly help her with both. I have no idea who the hell Trinity Adams is, and I’m not sure I like the way she shakes my head up, but I’m going to find out.

  “Let’s get you home,” I say, pulling out of the lot.

  *

  I’m seriously fucking losing it.

  Here I am on a date eating a nice dinner at Vecchio’s Italian restaurant with Macy, a pretty brunette with curves for days, and a “come get me, big boy” attitude that would normally have me packing up our meal for take out.

  Normally. But not tonight.

  Fucking Macy is the last thing on my mind, let alone whatever she’s been babbling about for the last hour or so. I should have cancelled. I don’t do “dates” without sex, but sex is the last thing I want from her tonight.

  “Have you ever been to Valentino’s? We should go there…”

  “Sorry, did you say something?”

  “Yeah, I was wondering if you’d been to Valentino’s before.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Great,” I smile, taking a swig of my beer.

  Trinity.

  My thoughts keep drifting back to Trinity. She’s the only thing on my mind, how she felt in my arms, her fruity scent, and, most of all, wanting to know what made her so upset. She was tight-lipped the whole ride back to the garage.

  “I’d love to cook for you…”

  “Sure.”

  “I love your tattoos…”

  “Great.”

  I tune Macy out, giving one-word answers and nods when I think it’s appropriate. Yeah, I’m suddenly the worst date ever. I keep wondering how Trinity is doing, and what she’s doing, and whether or not she’d maim me with that tire iron if I stopped by. Fuck. I don’t even know the girl and she’s already under my skin.

  I hated seeing her like that. Sure, I don’t like to see any woman cry, but the way she was hanging on to me, anchoring herself to me as though I were a life preserver, fucked with me more than usual. Each time I’ve excused myself from the table to piss, I’ve pulled out my cell, brought up Trin’s contact info, and typed and deleted more text messages than I care to admit.

  Me: Hey Fruitloop, just wanted to see if you’re alright?

  Delete.

  Me: Hey, Trin. I hated seeing you like that today, here if you wanna chat.

  Delete.

  Me: You okay?

  Delete.

  Me: God you’re fucking me up. I need to know you’re ok.

  Delete. Delete. Delete.

  After managing some passably flirty conversation and enduring the longest meal of my life, Macy and I are both finally finished our pasta. I’m hoping she doesn’t want dessert so we can get the hell out of here.

  “I’m too stuffed. I’m gonna pass on dessert,” I say, rubbing my gut, hoping she goes along and agrees.

  “Oh, well, I’ve got a little room. I’m not completely stuffed yet,” she winks, thinking she’s clever.

  Not interested. God. I’m such a dick. I’ve wanted in this girl’s pants forever, and here I am, about to pass on this golden opportunity. What the actual fuck is wrong with me? I’ve never had this happen to me before where, rather than wanting to take a woman back to my place and bury myself balls deep, I simply want to drive her home.

  “You wanna get out of here? Maybe grab some dessert at my place?” Macy’s sultry voice breaks the silence that has fallen between us.

  “Actually, I need to head back into work. I have an emergency,” I spew and it’s complete bullshit. Macy probably knows it, too, but I’m praying she lets it be. She knows full-well that I’m a mechanic; what “emergency” can’t wait ’til morning? I should have said a friend was in trouble, something more believable.

  “Oh, boo. I was hoping you’d cover my body in chocolate frosting like a yummy cake. And then gobble me all up,” she giggles, and it sounds like nails on a chalkboard. I swear to Christ, I have to hide a laugh. Do I really fall for this shit?

  Yes. Yes, I do. I’m an idiot.

  “Maybe another time,” I offer, before signalling the waiter. “Sorry, Macy. A part I’ve been waiting on was delivered and I really need to make sure it fits before tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, if you get done early maybe you can come by and we can play ‘see if the part fits’,” she purrs, and I swear to all that’s holy, I, Hendrix Hills, in this moment, vow to raise my standards in regard to the women with whom I keep company.

  Now, I have to convince a certain girl that she wants my company.

  18

  Trinity

  “You sure you’re okay, Trin?” Shannon asks, filling my glass with more red wine in our booth at Stonewalls. A candle flickers on our table.

  “Yeah, I’m just sad. I keep checking my phone hoping Andrea has texted, but she hasn’t. I’m really worried.” I didn’t go into too many details with Shannon, but she’s met Andrea a few times, having come to a couple of our group’s family therapy nights, and she now knows things have progressed with Andrea’s disease. Andrea had said earlier it was all right for me to let Shannon know, since they’d met. She knows I tell Shannon everything, and we both know Shannon would never say anything to anyone else. Besides, I need to vent. After Hendrix dropped me off, I called Shannon right away, telling her I needed drinks and a shoulder to cry on tonight.

  Thinking of Hendrix just now makes my heart
rate accelerate. The way he was with me today was unlike anything I would have expected. It took everything in me to not unleash all my worries onto his big, thick, and, might I say, solidly sexy shoulders. Being in his arms felt right; he felt right. God, it felt good being close to him like that. I should text him and thank him again, but I think better of it as Shannon distracts me and returns me to the present.

  “I’m sure Andrea’s fine. She’ll text in the next day or so. I bet she and Simon are coming to terms with everything. I have a feeling that if things weren’t going so well you’d have heard from her by now.”

  “I guess you’re right, I would have. So, let’s consider the silence a sign that things must be going well.” I raise my glass bottoms up and take a huge sip, the smooth flavour of Inception Deep Layered Red dancing across my tongue.

  “We need to get your mind on something else or you’re going to be a sloppy drunk soon,” Shannon laughs, taking a sip from her own glass. “What’s the deal with that new ogre in the garage?”

  I roll my eyes and change the subject.

  After another bottle of wine and some much needed laughter, we share a cab to my house, then she carries on to hers.

  Before crawling into bed a couple of hours later, my phone buzzes. I have a text.

  Expecting it to be Andrea, I swipe it immediately, the anticipation killing me. When I see it’s from Hendrix, a different kind of anticipation takes over.

  Hendrix: Hey, I wanted to check in. Hope you’re holding up, friend.

  Me: Hey, I’m holding. Thank you again for today. I hope your shirt survived.

  Hendrix: What are friends for? Yeah it’s all good. A bit of an ungodly stain in the middle now tho. Luckily I own a hundred more t-shirts.