Where We Go from Here

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.

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.

This has happened before, but it always hurts when the texts that seemed so intimate and full of excitement simply stop coming. Some people say HIV is the love virus, because it becomes this insurmountable barrier to the things that might happen if it weren’t there. And even though HIV has been my unwanted partner for three years, like an intrusive brother-in-law who takes over the guest room, it’s still hard to deal with all the impossibilities that it imposes on my life.

“You’re not checking your messages again, are you, you whore?” Eric looks over my shoulder, eyeing my phone. His attention is split between his own cell phone and a YouTube video on his laptop, in which an Argentinian drag queen gives a tutorial on how to do Elizabeth Taylor’s makeup from Cleopatra. Eric is preparing for his next show, and the theme of the party is ancient Egypt. “If you would just quit all the apps and start looking for people in real life, I’m sure you wouldn’t get so frustrated.”

“Says the saint who has a profile on every dating app known to man,” I respond, knowing that Eric is a fixture on all the hookup apps, whether they’re meant for gay, straight, bi, or trans people. He’s even on a few for lesbians. (Seriously, he claims it’s so he can make friends.) “I think I fucked it all up again.”

I open my messages and show him the text I sent Victor. He pauses the YouTube video and grabs my phone to read it.

Eric is, so far, the only person who knows I’m positive and still replies to my texts. We’ve known each other since we were fifteen, and in all that time, he hasn’t changed much: over six feet tall, dark brown skin, and thin arms. The only things that have changed are his teeth, now perfectly straight thanks to the braces and incredibly white after bleaching; his hair, which he used to shave but now wears full and always in a different stylish hairdo; and his complexion, now soft and blemish-free after a dermatological treatment that nearly left him bankrupt.

As for me, I’m basically the same as when we were teenagers, too. Five foot eight (the famous puberty growth spurt passed me by, and I went from being the tallest among my friends to being the shortest in less than two years), with rust-colored hair and white skin, as if I were allergic to the sun. My teeth are crooked, my muscles are still under the regular promise that I’ll start working out before I give up on going to the gym for the twentieth time, and my wrists are always hurting from the hours of photoshopping at the advertising agency where I work.

Eric was and continues to be a part of my life, through all the ups and downs—from the fits of laughter to the sleepless nights on the phone, hearing me cry and complain about how unfair life is and how useless everything can be, since in the end we’re all going to die anyway.

And, as a result of our friendship and the trust I placed in him, I decided to share an apartment with him when things got complicated for him at home, even if he can be a chaotic hurricane of glitter and multicolored fabrics. I consider him my Jiminy Cricket, my Voice of Reason, or whatever it is that people call their conscience, especially because he’s the only one who doesn’t just smile and nod at whatever nonsense the antiretrovirals evoke when they insist on messing with my emotions.

“Henrique, you know that you have to be patient, especially with the younger boys.” He opens Victor’s picture on my phone, staring at his pale, smiling face; his light hair—full in the middle and shaved on the sides, with a blue streak right up front; and his green eyes that are almost indistinguishable behind the reflection in his vintage glasses that are too big for his face. Then Eric gives me my phone and returns to his own. “How old is this boy?”

“And you’re twenty-one. It may not seem like it, but that’s a big difference. He’s probably scared, and you know very well that it’s a rational reaction. At least he didn’t make up a story about his grandmother in New Zealand needing surgery to remove a tumor or some shit like that other guy did.”

He’s talking about Carlos, the first and only asshole who managed to break my heart, not to mention leave me forever hesitant to open up to anyone who crosses my path. And as a bonus, he also made me hate New Zealand.

“He went there because he is a coward who’s afraid to be the person he really is. I hate New Zealand, The Lord of the Rings, and that Vegemite crap they eat.”

“It smells like boiled beer and looks like tar. There’s no way it’s good.”

“Okay, and you hate New Zealand because one of the biggest series in film history was shot there. And that’s important because …?”

“It’s not important! Jesus, Eric, six years of friendship and you still haven’t realized that I dislike things for totally irrational reasons? You should be used to it by now.”

“All right, let’s not talk about the hobbits of New Zealand. Or horrible ex-boyfriends. Have you tried calling this guy?” Eric asks, referring to the message I sent Victor.

“He saw the message but never replied. That’s the twenty-first-century version of not picking up the phone.”

“You can try to call and have a conversation. Like, you had sex after you learned his name and went on, like, five bad dates in two weeks. You’re practically married in this day and age.”

“And I’m the app queen,” I say, giving him a dirty look. He’s still looking at his phone, and in the reflection on his glasses, I can see the yellow glow of Grindr.

“What?” He looks at me and closes the app. “Don’t even; I’m not the one who’s in love here.”

“Okay, so you just ‘care too much,’ ” he says, making air quotes as he balances his phone in his right hand.

“ ‘This,’ ” I answer, imitating his hand gesture. “It’s ridiculous.”

The ellipsis bubble pops up on my screen, indicating that Victor is typing a response.

We wait for the message, and it comes in short sentences. As I read, I’m both relieved and confused by it.

I stare at the screen, processing the information.

“Aw, how cute, he thought of you! At least this one didn’t run away to New Zealand for years and pretend you never existed.” Eric smiles. “What are you going to say?”

“That I don’t want my status to be on the evening news,” I answer, but before I can say more, Eric rips the phone out of my hand and starts typing.

Henrique:

Sure.

If you want to talk about us, I’m here.

I’m glad the test came back negative.

At this stage of the game, Eric’s meddling in my personal life isn’t a nuisance anymore. And honestly, I even like it when he plays Cupid and replies to messages on my behalf, because most of the time I say it’s not worth pursuing something that won’t work out in the end. He says that’s just my negativity speaking and that if I at least put in some effort, things could be different.

“He knows about the window period, right?” Eric asks. He has learned so much about HIV from me, either from my endless conversations on the subject or from his research during the first months of my diagnosis, when he tried to show me through graphs, charts, and stats that I was not going to die anytime soon.

“Probably not, but he could have researched it. And I already said I took all necessary precautions, as I always do. And that I’m undetectable, which means—”

“The chance of transmitting the virus is effectively zero,” Eric says automatically, a bored tone in his voice. He’s heard me talk about it at least two hundred times. “Now you want to preach to the choir?”

“I think there’s nothing else I can teach you that you don’t already know, young Padawan,” I say. Eric ignores my comment and presses play on his makeup tutorial.

I stare at Victor’s message, wondering if he’s worth the trouble or if I should let him go.

He did respond, even if he didn’t talk directly about the two of us, and that’s already more than most guys do. Most of them believe that silence is the best medicine, but in reality, it messes with my emotions more than any antiretroviral ever could.