Never a Hero

uneducated. I had to trust that he was telling me the truth.
    I closed my eyes and took deep breaths, trying to assess the last few moments. Could this really be happening? His late-night confession in the dark seemed surreal after our magical evening in the colorful lights of downtown, but no matter how much I wanted it to be a nightmare, it wasn’t. This was reality.
    “How long have you known?”
    “Five years.”
    Five years. The horror began to recede. In its place, I found anger.
    “You should have told me.”
    “I know.”
    I took a deep breath. And another. My thoughts became less scattered. The real world began to return to its proper place around me. I was crouched on the floor, shivering in my boxers.
    He could have kept on lying. He could have taken advantage of me in far worse ways. Still, I felt betrayed. I couldn’t even think. Not with him there, watching me, waiting for me to say something. I sat back against the wall, hugged my knees and looked over at where he sat. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, watching me. Waiting for me to react.
    “I’d like you to leave.”
    Even in the low light, I saw the way he slumped at my words. “Owen—”
    “Please.”
    For a moment he didn’t move, and I thought he would argue, but then he sighed instead. He slowly pushed himself up out of the chair, as if it took every ounce of his strength. The dogs all sat up, watching him, suddenly alert.
    “Come on,” he said to them.
    Only after he was gone did I give in. Only then did I put my head down and cry.

The next day was one of the most miserable of my life. As if what had happened with Nick wasn’t bad enough, I was also hungover. My head throbbed. I looked down at the pile of clothes next to bed—jeans and a Superman shirt, lying where Nick had dropped them as he’d undressed me—and had to run for the bathroom.
    I was angry, not so much at Nick as at the universe in general. At fate. At my own terrible luck. I’d finally found a man who I adored, who liked me, who was attracted to me, who made me feel better than I’d ever felt, only to have the rug ripped out from under me.
    AIDS.
    My head filled with horrible images. The famous photo of David Kirby in the last moments of his life, only in my mind, it was Nick, his strong, muscular body destroyed by the virus.
    How long? I realized I had no idea. The sensationalism of AIDS had long since died. It wasn’t that I thought it was gone, or cured, or irrelevant, but somehow, I’d never thought much about the fact that it was still out there, like some kind of relentless hunter, killing people, ruining lives.
    Had he lied about putting me at risk?
    I didn’t think so. No matter what had happened, I trusted Nick. He could have fucked me. He could have let me fuck him. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t even taken off his pants. I remembered how he’d seemed relieved when he found out I didn’t have condoms. If I had, he might have been tempted to do something riskier, but he’d refrained. There are plenty of other ways for me to get you off.
    I couldn’t decide if the memory was erotic or nauseating. I curled up in my bed, relieved that it was only Saturday. I wouldn’t have to face him again until Monday. I spent the day downing Sprite, Advil, and saltine crackers and cursing Jason to the heavens for whatever had been in the shots.
    At five o’clock, Nick knocked on my door. I wasn’t ready to face him. I wished I could hide, but it was ridiculous. He knew I was home. I pulled on a T-shirt and sweats, ran a hand through my matted hair, and answered the door.
    He looked terrible. Probably worse than me. Grief made his face long and haggard. Sorrow clouded his eyes.
    “Hey,” he said quietly.
    I leaned against the doorjamb, unwilling to let him in. Unwilling to admit yet how much he’d hurt me. Or how much I’d hurt him. “Hi.”
    He slumped a bit, and I almost broke. I almost reached out for him. But my hand was stilled by thoughts of the virus. Before, I’d thought he was perfect. Now, right or wrong, he seemed tainted.
    “Owen, I want to tell you how sorry I am. I—”
    “I don’t want to talk about it.” A lump began to form in my throat. I wanted to end this conversation before I started to cry again.
    He nodded. “Okay. Well, I want you to know . . .” His voice cracked and he stopped. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was as close to tears as I was. “I don’t expect anything big. I just hope we can be