Page 305 of My Sweet Dollie, You Have to Love Me
“But,” he continues, “no one can catch yours, either.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Well, your mom has spent the last three pages of this diary crying over dear sweet Ambrose being HIV positive.”
My mouth falls open in disbelief, and the air dries it out quickly.
I have no words.
Is that why things stalled at stolen touches on the sofa?
Did he feel the way I felt and would have taken things further, but was scared to act on it?
“Maybe that’s why he never feels clean.”
“That wouldn’t make him dirty,” I snap. “He has OCD. That’s why he doesn’t like germs. That’s what that is.”
“That’s another of his issues. Your Mom talks about that, too. It probably got worse after this diagnosis.”
“Put the book down,” I choke out.
“No, it’s getting interesting.”
I can’t say another word. I can’t even breathe. The feeling in my rattling chest gets heavier and heavier until I feel something inside me break.
And I know it’s my heart.
My eyes fill, but I don’t dare let a tear fall out of fear of what will happen to me.
“You’re upset? I knew you would be.”
“I feel bad for him.” That’s all I manage.
“Eh, don’t. Doesn’t change who he is. A waste of fucking space.”
My teeth feel like they’ll grind to dust.
“Come on then, I’ll put it down.” Shane sets the book down on the nightstand, trading the remote’s place with it. “Let’s watch our movie.”
“Shane, I can’t?—”
“Can’t what? Can’t wait to watch a movie with me?” His tone dares me to say something else.
How on earth am I meant to concentrate on a movie right now? There’s no way. Ambrose fills my head, squashing the guilt to one side. Is he okay? How does he cope? Why did he never tell me? Did he think I’d see him differently? Why would he think that? It changes nothing. Does he really have a condition that will impact his entire life? From that fucking freak clown? Is he okay? I need to see him—to talk to him.
I glance at the nightstand where my flower from him still sits, low on water in its little clear glass. My phone is nowhere to be seen. My eyes wander the room before I picture it, downstairs, with frosting fingerprints on its screen, nestled amongst the flour and cake supplies I haven’t cleared away.
“So,” Shane interrupts my thoughts. “The movie?”
“What do you want to watch?” I ask, my mind still swirling.
“Come on, get down here.” Shane pulls me into his hold, his tight grip keeping me there. He turns off the nightstand lamp and starts up the TV.
My hoodie leans against his sweaty torso. My bare legs against his gray sweatpants that he wears too high up his waist, looking nothing like Ambrose.
Eerie music plays as the opening credits roll. A stray tear leaks from one eye as my thoughts repeat themselves. Shane’s next words have more coming to the surface.
“I’ll warn you, this movie has a clown mask at the start.”
