Page 39 of Hiss and Tell
“Mr. Sebastian likes honesty,” Milo says with four-year-old certainty. “He never pretends things are different than they are.”
If only it were that simple.
“Ice cream time!” Milo cheers, changing the subject with deafening enthusiasm.
“Ice cream time,” I agree, forcing a smile. Because some conversations require chocolate chip cookie dough for courage.
I drop Milo at my neighbor’s and go to my appointment. I hate to let myself be too optimistic. Goodness knows, I’ve had several interviews I thought went well, yet didn’t get the job. However, I have a really good feeling about this one. Mr. Radcliffe seemed all smiles, and pumped my hand for an extra few seconds at the end of our meeting.
That evening, Sebastian arrives with a bottle of wine and an easy smile that makes my heart skip. He’s wearing the burgundy sweater his neighbors chose, and his snakes sport their tiny bow ties in various shades of blue.
“Something smells amazing,” he says, kissing my cheek with a natural warmth that sends shivers through me.
“Lasagna. My mom’s recipe.” I’d needed the comfort of familiar cooking, something that requires following specific steps and precise timing. Organization soothes my anxiety. “Milo helped with the cheese layer.”
“I made it extra cheesy!” Milo calls from the living room where he’s building an elaborate dinosaur city. “Mr. Sebastian, come see what I built!”
Dinner flows with easy conversation, Milo regaling us with detailed explanations of his latest architectural projects. Sebastian listens with genuine interest, asking thoughtful questions that make Milo glow with pride. This is what family feels like. This warmth, this belonging, this sense of rightness.
But the prescription bag sits in my purse like a ticking bomb, counting down to a conversation that could end all of this.
After Milo’s in bed, Sebastian and I settle on the couch with our wine. His sanctuary effect flows around us, making everything feel possible and safe.
“You look nervous,” he observes, his snakes swaying gently. “Everything okay?”
“I need to tell you something.” I don’t know how I manage to force the words out in such a calm, steady manner. “Something important. Something that usually makes people run.”
His expression grows serious, the sanctuary effect deepening. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“You say that now.” Looking down at my hands, I force myself to continue. “Remember how I pulled away when we kissed? It’s because there’s something I need to tell you.”
“I… I knew something was bothering you, wondered what it was that you wouldn’t share.”
“Well, I’m ready to talk about it now. I think.” Taking a shaky breath, I meet his eyes. “I have herpes, Sebastian. HSV-2. I’ve had it for years… a present from Derek. Medication helps reduce flare-ups, but… I understand if you want to leave. Most people do.”
The silence stretches until I can’t bear it and have to drop my gaze in embarrassment. When I finally look up, his expression isn’t what I expected. No disgust, no pulling away. Just quiet acceptance and something that looks almost like… relief?
“Aspen.” Just my name, but it carries volumes. “Is that what you were so afraid to tell me? Is that what’s been sitting between us, keeping us apart?”
“Isn’t it enough?” The words burst out, sharp with shock, almost an accusation. “It’s a sexually transmitted disease. It’s incurable. It’s—”
“Manageable,” he says firmly. “Common. And absolutely no reason for me to leave.”
“But the complications—”
“We’ll figure them out. Together.” His hand finds mine across the couch cushions. “Whatever precautions we need to take, whatever research we need to do, whatever conversations we need to have with doctors—we’ll handle it all. As a team.”
Something breaks open in my chest—not the barrier I’ve built around my heart, but the fear that’s been holding it together.
“Why aren’t you running? Everyone I’ve dated since my divorce runs.”
Sebastian’s snakes writhe with barely contained fury at the mention of my ex. “Derek’s an idiot who doesn’t deserve either of you.” His thumb brushes my knuckles. “And I’m not everyone.”
“No,” I whisper. “You’re not.”
“Can I tell you something?” At my nod, he continues, “That day you swore in the library? When everyone else was scandalized? I thought, ‘Finally. Someone real. Someone who feels things deeply enough to break the rules.’”
“That’s a very diplomatic way of saying I have no filter.”
