The Man Who Betrayed Me Was Also the Man Who Loved Me

I came out of the closet in the throes of the AIDS epidemic and fell for someone I thought was a safe harbor. The blurred lines between his love and his lies have haunted me the rest of my life.

Illustration by Julie Benbassat | Story edited by Brendan Spiegel

We’re kicking off The Personals — a new series of sharply focused first-person stories that capture a single surprising unforgettable moment or event. Think vivid scenes, big feelings, and unexpected twists…all in a deliciously bite-sized package. Read on for our very first story in this series!

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Two days after Christmas 1992, I pushed my luggage cart through customs at Madrid’s Barajas Airport, scanning the crowd for Alberto. It had been nine months since I’d left for business school, and thoughts of him had kept me awake the entire flight from J.F.K. I expected to see him up front, where he always waited.

Instead, I saw his sister, Alicia. She was walking toward me across the terminal, designer boots clicking against the floor, a wilting “Bienvenido” balloon bobbing at her wrist, its red ribbon tangled in her sleeve.

As she got closer, I saw it in her face. She couldn’t meet my eyes. I kept looking past her, expecting him to appear. Had he gone to get the car?

Alicia hugged me tightly, too tightly, as if she could fold the moment closed.

“I’m so glad to see you!” she said.

Her fingers clutched at her purse handle.

“Alberto’s health has taken a downturn. You’ll be more comfortable staying at my place.”

I’d spoken to Alberto just two days earlier. His voice had been scratchy, but he’d said he was just getting over a cold. Nothing in that conversation could have prepared me for this.

She paused, as if weighing her next words. “He’s OK. We’ll go see him now.”

As we drove through the familiar streets, I thought about how I’d ended up here.

Four years earlier, I’d moved to Spain after coming out in my evangelical Southern hometown, needing distance.

Most of the guys I met in Spain were “players.” But Alberto was different: kind, caring and genuine. In 1992, with the AIDS epidemic exploding, finding someone that special who was H.I.V. negative felt like gold.

We met at Hanoi, one of Madrid’s most exclusive nightclubs. His dark hair was swept left, and he moved through the crowd with a quiet elegance. That night he said, “Let me show you the real Madrid.” I was supposed to return to the U.S. for business school that fall. But instead, I stayed — for another two years.

We settled into an easy rhythm: long walks, dinners that turned into midnight coffees.

After work, he’d appear with a red rose, and whisk me away in his car, sparing me the crowded metro. He moved through the city like it belonged to him. Doormen waved us in, bartenders knew his drink. Being with him felt like stepping into a movie.

When Alicia and I arrived at his place, the smells of fresh flowers and antiseptic hit me first. Alberto lay on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, shockingly thin. A stranger.

“Hola, Alberto.”

His face brightened, though his gaze drifted past me.

“No puedo creer que estés aquí — I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, his voice soft, almost shy. “I’ve lost so much weight, but I’ll be back to normal soon.”

I forced a smile, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. His skin clung tightly to sharp cheekbones, eyes sunken and shadowed. As much as I wanted to believe him, recovery from whatever this was seemed impossible.

“Os dejo,” Alicia said — “I’ll leave you two alone.” She handed me a key to her apartment and slipped out the door, leaving us alone in heavy silence.

I turned back to Alberto, needing more answers. “So…what exactly happened?” I asked carefully, keeping my tone light. “When did you start feeling sick?”

He shifted against the cushions, gaze darting to the window.

“It was nothing, really,” he said quickly. “Just a fever that wouldn’t go away. But then I had to travel for work — to the Far East. It was probably something I picked up there.”

“The Far East?” I echoed, trying to keep the doubt from my voice.

“Yes,” he said. “And then my liver — or my kidneys — were acting up. An infection, they said.” He waved a thin hand vaguely. “It’s all been very confusing.”

My eyes moved over him — collarbones jutting under his sweater, struggling to stay upright. He looked like every AIDS patient I’d seen in magazines and on TV, skeletal and fading.

“Is it AIDS?”

His reaction was vehement. His eyes flashed as he glared at me, shoulders stiffening.

“Of course not! Are you crazy?” he snapped, the words like a slap.

“OK, I just…I just needed to ask.”

“Por Diós,” he muttered, sinking back into the sofa, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I can’t believe you’d even…” He trailed off, eyes fixed somewhere past me.

Relief washed over me, sudden and dizzying.

Thank God, I thought. The tension in my shoulders loosened. Alberto wouldn’t lie to my face. But — what was it?

That night, I lay awake in Alicia’s guest room, eyes tracing cracks in the ceiling, his words looping in my head. I turned over, pressing my cheek into the pillowcase, but sleep wouldn’t come.

I woke to gray light filtering through the curtains. I sat up, the blanket tangled around my legs, and rubbed my eyes. Noises drifted from the kitchen — the clatter of dishes, Alicia’s voice tight and urgent on the phone.

“Complete denial,” she was saying in Spanish. “Drastic weight loss. He can barely see.”

My stomach twisted sharply, my breath catching. I’d heard enough. It was time to get the truth.

I found her in the kitchen, gripping a cup of espresso.

“I came all this way for him,” I said. “I need to know what’s wrong.”

She set the cup down carefully. “He promised he would tell you. I see he hasn’t, so I will.” She looked at me directly. “Alberto has AIDS.”

I started to cry, and she held me.

When she pulled away, her hands remained on my shoulders. “And there’s more,” she said quietly. “I feel morally obligated to tell you. He’s known for four years.”

We’d met three years earlier.

He’d sworn to me, over and over, that he was negative. Back then, I had that conversation with every new partner — trying to breathe past the fear that came with every kiss.

“I need to be alone,” I whispered, slipping past Alicia and heading for the stairwell.

Outside, the cold air hit me, but I felt nothing.

How could he? Why would he?

The man who held me close, who said I was not like everyone else — he had gambled with my life and lied to my face. Every time I remembered us, I’d think, He knew then.

I’d been careful, getting tested every few months. I knew I was negative.

Still, standing there, the voices from my evangelical past whispered to me. You knew this wasn’t right. You’ve made your bed. Now it’s time to pay the piper.

I went back inside and spent the rest of the day in bed.

The next morning, I stood in the doorway of his den, arms crossed, refusing to sit.

“When were you planning to tell me that you have AIDS?” I asked.

“Mentira — that’s a lie,” he said. But then he looked away. He exhaled and said, “Yes. I have it. What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to look me in the eye and tell me that you’ve known for four years. Cuatro

putos años. Four fucking years. You had no right.”

“You were never in danger,” he said.

“Hijo de puta — son of a bitch,” I responded.

For a moment I saw the old Alberto — the one who’d brought me roses and shown me his Madrid. I wanted him to beg, to explain, to make this make sense.

Instead, he turned abruptly, grabbed a crystal tumbler from the coffee table, and hurled it at the wall. The crash stunned me almost as much as the betrayal.

He stared at the broken glass, his eyes a mix of anger and despair.

“Mira lo que has hecho,” I said. “Look what you’ve done.”

I turned and shut the door behind me.

I could hear him calling out for me to come back.

I hesitated — just for a second. Then I told myself, Go. I kept walking.

Back in the U.S., I focused on school, but nights brought memories: his roses, how he’d lean in at parties, his hand on my shoulder, his laugh.

Six weeks later, in my apartment one morning, I answered a call from Alicia.

“It’s time,” she said. “He wants to speak with you.”

Alberto’s voice was barely audible, but we made some small talk and then he said, “I want you to know I didn’t want to lose you. I was afraid. I didn’t know what to do.” He paused. “I was careful. I tried to always take care of you. You have to have felt that.”

I held the phone, absorbing his words.

Maybe he had tried to protect me — but he’d robbed me of the choice to protect myself. And now he was dying.

“I’m…I’m glad you called,” I said.

“I guess I’d better go.” He paused and said, “Hasta luego.”

“Adiós, Alberto.” The final goodbye came from somewhere deep and sad.

The next day, I got the call.

The news came quietly, Alicia’s voice a soft hum. I thanked her, hung up and sat there, numb. Not even 35 years old. A beautiful, intelligent man, and now he was gone.

I kept asking myself: Was any of it real?

Some of it couldn’t have been faked. How he watched me, how he remembered the smallest details: my favorite wine, the songs that always made me smile. Those things felt real. His lie had given me Madrid, and him. I’d never know if that made it better or worse.

The cruelest part wasn’t just the lie itself — it was what it took from me afterward. For years, I couldn’t bring myself to trust anyone. Letting someone in again felt like stepping into the streets of Pamplona when the bulls were charging — one wrong move, and you’d be gored.

And yet, there was an irony. His lie, that betrayal, might have saved me. Knowing what he’d hidden, I became careful — almost to the point of paranoia. I got tested obsessively, avoided risks I might have taken before. If he hadn’t lied, if I hadn’t been so terrified of ending up like him, maybe I wouldn’t have been so careful. Maybe I wouldn’t have survived.

One night, not long ago, I found a picture of Alberto tucked inside a book. It was from a Sunday at Retiro Park — sunlight through the trees, Alberto grinning, carefree and alive. I stared at it.

Was there love at all, even built on lies? That question has followed me everywhere and I’ve had to accept that I will never find an answer. For a long time, it was easier to hold on to anger than to accept this truth. I slipped the photo back into the book. I’ll never know which parts were real. The man who betrayed me was also the man who loved me.

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J Martin is an international business executive who writes about memory, faith, desire and how we make meaning from experience. Raised in the evangelical South and shaped by years in Spain and Puerto Rico, he now lives in Miami, where he writes in both English and Spanish. This is his first publication in Narratively.

Brendan Spiegel is Narratively’s co-founder and editorial director.

Julie Benbassat is an award-winning illustrator, painter and animator.