By the time Paul said he didn’t know, I had already told him.
That is where I want to begin: sitting with Paul and Ryan, hearing a conversation I remembered having privately become something Paul denied in front of somebody else.
Ryan asked how things were going.
“Well, Paul agreed to have my genital warts,” I said.
An unfortunate sentence. I can admit that. I made it sound like we had negotiated a joint phone plan. What I meant was that I had disclosed my diagnosis, we had discussed it, and he had told me he still wanted to be with me.
In my recollection, Paul immediately denied knowing. Then he accused me of exposing him without telling him.
I remember trying to explain myself, furious that I even had to. How could he remember wanting to marry me and forget the conversation I’d been scared to have?
But let me back up. Before that room, before the denial, before I started replaying conversations to reassure myself that I hadn’t imagined them, there was another man.
When I met Paul Kinnier, I had just ended a marathon situationship with my favorite rapper. A marathon of hanging off his belt buckle like a backstage credential that never expired. I kept waiting for the relationship to become something I wouldn’t have to explain with the word situationship.
A marathon. Enough time to raise a child. Apparently, also enough time to spend waiting for a man to decide whether you’re his girlfriend.
During those years, I dealt with HPV and genital warts. The HPV later developed into cancer. I lived through the appointments, the fear, and the uncomfortable business of telling a prospective partner something I wished I didn’t have to disclose.
I dreaded that conversation. I would rehearse it beforehand, trying to find words that were honest without making me feel like a medical warning label.
Then came Paul.
I remember telling him. I remember his reassurance that it didn’t change how he felt about me. He told me he was going to marry me.
I wanted to believe that so badly. After years of accepting scraps of affection, here was somebody talking about a future. I let myself picture ordinary things: waking up together, making plans, introducing him without having to explain what we were.
That was the hope I brought into the room with Ryan.
And that was why Paul’s denial hurt. I had done the difficult thing. I had disclosed something private and waited for his answer. Now I was listening to him accuse me of withholding it.
I don’t remember every word spoken in that room. I remember the shock of having to defend my own honesty to a man whose reassurance had helped me trust him.
So the first thing you need to know about this story is simple:
I remember telling him.
The woman I was then believed his answer.
