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I was pacing. I usually do whenever he’s out, but today I was doing it with far more urgency. I finish my second loop around the dinner table and veer into the narrow hallway leading to the bedroom. I flop onto the messy bed, sheets barely clinging onto the dated mattress and push aside the loose roll of wrapping paper, rolling the tube of smiling Santas to rest against the side of the long rectangular underbed-box that held the rest of the paper and the other accoutrements of gift-wrapping.
I’m not especially good with stress, which has made staying with him more difficult than any other boyfriend I’ve had, but it really is worth it. I met Will five years ago at an otherwise shitty holiday party held by a then mutual friend. While that party ended with a lot of burnt bridges, it also ended with me and him arranging a day and time for a date. One date became two, two become three and so on and so forth. We’ve been going steady since, and everything seemed like it was smooth sailing. After we moved in together, though, I noticed a lot of things that I hadn’t had the chance to before. The first thing I noticed were the bruises. Terrible, swollen and purple.
When I asked about them, he was dismissive. He told me that he was clumsy, and that he bruised easily, but I could tell he was lying through his teeth. I pressed him on them, and he sighed, and spun some elaborate yarn about a boxing gym. At the time I believed him, but over the next few months, I noticed other things that were harder to explain. His job’s hours got increasingly erratic, with him staying longer and longer, something he blamed on a “big project” that he seemed unable to give precise details on.
One night, I woke up in the middle of the night to his half of the bed empty, with the car still in the driveway, and him nowhere in the house. His wallet and phone were on the nightstand, and I was panicking. After a few dread-filled hours of searching through the apartment complex, pacing, and waiting, he crept in at three in his pajamas. I was so relieved to see him, that I didn’t even question his bout of sleepwalking initially, but a few days later, I started to look at the whole affair with a much more critical eye.
All of these hints and more piled up, and they started to point towards him hiding something big. I was convinced that the worst might be possible, and that he was secretly seeing someone else. I confronted him about the whole thing, and he collapsed, all tension leaving his frame and he told me. I didn’t believe him until he showed me the costume.
It wasn’t one I recognised, which honestly, in it’s own way, I was relieved by. He thankfully wasn’t cheating on me, he was just a small-time vigilante in the corporate-team dominated Phoenix cape scene. The way he explains it, his identity as “Mirage” boils down to being a super-powered neighborhood watch member. I still don’t want him doing it, obviously, but despite my best efforts, he won’t stop.
I sit up from the bed, snatching the errant roll of wrapping paper and shoving it back into the larger container. I snap the tub closed, drag it off the bed, and slide it underneath, shoving it deeper in with one foot. After that I get to pacing again. I’m tempted to grab the dull grey burner phone he gave me to call him in costume for emergencies, but suppress the urge. It’s Christmas Eve. Any villains are probably at home with their families, like he’s going to be shortly.
I continue my pacing around the apartment, simultaneously trying to distract myself. I already finished all the gift wrapping, vacuumed the living room and bedroom, cleaned the bathroom, did the dishes, and got dinner prepared, ready to go in the oven and on the stove as soon as Will got home.
I got the entire week before and after Christmas off using banked vacation days, but Will wasn’t so lucky. He got Christmas day and the following week off, but he decided he would go on patrol today after work. So, here I am trying to fill the time until he gets home. I idly consider watching a movie, or maybe playing a game or something, but he’s supposed to be home any minute now, and it’s not like I’d exactly be paying much attention.
I take a seat at the dinner table, resting my cheek on the cool faux wood, and sign deeply. I love him, I really do, but I don’t know how much longer I can stand this. Even though I know he’s probably completely fine, and that he probably hasn’t seen anything more dangerous than a stray for his entire “patrol” I can’t help feeling nothing but dread. I just wish he was here. I wish I could put the chicken in the oven, and start on the glazed carrots. I wish he didn’t insist on having the most dangerous possible hobby.
I splay my left hand out on the table, and feel my hand warm it’s surface. I need to calm down. He’s fine, probably just heading up the canal now, heading towards a suitably abandoned parking lot to change out of his costume. He’s very prudent about making sure I’m “out of harm's way” by making sure his cape identity can’t be connected to his real one.
I get up from the table, and start walking towards the kitchen. I could probably get the chicken in the oven before he gets home, it’s already six thirty, he can’t be late enough that the chicken would be done before he gets here. As if on cue, I can hear the shaking of keys at the door. I turn around, and after a second more of fumbling, the door swings open, with Will in rumpled clothing from his morning in the doorway. I slide the pan into the oven, slam the oven shut and tackle him in a hug. I can feel the soft rumble of his laughter against my chest.
“Sorry for being late Martin, I love you.”
I just hugged him tighter.