"What do you want for Christmas?"
At the annual holiday party thrown by my company last weekend, this question was posed to me over and over by my coworkers. To each, my response was the same: I don't know--I suppose that I'd like to be surprised.
It's a throwaway question, of course, mandatory small talk befitting the event, meant to be lighthearted in spirit. Yet, it lingered on my mind all night.
How could I answer that question when I don't know what I want? Though my coworkers don't know it, I feel as if everything in my life is suddenly in flux. I mulled the question over all night between copious amounts of celebratory alcohol.
It's the first instance ever that Julien, my usual plus-one, didn't accompany me to the traditional holiday parties thrown this time of year; he had said that he had some extra work to finish up at home before the year ends.
I didn't believe him.
While I knew that Julien's workload as of late has been large, I also knew that my guaranteed absence from our home would be too big an opportunity for him to pass up. So, although I had made sure not to let on that I didn't believe him, I had accepted his excuse without complaint. If my coworkers noticed his absence, they didn't mention it to me.
As inebriation set into me over the course of the night, I found myself thinking about him. What was he up to? What did he have planned for the hours during which I would be away? And, most importantly, who was he planning to do? My imagination, fueled by liquor, went wild.
I know he's been cheating on me, lately. The tracks he once covered so well have since become too glaring to miss; it seems obvious to me that he no longer cares if he's caught. I don't know how long it's been going on--I might never know the full extent of it all--but I'm no longer blind to the truth. If this is going to happen, if there's no way to prevent it, I'd like at least to have some agency.
What do I want for Christmas? I don't need much in the way of material possessions, but I'd like to be happy...whatever that entails.
I know that I don't want to lose him. I love him. For so long, he's been everything that I ever wanted in a partner. He's become such a cornerstone of my life; I don't know what I would do without him. I'm not myself without him.
When the clock struck eight, I decided to go home. I'd been away for long enough, by my estimations, and so I stole away from my colleagues. Whatever awaited me at home, I felt ready to face it, propped up by liquid courage.
As I approached our front door, I felt vindicated. There, by the entrance mat, were two pairs of shoes, not one. I recognized the first pair as Julien's, but I couldn't identify the second.
Despite knowing that this would happen, despite having arguably orchestrated the night such that this would happen, despite my own culpability in making this happen--I don't deny that my heart still sank, just a little. Disappointment twinged my spirits, drowning out the tiniest bit of hope I still had that Julien would resist temptation. I tested him, and he both passed and failed.
Attempting to steel my nerves, I entered our home as quietly as I could. I set my things aside and paused to listen.
Deja vu accosted me: here I stood, in the same spot as I did on that very first night when everything changed. Once again, I stilled myself and strained my ears to catch interruptions in the silence.
I didn't hear anything.
Hope dared to flare within me before I could suppress it. Maybe nothing really did happen, maybe he really was devoted to me. Maybe he really did still love me.
Slowly, I walked through each room before heading upstairs, methodically looking for signs of a trespasser. Despite still being somewhat tipsy, I tried to be meticulous. I was searching for something, anything awry.
In hindsight, I was stalling for time.
I was so nervous. My entire body trembled.
I was afraid to go upstairs. What if he was there? What if he was with someone else? How would I react if I was confronted with the scene of my every nightmare, every dream, of these past few weeks?
Would it be worse if he was there, alone? If he had been waiting for me all by himself--would I be less or even more disappointed?
I stood downstairs, rooted.
What was it that I truly wanted, right then and there?
Maybe it was the residual booze in my system, but I felt almost nauseous, because--well, because I understood what I was hoping to see. Against all logic, against everything that makes sense, I realized that I was hoping to catch him in the act once more.
It's not something I wanted to admit. It doesn't feel wonderful to acknowledge that what I wanted to see was my partner with someone else.
It's fucking confusing.
He's supposed to be mine. Why would I ever want that?
A slight thrumming from somewhere shook me out of my thoughts. Of course, it had come from upstairs.
I took a deep breath and braced myself for the moment of truth. I ascended the steps and came to a stop outside our bedroom door.