Thirty-One
AT FIRST, I thought he missed.
At first, it was just a sound so loud I felt it in my chest and a blast of wind past my face.
Then: I felt it before I understood it.
When I think about it now, I see it in slow motion. The bullet hissing past my head, shaving off a thin line of hair as it went. A sharp sting taking over my consciousness, and then a warm wetness rolling down my neck like someone was squeezing a bottle of chocolate syrup.
It wasn’t syrup, of course.
But here’s the thing—at the feel of it, I decided I was okay.
The blood on my neck convinced me: It was only a graze.
I don’t know how I knew it, exactly—I just did. It just felt exactly the way you’d imagine it would feel to get grazed by a bullet—tight, small, stinging. Almost like a cut crossed with a burn.
I just didn’t feel like a person whose brains were splattered all over the wall behind her.
Did I know that for sure?
No.
But I decided to run with it until I had evidence to the contrary.
I must have looked ghoulish, though.
The gunman stared in horror. “Jesus!” he shouted. “You scared me!”
The irony.
I put my hands out. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t slam the door at somebody when they’re holding a gun, okay?”
“I didn’t mean to,” I said. “It was the wind.”
His voice was all frustration. “Now you made me shoot you.”
My neck was warm and wet with blood, running down to soak into the fabric of my dress. So much for being Jack’s personal blood bank. “You didn’t shoot me.”
“Um. All that blood says otherwise.”
“Just a scratch,” I said. “Just a graze. I’m completely fine.”
“Well, you look like hell,” the gunman said.
“Head wounds bleed a lot,” I said, like No big deal. “It barely even stings.”
Beyond him, Jack looked utterly appalled to see me. He was crouched for action now, as if he’d forgotten that his wrists and ankles were bound, and he might—what? Hop over to save me? As soon as he realized he couldn’t really move, he did the next best thing. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Um. Helping you?”
“Didn’t I just tell you to leave?” he said. “Didn’t I just say there’s nothing between us that’s real?”
“Yeah. I didn’t believe you.”
Jack stared at me, like that made no sense.
So I added, “You aren’t that great of an actor.”
Not even a courtesy chuckle. “I sent you away,” Jack said. “In no uncertain terms.”
I nodded. “Yeah. But then I checked the security footage.”
“Go home,” Jack said, moving his eyes back to the stalker. “This is not about you.”
“Well. It kind of is now.”
The gunman was looking panicked now. Never good.
His hands were shaking so bad, I could see the gun vibrating. He’d lowered his aim—forgetting about the pistol for a minute, it seemed—and he was looking back and forth between me and Jack. “This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.”
He sounded disappointed.
I tried to think back over my hostage negotiations protocols. I was a little rusty. Establish a relationship came to mind, and so I said, “Hey, friend, can you tell me your name?”
No resistance at all. “Wilbur,” he said.
“Wilbur?” I asked. “The Wilbur?”
Wilbur wasn’t sure what to say.
“WilburHatesYou321?”
That made him smile—a little flattered to be recognized. “You know my handle?”
“You’re very memorable. Mostly because of the book.”
“What book?”
What else could we be talking about? “Charlotte’s Web.”
Wilbur just looked at me like I was bananas.
Okay. Enough bonding.
“Hey, Wilbur?” I said then, like I’d had a fun idea. “Can you give me the gun?”
“I wasn’t trying to shoot you,” Wilbur said.
“I know,” I said, making my voice like velvet. “It was an accident. I’m really fine.”
“Somebody’s gonna die up here,” he said next, “but it’s not supposed to be you.” Then he gestured between himself and Jack. “Jack and I already decided. When you rang the bell, I said, ‘Who’s going to die tonight? You or the lady?’ And he didn’t even hesitate. He volunteered to die in a heartbeat.” Wilbur gave a little shrug. “Isn’t that sweet?”
I nodded, like Very.
Time to get that gun.
Slowly, I took a took a step forward.
But as Wilbur saw what I was doing, he shook his head. “You can’t have it,” he said. “I need it.”
That’s when he took several steps backward—and as he did, I could see that he was limping. He angled himself toward the ledge of the roof, and he used his good leg to step up onto it.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I bet you think that guy’s pretty great,” Wilbur said to me then. “Everybody thinks he’s so great.”
“He’s okay,” I said with a shrug.
“Everybody loves him. The Destroyer. They think he saved the universe. Right? They all thought that was really him.” Wilbur shook his head at Jack and pointed the pistol back at him. “But he’s no hero.”
“That’s right,” I said, all gentle. “He’s just a person. Just a regular person.” Emphasizing Jack’s humanity seemed like a good idea.
“But not regular,” Wilbur said. “Not like you and me. Because he has everything he wants.” He turned to Jack and lifted the gun, holding it straight out toward him. “Don’t ya, Destroyer? Don’t you have everything you want?”
Jack shook his head slowly. “Nobody gets everything they want.”
“But enough. Too much, even. And I don’t have anything anymore. So if you get to be The Destroyer, then I get to be The Punisher.”
You could feel the energy shift just then. Jack and I glanced at each other. Something was about to happen. It was almost like a click. We’d shifted to the next gear.
Was I going to have to push this guy off the roof to save Jack? I could make a running dive and send us both over the side.
A three-story fall won’t kill you.
Probably.
But that’s when Wilbur turned to me and said, “My wife left me for him.” Then, to Jack, “Are you with her now? Are you two together?”
Jack just frowned.
“Lacey?” Wilbur went on, almost like they were playing the name game for old college friends. “Lacey Bayless? Mrs. Wilbur Bayless? Did she find you?”
“I don’t know anybody named Lacey,” Jack said.
Wilbur turned toward me. “After I got hurt at work”—he gestured at the leg he’d been limping on—“she got obsessed with him. Started a fan club, then another. Started sending emails to his agent. Spending all her time online making GIFs. And I was like, ‘It’s okay. It’s healthy to have a hobby.’ Right? I supported her! I wasn’t jealous! I was like, ‘Live your best life, honey’! But then one night I came home and there were suitcases by the front door. And she’d left a lasagna in the fridge. And she told me she was leaving.” He looked over at Jack. “She told me my mangled leg turned her stomach. That she’d fallen in love with Jack, instead. I’d never be able to compare. Why couldn’t I kiss her the way Jack Stapleton kissed Katie Palmer?”
I looked at Jack, like Should we tell him?
I flipped through all my de-escalation training in my head. I remember you were supposed to use people’s names as much as possible. The sound—in theory, at least—was comforting.
“Wilbur,” I said. “That’s hard. I get it.”
But Wilbur didn’t want my sympathy. “What do you think?” he asked me.
“About what?”
“About if I’m handsome.”
Was Wilbur handsome?
Um. Was this binding?
I scanned his pear-shaped physique, his receding hairline, his yellow teeth, his oily skin, his dirty jeans, and his limp Darth Vader T-shirt that read: COME TO THE DARK SIDE. WE HAVE COOKIES.
And then I said, “I think you’re very handsome, Wilbur.” I added, “Very.” Then, when he didn’t look convinced: “Dashing, even.”
“So,” he gestured with the gun between himself and Jack. “If you had to choose between the two of us, who would you pick?”
Jack had rescued me last night by picking me, and I was going to save him tonight by picking … Wilbur.
“You, Wilbur!” I declared in a flash. “A hundred percent you! In a heartbeat!”
“Right?” Wilbur said. “That’s what I kept telling her! ‘Jack Stapleton is a famous dipshit.’”
“A legendary dipshit,” I agreed.
Jack gave me a look.
Wilbur continued. “‘He could never love you the way I love you,’ I said.”
“He doesn’t know the first thing about love.”
Jack coughed.
“‘He’s not going to build you a birdhouse from scratch with little working shutters and hand-painted camelia flowers!’ No contest, right?”
“No contest,” I confirmed. “Jack Stapleton’s never built a birdhouse in his life.”
Jack flared his nostrils at me, like Settle down.
Wilbur fell silent for a minute.
Should I try to get his weapon?
Then Wilbur went on. “But she left. She left anyway. She took the birdhouse with her. She won’t take my calls. She won’t answer my texts.”
“How long has it been, Wilbur?”
“A month.”
A month was a long time. Long enough to totally upend your life. I could attest.
“Things are going to get better, Wilbur,” I said then. “Things get better, and then things get worse, and then things get better again. That’s the rhythm of life. That’s how it is for everyone.”
But Wilbur was into telling his story now. “Then I saw he was right here in town,” Wilbur went on. “And I thought I’d come find him. See if she might be here, too.”
“She’s not,” Jack said, just to confirm.
“But then I saw the picture of Jack smooching his new girlfriend. I mean, really going at it. Like, ‘Get a room!’ You saw that picture—amirite?”
“We saw it,” Jack and I said, in unison.
“And I thought,” Wilbur went on, “I’ve gotta put a stop to that.”
“Why was that again, Wilbur?” I asked.
Wilbur frowned at me, like it was so obvious. “So it wouldn’t hurt Lacey’s feelings.”
“You threatened to kill Jack’s new girlfriend to free him up so your wife could have him?”
Wilbur nodded, looking proud. “The things we do for love, right?”
“Nope. That’s not—” I started.
“The death threats were you?” Jack asked then. “We thought it was a middle-aged corgi breeder.”
Wilbur tapped his head with the gun to gesture at his brains. “I copied her style. To throw everybody off.”
“It worked,” Jack said.
But Wilbur kept going. “Only I didn’t want to kill the girlfriend. Just scare her so bad she’d leave him.”
“Just terrorize her into ending the relationship,” I offered.
“Exactly,” Wilbur said. “But it didn’t work. And now I’m a mess. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I’m so alone all the time. And I just … can’t take it anymore.”
Then, just as I was trying to figure out how to make it to Wilbur before Wilbur shot Jack, Wilbur said, “So that’s The Destroyer’s punishment. He has to watch me die.”
At that, Wilbur lifted his arm and brought the muzzle of the gun to his own head.
He wasn’t here to kill Jack. Or me.
He was here to kill himself.
I had some experience with hostage negotiations, but this was not, suddenly, a hostage situation anymore. Not like I’d been expecting, anyway. I didn’t have a manual, or a playbook, or any idea what would work.
I just had to go on instinct.
“Wilbur,” I said. “I need you to put down the gun.”
Wilbur shifted his gaze from me to Jack to see if he agreed. Jack nodded and said, “She’s right.”
I took a step closer. “I know you feel alone right now, Wilbur,” I said. “But you’re not alone. Jack and I are with you. We want you to be okay.”
I kept going, thinking my best shot was to say something true, and so I grabbed for the first thing I thought of—even though it had nothing to do with his story.
Though later I’d wonder if maybe it did.
“On my eighth birthday,” I said then, “my mother’s boyfriend beat her up so badly, I thought she was dead. I hid in a closet all night.”
Wilbur looked at me.
“It was a bad night. It was the worst night of my life. As it was happening, it felt like it would never end. But it did end. And now it’s a distant memory. Do you see what I’m saying?”
Wilbur shook his head.
“Terrible things happen. But we can get through them, Wilbur. And more than that … we can be better on the other side.”
Wilbur considered that.
Then he used the muzzle of the pistol to scratch an itch on his head.
I kept pushing. “You can’t control the world—or other people. You can’t make them love you, either. They will or they won’t, and that’s the truth. But what you can do is decide who you want to be in the face of it all. Do you want to be a person who helps—or hurts? Do you want to be a person who burns with anger—or shines with compassion? Do you want to be hopeful or hopeless? Give up or keep going? Live or die?”
Then Wilbur said something that pierced all the adrenaline of the moment and kind of broke my heart. “I just want my Lacey back,” Wilbur said.
“I know,” I said. “That could happen. That could still happen. But it can’t happen if you’re not here.”
Wilbur frowned, like he hadn’t thought of that.
“Your life is important, Wilbur,” I said. “The world needs more painted birdhouses.”
“But who am I making them for without her?”
“Make them for the birds! Make them for all the people who’ll be delighted to see them. Make them for yourself.”
There were tears on Wilbur’s face. And then he said something I still think about to this day. He said, in a voice that sounded genuinely weary, “I just hate myself so much for not being loved.”
Oof.
I absolutely got it.
I made my voice soft. “You can’t make people love you. But you can give the love you long for out to the world. You can be the love you wish you had. That’s the way to be okay. Because giving love to other people is a way of giving it to yourself.”
Wilbur chewed his lip as he thought about that.
“That’s all we can do,” I said. “All we can do is put away our anger, and our blame, and our guns”—see what I did there?—“and try to make things better instead of worse. That’s the only answer there is.”
Wilbur wiped at his tears with the back of his gun-holding hand.
I took a step closer. “Give yourself some time—and give me the gun.”
Wilbur lowered the gun and looked down at it in his hand.
“You can change your life,” I said then. “You can make good things happen. You can fill up your yard with painted birdhouses. Hundreds of them. Thousands.” My voice felt a little shaky. But I kept going: “I’d really, really love to see that. How magical would that be?”
Wilbur didn’t look away. He knew I was telling the truth. He felt how much I meant it.
“Come down and give me the gun, okay?” I said.
Wilbur looked down then, peering over his feet. Then, with surrender, he stepped back toward us, down off the ledge. As he landed, his injured leg crumpled under him, and he collapsed.
In that second, Jack and I both tackled him—Jack, still bound, throwing his whole body down to keep Wilbur pinned, and me going for the gun—though Wilbur had gone limp at that point and didn’t need much restraining.
As I landed, the wine opener in my bra flew out and went skittering across the rooftop.
I twisted Wilbur’s arm behind him and wrested the gun out of his grip, and then I looked up to see Jack staring at the corkscrew. “What, exactly, were you planning to do with that?”
But I just said, “You don’t want to know.”
Pretty easy, right there at the end.
“I was never going to kill you, you know,” Wilbur said to me then, his cheek against the roof. “Or Jack, either. The only person I wanted to murder here was me.”
“That’s gotta change, Wilbur,” I said, my knee on his back. “You need to learn how to be kind to yourself. And then you need to share that kindness with the world.”
“With birdhouses,” Wilbur said, clearly liking my idea.
“That’s one way,” I said.
We could hear the sirens now. And voices down below. And boots on the gravel drive.
Shouldn’t be long. They’d follow my bloody footprints up to us pretty fast.
While we waited, Wilbur said, “I just have one question for Jack.”
Jack, stretched across his legs to keep them pinned, said, “What is it?”
That’s when Wilbur lifted his head, angled back to give Jack his best smile, and said, “Any chance of a selfie?”