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“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.
