The Bodyguard (91)

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.”