I put on a façade of joy, but I could hardly bring myself to care. Jack described the blocked kick runback by Markus Curry for a touchdown and the forced fumble by Ronald Fields that followed it. I slunk down as far as my seat would permit.
The back door opened, and I heard Lucy come in, which immediately reminded me – the oven. Before I had a chance to get up, she yelled, "Paul! Did you check the oven?"
With every fiber of my being, I commanded my finger to pull the trigger. Clearly she already knew the answer, and she'd opened the oven door by the time I made it to the kitchen.
"Hope you like flambé," she said. The room smelled smoky and the Bagel Bites were black. "Well, you'd better go deliver the bad news."
I walked back into the living room. "Bad news." I tossed a black lump that was supposed to be bread and cheese at Jack's face, though in my head I was hurling a nice, sharp rock at the same target. He snapped his hand up from his side and deflected it towards the TV.
"You always did throw like a girl," he said, twisting his face into that hideous grin. "Unfortunately, looks like you don't cook like one."
"Next time, I'm leaving you in charge, Jack." Lucy had come out of the kitchen. "Maybe then you boys will actually be able to eat." There was something about the way they interacted – I couldn't decide if it had always been there and I'd never noticed it or if it had just appeared or even if it was just in my head. Still, she seemed drawn towards him – it was as though her arms wanted to fling themselves onto him and my presence was the only thing that stopped them.
Then she smiled. It was a beautiful smile, the smile that told me months into our relationship that one day I'd marry her. I loved that smile. But as she directed it towards Jack, its beauty was clouded by deceit, corruption, and betrayal. That smile was mine. He wouldn't have it.
I wasted no time, just got out of the chair and sprinted to the stairs and up them into my room. It barely registered when someone shouted after me, asking where I was going. When I got into the room, I dove under the bed, scattering everything, knowing there would be no need to replace any of it after this. I grabbed the box and dumped out the gun, only being careful enough that it didn't accidentally fire prematurely. Grabbing it off the floor, I turned around as I heard footsteps near the top of the stairs. Jack and Lucy walked in. As he realized what I had in my hand, Jack's face twisted and contorted itself. For one brief moment I took in that look of horror – so much more beautiful than his stupid grin.
"Whoa, man, what're you doing?" he said, his voice quavering.
I leveled the gun at him.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa – we can talk about this, man. Put the gun down and we'll just talk about it." He knew why I had a gun pointed at him, but it didn't matter at this point.
"Paul, put the gun down," Lucy's voice rang out with total calm. She wasn't supposed to be here. That wasn't how it was supposed to happen. I couldn't do this with her here. Nonetheless, she stood, face completely still, nothing like Jack's, hands draped neatly by her sides.
"Lucy, get out of here."
"Paul, please just put the gun down."
"Lucy, get out of here, now."
"Paul, I'll leave, but only if you promise to put the gun down and talk to Jack."
"Fine," I almost pleaded. "Fine, we'll talk, just get out of here."
She calmly turned around and exited the room. It felt wrong, like she knew something I didn't. Still, that didn't matter now.
"Fuck you, Jack. Fuck you like you fucked my wife." At that moment I put every single iota of my being, all my memories of his grinning face, all the rage I could conjure into one task – pulling the trigger. With every fiber of my being, I commanded my finger to move.
But it didn't. I couldn't do it. I stood there threateningly, not lowering the gun, while Jack pleaded with me. I racked my brain for something, anything to make this work. Then I knew – there was one thing I could do.
I turned the gun around, put it to my temple, and with no hesitation, pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. I pulled it again. Nothing. Again and again and again. While Jack's screams transformed into confusion, I let the gun drop to the floor, and Lucy walked back into the room.
"Paul," she said, as if she were not talking to her husband, but rather to a naughty child, "I found that a few days ago. I didn't know what you were going to do with it, or even if you were going to do anything, but I got rid of all the bullets."
I didn't even really hear the words – I just understood them through what felt to me like a thick haze over my eyes and ears. I fell to my knees, then realized I was sobbing uncontrollably.
Jack looked at each of us, bewildered at the events of the last minute. His head turned back and forth several times, eyes never becoming even slightly narrower. Finally, snapping just barely out of his shock, he stumbled backwards and fled down the stairs. For that moment I could've felt some measure of joy – he was frightened and running, not grinning. Still, I know Jack. He'd just go home, compose himself, and go get drunk like he was still in college. This moment, like the rest of his life, would carry no consequences for him.
"Paul. Paul. I understand what, and I know you don't believe me, but I still love you."
I still love you, she said. Like I'd done something wrong. Like somehow, witnessing this cleared her slate, left her in a position of moral superiority. I ceased my sobbing for one moment, grabbed the gun, pointed it at her, and pulled the trigger. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.