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“Don’t worry about me, darling,” Wesley kissed the top of my head. I was perched on the couch, watching him move about our high-class apartment with a pit of dread in my stomach. “I just have an errand to run for Mr. Fisk and I will be back in an hour or two. It’s routine.” He leaned over the back of the couch so our faces were mere centimeters away from each other. “No need to worry.”
“I have a bad feeling about tonight.” He pecked my lips a few times.
“You’re being silly. I’ll be fine.”
“What do you have to do?” His eyes went dark.
“You know I can’t tell you that.” Immediately, I regretted opening my mouth. Wesley didn’t like talking about his job. All I knew about it was that he worked for Wilson Fisk. I’d met Mr. Fisk a few times and Wesley trusted him, so I trusted him. But that vicarious trust didn’t stop me from worrying. Something told me I would never stop worrying.
“I’m sorry. I know.” Wesley’s eyes moved down to my stomach. I was six months along in my pregnancy. My belly was much bigger now than it used to be, but I wasn’t nostalgic for my old form. My stomach was a symbol of my love for Wesley. It was a child; a beautiful, perfect combination of our genetics. It was life.
“I have to go. Will you be alright here by yourself?”
“I’ll be fine,” I assured him. He straightened back up and turned to leave, but I grabbed his hand. “Please be careful.” He turned and shot me a reassuring smile, grabbed his suit jacket, and walked out the door.
I stared at it for a few moments, half expecting him to walk back through. He didn’t.
I tried to busy myself with my phone and the TV, but nothing could tear my attention away from the pit in my stomach. Call it mother’s intuition. After about an hour, I got fed up with the television and turned to a book, but that was even less effective. Eventually, I resorted to just turning the radio on as loud as I could without receiving any noise complaints. The music was pretty good at keeping my thoughts at bay.
I wasn’t sure how long I laid there, on the couch, just tapping my foot on the arm and rubbing my belly, but it must have been a few hours. When even that got old, I got a glass of water from the kitchen and wandered into our bedroom. I found one of his old long sleeve shirts, wrapped myself up in it, and fell into an uneasy sleep.
I awoke to a knock on the door. That soft, subtle sound was more than enough to jolt me out of my slumber. I checked everywhere for a sign of Wesley having been there at all, but there was nothing. Checking the peephole first, of course, I opened the door.
It was Wilson Fisk.
I was well aware of the fact that I looked terrible. I had slept only a little, and poorly at that. I was wearing Wesley’s clothes. My hair was probably a nest. No, what really shocked me was how terrible Fisk looked. He was exhausted. He looked like the weight of the world had been placed on his shoulders and he couldn’t bear it for another second.
“Mister Fisk,” I stated. “Please, come in.” I held the door open for him to pass through, but he just shook his head.
“No, no, I shouldn’t.”
“Please do, sir. If you don’t mind, I’d rather like to sit back down.”
“Yes, of course,” he nodded uncomfortably, looking from my stomach to my face and giving me his arm to help me. I didn’t really need it, but it was a polite gesture.
“Thank you for your help, sir,” I smiled warmly once I was settled back on the couch.
“Please, call me Wilson.” His gruff voice should have been off-putting, but it was oddly homey.
“Alright, Wilson.”
“I came here with bad news,” Fisk began, not looking me directly in the eye. My warm smile morphed into a tense frown. “Terrible news. An atrocity has been committed.” All of my hair stood on end. A chill shot down my spine. The pit in the bottom of my stomach restated its dominance. Wilson’s face twisted up like he was trying to keep from crying and also from breaking everything in sight. It was in that moment that I knew.
I knew.
Wesley hasn’t been home. My terrible feeling.
“No,” I shook my head. “No, no, no, no, no!” Realization gripped my guts and threatened to tear me apart.
“He’s dead,” Wilson whispered.
“No!” Tears streamed down my face. I didn’t even realize when I started crying, but I did realize when the snot made it hard to breathe. I was gagging, gasping, reaching out for something to hold onto.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. This is all my fault. I’m so sorry.” Wilson wasn’t crying, but the pain on his face was enough to tell me he wanted to.
“Wesley!” I cried out to him, to the man that I loved with every little piece of my soul, but he was gone.
“I’m going to find the bastard that did this,” Wilson assured me. Most people would have attempted to comfort me physically, but I was grateful he did not. The touch of his large, pale hand surely would have made the tears unstoppable.
“Good.” I muttered, trying my best to get the words out. “Make that fucker hurt.”
“I promise they will regret the day they were born.” Slowly and gently as if he were afraid of breaking me, Wilson Fisk rose from my couch and walked out the door. I got up and twisted the bolt after him. The apartment suddenly seemed far too big.
Wesley’s gone. I’m never going to see him again. I’m never going to hear the sound of his voice or feel the brush of his skin on mine. No one’s ever going to wear his pants. He’s never going to see his child.
I felt the loss tear through my entire body. Never had I ever felt this incomplete. Without my James, how could I ever be whole again? Slowly, with the same steady tears, I slid to the floor. His shirt was still on my arms. His scent was still in my nose. But he was gone.