You’re the father of my baby. I’m starting to care for you in a way I never dreamed I could. I’m falling, and I don’t know how to stop it, so please, please, don’t walk away from me.
But nothing comes out.
Finally, in the most important moment of my life, in the peak of all this insanity, I finally see the truth about myself.
I’m a coward.
I’m a pathetic, worthless coward.
Baptist walks into the hall and I realize I have the power to stop this the whole time, but I can’t bring myself to say the words.
To tell him the truth.
Because that would mean admitting it to myself, and how can I do that, when I’m so convinced that I’m not worth it?
I hurry after him, tears in my eyes. I can speak up at any moment and tell him what I’m feeling but once I start, I know he’ll hear everything, the full, ugly truth, and he’ll hate me, but at least it’ll stop this.
He won’t hate me for falling for him—but for lying to him about the baby. For keeping it from him as we’ve gotten closer and closer over the last few weeks.
Because I know the truth. I know what he wants me to admit.
We’re falling for each other and it’s sickeningly beautiful, because it’s something I don’t think we can ever have.
He’ll hate me when he finds out the truth.
But what’s worse? Letting him do this, or letting him despise me?
He reaches Rodrick’s door and bangs on it hard. He pounds and pounds until it finally yanks open, revealing Cowan, looking annoyed. “We were just in the middle of a fucking rehearsal,” he says, storming back inside.
Baptist follows him. I go after them, trying to come up with something to say. I hold the script up and Cowan catches my eye, and a smile breaks across his face, like he just won the lottery.
The fucking snake.
Baptist stands in front of him, trembling with rage, while Rodrick’s sitting on the bed with a rubber band around his arm and the needle still lying on a book, which means we interrupted their morning dose.
“Tony, come on,” Rodrick says. “Deal with your unhappy producer later. This is more important.”
“Right you are,” Cowan says, turning back to the drugs, but Baptist grabs his shoulder and yanks him away with a snarl.
Cowan looks genuinely surprised. I’m not sure what the bastard thought would happen, but he clearly didn’t expect this.
“How did you get that manuscript?” Baptist’s voice is low and steady.
Cowan smirks and tilts his head. “What do you mean? I wrote it. Don’t you like it?”
“How, you piece of herpes-ridden garbage?”
“The magic of creativity.” Cowan laughs softly and glances at me. “Some would call it the Muse. Isn’t it magical?”
“Why?” Baptist whispers, his hands balled into fists. “Why, you bastard?”
“Because I wanted to.” Cowan’s voice is soft and smooth as silk.
Baptist slams his fist into Cowan’s face. His knuckles connect with the old man’s nose with a sickening crunch and blood spurts down his mouth and stains the front of his shirt in a warm gush. He staggers back, groaning, covering his face with both hands, trying to stem the bleeding. Baptist walks to him as if in a dream and cocks his arm back, ready to hit him again.
When Rodrick throws himself forward with a scream.
The two men tangle into each other. I shout at them and try to break them up, but as Baptist jerks his arm back, he bashes his elbow into my eye.