Page 211 of Darling Venom
We dove into these chapters. When we worked, Terry transformed. He became animated. Less depressed. And sober.
Very sober.
I hadn’t seen him drunk since the day I’d asked him to help me with Darling Venom. Even after he broke down his first time reading the manuscript. It was uncomfortable to see such a combative man crumble. Like witnessing your dad crying for the first time.
By the time we finished for the night, we’d gravitated to Kellan’s room to capture the setting of the penultimate chapter. Aches stretched all over my body from hovering over the pages.
I fought off hunger, accepting the chapters Terry slid my way.
He watched as I slipped them into my messenger bag and closed the flap. “Do you think it’s okay?”
I’d come to realize self-doubt in Terrence Marchetti wasn’t as rare as I’d thought. He masked it with snark and addictions, but the more I looked, the more I saw someone lost and seeking direction.
Unfortunately for him, I was the only one willing to give it. And well, I didn’t exactly have my shit together, either. Certainly not enough to help someone four decades older than me.
“I sold the manuscript.”
There was a beat of silence.
Disbelief? Anger? Shock?
All the above?
Then Terry punched his fist above him, whooping like his favorite team just scored a goal. “To a Big Five?”
I bit my lip, hiding a smile. “Yeah.”
“My boy.” He shook his head. “My boy, my boy, my boy. A published author. Wow.” He paused. “His name will be on it?”
“Of course.”
“Nice and big?”
“Bigger than the title. I included the clause in the contract.”
“In several countries?”
“Shopping the sub-rights as we speak.”
“My boy,” he whispered again, and I realized, not for the first time, that when Terry was passionate and soft, he transformed into a man worth looking up to.
“I can see why he admired you.”
Terry froze. “He didn’t. At least not in the end.”
“He never stopped. I was there. On the roof. And while I never understood why he idolized you, beyond the fact that you fathered him, I think I understand it now. Yeah, you’re rough around the edges… but you’re also talented, obsessed with your craft, and oddly soft, like under-baked cookie dough.”
His cheeks turned ruddy, but he coughed, playing it cool. “Bad for your health?”
“Was that all you got from that?”
“I ignored the rest because I’m holding on to hope that you’re not as delusional as you sound.”
“Or maybe you’re not the monster you think you are. Maybe you’re not the fraud you think you are, either. Are you afraid to accept that?”
“Don’t tell me you’re as naïve as my boy.”
“It’s the truth.”
