James doesn’t call, and he wonders if Michael’s disappointed. All he’s been able to think about since the conversation in the bar is how Michael feels and why he’s been doing this. He wonders if Michael realizes how much he’s destroying him, and if Michael’s got genuine enough feelings for him to justify that, or whether he just severely misjudged the Irishman. He doubts the latter but he rejects the former, the idea of Michael doing more than just lusting after him too difficult to comprehend, especially with the feelings it evokes.
He’s lain out on his bed wearing another sweater Anne bought him. It makes him feel a little closer to her, because he loves her no matter what he’s done. It makes him feel a little less guilty, too. James is re-reading what little is left of his script just so they can perfect the intense scenes he’s still got to film with Michael. Every time he thinks about them, James feels like his chest is in a vice and he can’t breathe. He’s so anxious that he’s not even sure he can channel it into a good performance in front of the camera.
His reading is interrupted by a knock at the door. Taking his time, James puts the script down and goes to answer the door, expecting room service, except there’s no one there. He looks up and down the hall, but there’s no sign of anyone. Rolling his shoulders, James shrugs to himself and shuts the door again, glancing down as he does so and seeing a letter on the floor. It’s got his name on it in handwriting he recognizes. Swallowing dryly, James returns to the bed, sitting on the end of it and flicking the paper open.
It’s from Michael, as he knew it would be. He knew the second he saw it, before he saw the memorable writing, before it clicked that the only person he knew on the long hallway who could disappear from view before he got to the door was two doors down, in a room he was in no rush to visit again soon.