“But,” Ryan cuts in, suddenly very awake, “we also brought in a ton of new advertisers and new viewers. Honestly, breaking the rules might be the thing that saves Ever After.”
Dev’s busy brain keeps spinning around these revelations, stacked like Jenga pieces. “What about Us Weekly? The photo of Daphne and Charlie?”
Parisa rolls her eyes. “You’ve been in this business a long time, Dev. Shouldn’t you recognize a publicity stunt when you see one?”
“Daphne is our next princess,” Jules explains, “and we need to keep her relevant in people’s minds before we make the announcement at the finale.”
Dev shoots Parisa a look. “Ever After is in transitional rebranding, but you chose vanilla Daphne Reynolds as your next star?”
The four of them all exchange weird looks. “Things with Daphne got”—Ryan searches for a vague enough word—“interesting after you left.”
“We were so sure there was no way you didn’t know about this season,” Jules cuts in. Dev thinks about his therapist, who definitely knew and respected the boundaries he set. He thinks about his parents watching in secret every Monday night. He’s not sure if he’s grateful or furious they kept this from him.
“And then I reached out to Shameem, and we discovered you’ve been living in a social-media-free hole,” Ryan continues, “and we figured we had to try to show you, to see if there is any chance you might—”
“Any chance I might what?”
“Dev,” Parisa says. “Charlie put it all on the line. He fought for a season of television that tells the truth, and the last thing the world saw was you leaving him in Macon without a word. He had his heart broken.” She sounds so hurt, and he understands it’s because he hurt the person she loves most in the world, and loving someone means carrying around their hurt, too. “But the season isn’t over. There is still the live finale, still a chance for you to make this right.”
The real reason they flew across the country is finally clear. They have a show to make, a story to wrap up, a fairy tale that needs its happy ending. Dev thinks about the season he just watched and about the Charlie-shaped sinkhole in his chest. He thinks about the house in Silver Lake, the plants by the window, Charlie in a soft sweater. He thinks about a bed where the sheets always smell like oatmeal body wash and a life that’s always filled with him. On an end table in his parents’ living room are a serving platter and bowl, flown halfway across the world by Charlie Winshaw.
Then he thinks about who he was three months ago and who he is now and who he wants to be and—
“I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
And he turns and walks out of the living room.
* * *
It’s Jules who comes, Jules who finds him sobbing into a jean jacket on his childhood bed. She sits down on the corner, and he waits for her impassioned speech about why he should risk everything to profess his love for a man on national television.
“You left me, too, you know,” she eventually says, with no sympathy and all bite. “So that sucked.”
Since he’d rather be yelled at than cajoled at the moment, he sits up and reaches for her hand.
“Jules.”
She stops him. “I don’t want you to apologize, okay? I get it. You weren’t in a healthy place, and you had to do what was right for you. And the reality of our friendship is, you always kept me at a distance. You never really let me in. I’ve been talking to my therapist about it—”
His right eyebrow shoots up.
“Yes, I have a therapist. Everyone has a fucking therapist,” she snaps. “I’m not exactly good at letting people in, either. I don’t like to be vulnerable with anyone, but I’m worried you never let me see the real you because you were afraid I wouldn’t love all of you.”