Mark doesn’t say anything, and Charlie knows he’s supposed to keep talking to fill the silence, but he didn’t script this part. It was too hard to sit across from Parisa and imagine telling her about the voicemails, about the imagined conversations with Dev, about walking into rooms and still expecting him to be there. That despite all the evidence to the contrary, he truly believed he could reach out for Dev and hold on.
“The thing is, sometimes this show—and I mean no offense, Mark. You know how much I’ve grown to love Ever After. But sometimes this show makes you believe a relationship can help you fix yourself. As much as I grew over the course of the show, that growth was dependent on Dev, and when he left, I realized my happiness can’t be contingent on another person. I’ve been learning how to be healthy on my own, and wherever he is, I hope Dev’s doing the same thing.”
“If you could talk to Dev again, though,” Mark goads, leaning across his chair. “What would you say to him?”
“I… I don’t think I can talk to Dev again,” Charlie says. It’s the kind of honesty that surprises him, the kind of honesty that leaves him breathless. All he does is talk to Dev in his mind, but the idea of seeing him again—the idea of learning to say goodbye again—hurts too much. “It would be too hard to talk to him. I think maybe Dev and I are two people who were meant to enter each other’s lives very briefly. We weren’t meant to have a happily ever after, but that doesn’t mean the happiness we had was any less important or any less real. I think—”
Behind him, a producer is yelling, and Charlie breaks off, thinking they’re finally going to commercial break. Maybe he’ll finally have two minutes to rush behind the risers and cry in private, because no matter how honest you’re trying to be, some things should only belong to you.
Skylar doesn’t call cut, though, and the producers keep screaming, keep cursing at a volume the studio microphones will definitely pick up. When Charlie turns toward the sound of the commotion, he sees someone rushing onto the stage. For a moment he’s terrified. While most people responded to his season with an outpouring of love, there are still some dangers to being a queer person who discusses their mental illness on the internet, even for extremely privileged white men like him. He knows Angie and Daphne both had to deal with much worse after the show aired.
“Well, this isn’t quite how we planned to do this,” Mark says with an edge of annoyance as he studies the man on set. The gate-crasher stops on the edge of the platform, and Charlie squints through the studio lights, sees black skinny jeans and a ridiculously oversize jean jacket.
It’s Dev.
Dev
I don’t think I can talk to Dev again.
That’s what Charlie said. That’s what Dev feared. As he got on a plane, as he sat in the backseat of a town car on the way to the studio, as he sat in a greenroom watching the man he loves talk about how happy he is now without him. Why would Charlie want to talk to Dev again? After everything, why would Charlie ever want to see him?
Charlie said those words—I don’t think I can talk to Dev again—and Dev stormed out of the greenroom. Part of him wanted to run outside and call a Lyft. He ended up onstage instead.
He’s never been on this side of things before. This side of things is horrifying.
The lights are too hot and too bright. Dev squints, trying to adjust. The audience is painted in shadows, and he stumbles two steps forward, freezes. Skylar is just off camera, swearing at him.
The audience reacts to Dev’s unexpected presence with a collective gasp, and Charlie slowly rises from the couch. He looks different. His hair is shorter in the front, and he’s lost some weight, but it’s more than that. It’s the way he stands, so confidently, so unshakable, so certain of what to do with his arms.
They are thirty feet apart, separated by the glossy studio floor and two months of memories and three months of not talking.