“Crippling is a bit much. I like to think I’m sort of dabbling in depression.”
“And how many times have you cried while listening to the same Leland Barlow breakup song in the past twenty-four hours?”
“Fair point.”
Jules smacks the Oreos against his chest without breaking stride. Then she shoots him a sideways glance, almost like she’s searching for evidence of his epic cryfest in the shower three hours ago—and again in the Lyft on the way to the hotel ballroom to pick up his contestants. Her eyes fall to his outfit. He’s wearing his standard first-night uniform: cargo shorts with deep pockets, a T-shirt—black, to mask the pit stains—comfortable shoes to get him through a twelve-hour shoot. “You look like an Indian Kevin James in an ‘after’ weight-loss photo.”
He puts on his charming Fun Dev smile and plays along with this little game. She’s wearing corduroy overalls and a Paramore concert T-shirt with her giant Doc Martens, a fanny pack across the front of her chest like a sash, and her thick hair in its usual topknot. Jules Lu is every twenty-four-year-old LA transplant with mountains of student debt, settling for something less than her delusions of Greta Gerwig grandeur. “You look like the sad old person at a Billie Eilish concert.”
She flips him off with both hands while walking backward through the security gate. They both flash their badges to the guard before immediately having to dart to avoid a golf cart carrying two set runners. They skirt the jib, which captures establishing shots from twenty feet up, and run directly into the first assistant director, who accosts them with pink revised call sheets. Dev has always been a little bit in love with the chaos and the magic of the first night of filming.
Jules rudely slams him back into reality. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” she asks. By “it” she clearly means his breakup three months ago and the fact that he’s about to see his ex for the first time since they divided up their assets, Ryan taking the PS5 and the apartment and all the real furniture, Dev keeping the Disney collectible mugs and the DVD box sets. “It” being the fact that Dev has to work side by side with Ryan for the next nine weeks.
Talking about “it” is the last thing Dev wants, so he stuffs three Oreos into his mouth. Jules tilts her head and stares up at him. “I’m here for you, you know. If like…” But she doesn’t finish the sentence, can’t fully commit to her offer of emotional support. Instead, she reverts to their usual teasing. “You let me know when you’re ready for a rebound. I’ve got at least four dudes at my gym I could set you up with.”
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t pretend like you’ve ever stepped foot in a gym.”
She punches his arm. “I’m trying to be a good friend, asshole.”
Jules is a great friend, but you don’t just rebound from a six-year relationship, and the thought of dating again makes him want to crawl back into bed for another three months. He doesn’t want to go on awkward first dates with fit, well-groomed, West Hollywood queer men who won’t be able to look past his scrawny physique, his Costco-brand jeans, and his very uncool prescription glasses.
He thought he was done with first dates.
“I think I’m going to take a man-sabbatical,” he tells Jules with rehearsed indifference as they continue their march toward Command Central. “Just focus on scripting other people’s love stories.”
Jules detours them by the crafty table for cold-brew refills. “Yeah, well, you’re going to have your work cut out for you this season. Have you met Mr. Charming yet?”
“No, but he can’t possibly be as bad as he sounds in the group chat.”
“He’s worse.” She claps her hands together to dramatically punctuate each word. “He. Is. A. Disaster. Skylar says he’s season-ruining. Career-ruining.”
Dev would be more concerned if Skylar Jones weren’t always apocalyptic on the first night of filming. “Skylar thinks every season will be our last. I highly doubt Charles Winshaw is going to topple a twenty-year franchise. And Twitter is sufficiently twitterpated about the casting.”