Charlie sits up abruptly. “Yeah? Aren’t you supposed to say something to make me feel better?”
“I’m not sure there’s any way to spin what just happened. I can’t believe you said puzzing.”
“So you admit this entire thing was your fault, then? For the bastardization of the word puzzle?”
“I admit to no such thing.”
Charlie releases a puff of air that almost sounds like a laugh. Dev keeps rubbing his back. “Do you think Daphne hates me now?” he asks, like he cares about the answer. Like he cares about Daphne. Dev’s chest tightens with hope.
“I think Daphne is a kindhearted person who just wants you to open up to her,” Dev says, “to be yourself with her. Why didn’t you tell her the stuff you told me while we were puzzing?”
“I don’t know. It’s easier with you.” Charlie nudges his shoulder against Dev’s and leaves it there. It’s knees under the Junipers table; it’s shaking hands on night one. For someone who hates touching, Charlie Winshaw is always leaning in and not leaning away. He smells like risotto and the organic oatmeal body wash Dev sees in the shower, and Dev doesn’t really want to lean away either.
“What the fuck?” Ryan comes stomping outside with Jules right behind him. “Charles, get back out there. We need to reshoot that entire conversation!”
“He needs a minute.”
“Well, it’s been a minute, and now he needs to stop being such a head case and get back to his date.”
Charlie visibly shrinks. “I’m sorry.”
And Dev just snaps. “You’re being an insensitive dick right now, Ryan.”
Everything goes silent. Then Jules inserts her tiny body between Ryan and Dev. “Why don’t I take Charlie to get his makeup fixed?” she says calmly. Charlie shoots Dev one last look before the pair vanishes, and then it’s just Ryan and Dev. Alone. For the first time since the breakup.
He’s been so busy coaching Charlie, he hasn’t had time to think about his own problems, but now they’re standing right in front of him: five feet nine inches of Dev’s insecurities in human form.
“What the hell?” Ryan seethes. “You can’t talk to me like that in front of the talent.”
“You can’t talk to my talent like that,” Dev rages right back. “He’s not a head case.”
Ryan snorts and folds his arms across his chest. “Look, I’ll give it to you, D. You’ve done more with him in two weeks than I could have, so I’m glad it’s you and not me, but”—Ryan squares his shoulders—“the dude is crazy, and it’s total bullshit that we have to deal with his antics because Maureen made a bad casting choice.”
“Jesus, Ryan, he’s not crazy because he sometimes needs a minute to collect himself. Did you think I was crazy?”
Ryan drops his hands to his hips. “What?”
“When we were together, all those days I couldn’t get out of bed… did you think I was crazy?”
Dev needs Ryan to admit this is such a shitty thing to say. He needs Ryan to recognize why it is so personally offensive to Dev to hear his ex-boyfriend of six years casually call a man crazy—why it makes Dev feel infinitesimal and defensive and angry. He needs Ryan to apologize.
Ryan rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. You know I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t be so sensitive.”
Dev feels flattened. One-dimensional. A cardboard cutout of himself. He stares at Ryan and tries to figure out how he spent six years thinking he and Ryan were a perfect fit.
“What’s your deal with this guy, anyway?” Ryan asks. “Are you into Charles?”