You (2018–…): Season 1, Episode 3 - Maybe - full transcript

Beck isn't certain that Joe is The One, so he sets out to prove he's boyfriend material; balancing this important time in their blossoming relationship with the tricky maneuvers he's been ...

Previously on You...

Everyone just calls me Beck.

And you're Joe?


A guy needs to protect himself.

And your name
was a glorious place to start.

The next thing our little friend
the Internet gave me was your address.

- ...we could get a drink sometime?
- Sure.

Hey. Let me up.

God, you make me insane.

Beck, who is this?

Benjamin J. Ashby.
Greenwich-born, boarding-school bred.

- After you.
- All right.

Hey, man, I'm thinking maybe...

Do not tell me that you're doing this
because of Beck.

I'm very scared
of what you would do to her.

She show you her ladle?
She's got this red kitchen ladle.

It's a whole call-you-daddy,
spank-me thing.

Benji, I'd love your help.

Unfortunately, I know
you're a pathological liar.

I just knew Benji was
the worst kind of poison.

So I did what I had to do to help you.

Play one of the best new FPS shooters,
search Steam for PROJECT WARLOCK

It's been three days
since our first kiss.

I have to say, things are looking
pretty good for us, post-Benji.

If you could only watch one movie
for the rest of your life,

- what would it be?
- Beverly Hills Cop.

- Really?
- Yeah, dead serious.

Okay, I'll bite. Enlighten me.

Well, it's funny,
but the danger feels very real.

It checks all the boxes.

- What's yours? What's your forever movie?
- Mmm.

I have to go with Pretty in Pink.

Invisible townie girl
swept off her feet

by the one guy who really sees her?

It's a little on the nose, Beck.

I love that movie.

I'll be that guy. The one who sees you.
You deserve that after Benji.


your old girlfriend,

that girl at Peach's party
was talking about,

Candace, is it?

It's customary,
the inventory of past heartbreak.

- Do I want to know?
- But Candace.

I'm not sure
how to tell you about her yet.

It's too soon, Beck.

I mean, I'm an open book.
But it's the old story.

Just thinking you're right for someone,

and you're not.

Hmm. I got about a dozen of those.

- Hmm.
- Maybe sometime over a drink.

Or ten.

- Yeah.
- Ten?

Ten. Ten, give or take.

I want to come in. I do.
But I'm gonna make us wait.

You're worth waiting for. Besides...


Right now, I have something
rather pressing to deal with.

"Grab and go"? Really?
"Townie pie"? What the...

You're dead to me, Benji. Dead.

You're finally moving on.

And now that you've dealt with Benji,
it's time for me to do the same.

How exactly does one get rid of a body?

I can't just google this kind of thing

without creating
a pretty damning evidence trail.

So, I turn to those I trust most for tips.
King, Carr, Franzen, Flynn.

Fun fact: spatchcocking a chicken
and dismembering a human

involve the same six essential steps.

Not sure I'm down for that.
Little intense.

But I think I finally have a plan
for Benji.

Hey, Joe. I didn't know you were up there.

Do you mind
if I play some Enrique Iglesias?

I'm trying to bone up on my Spanish.

- Officially the darkest days...
- Sounds great.

- the world's history.
- I could pick something else.

I got a ton of playlists on here.
I got rock music, club music, jazz music.

I wonder if he's a virgin.

Stick with the Iglesias.

I'll be in the basement
working on some books.

I don't want to be disturbed. All right?

No problem. Thanks, Joe.

Here's what I know.

There can be no dead Benji
for you to mourn.

He needs to disappear.

Already handled the optics
on social media.

Portrait of a dude
hard-partying his way off the grid.

As for the body,

cremation seems expedient.

This will require chemicals,
a steady blaze,

and absolutely no dental records.

Yeah. It looks like I'm gonna need to
slow the biological roll on Benji.

It's about temperature
and it's about humidity.

And dropping the temp this low
puts the books at risk.

Dry, brittle, lost forever.

My humidifiers won't let that happen.

Gertrude Stein is dead.
She's not coming back to sign books.

Hopefully, this holds him
until I can man up and do the deed.

Come in.

Hi, there. I'm Guinevere Beck.

I'm your new MFA transfer.

Professor Leahy and I agreed
that it would be better...

Sorry. I'm looking for Professor Mott?

Beck, is it?

- Yes. Hi.
- Blythe.

- I heard you were joining us.
- Oh. Yeah.

We meet here for workshop
on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

Mott's no Leahy, though,
so bring your A game.

I intend to. You know, I actually...

I read one of your essays
in the Review last month,

and it was so illuminating.
I mean, I tweeted it.

Social media.
It's like the next great genocide.

Jersey, right?

- Sorry?
- That's where you're from?

No, I'm from Nantucket.

Oh, interesting.

- Where are you from?
- Such a tough question.

Um, I was born in Papua New Guinea,

but my dad worked
for the State Department,

so we moved around a lot.

I actually separated from my parents
at one point.

Did some modeling in Tokyo.

My hair's super unique there.

I'm sorry.
It's my grandparents.

I'll see you in class, okay?

- Okay.
- Okay.

Hey. Yeah?

And then she walked away,
and I melted into the earth.

Sounds like a pretentious bitch,
if you ask me.

No. Blythe's amazing.

She wrote this piece
about how she and her mother

got bulimia together while in Italy.
And she was 12.

- Chic.
- What the... Is that a nose?

It's a dick pic, Annika.

- See? Look. It's just zoomed in.
- No. No.

Why is it against shag carpet?

- I don't know. Perspective?
- I don't get it.

I mean, why do men think
disembodied members equal foreplay?

- They're not aesthetically pleasing.
- Ooh, I disagree.

I have over 200 saved on my phone,
organized by category.

It's my Guggenheim.

I got fat bats, boomerangs, banana boats,

late bloomers and Jewish guys.

More power to 'em,

but your friends kind of treat sex
like it means nothing.

Junk in zoom.

- But you're different, aren't you?
- Why am I not surprised?

Honestly, I see her point.
I hooked up with some guy last night.

Knee-deep in before I realize
he's uncircumcised.

It kind of looked like,
I don't know, a hoodie?

- Whoa!
- Bookstore clerk has a turtleneck?

Bookstore manager. But no, not Joe.

Some guy from Tinder.
Just a little down and dirty, you know?

- Wow.
- Joe is still a maybe.

A "maybe"? I'm a "maybe"?

And you're still screwing other guys?

How did I miss this?
How did I read this so completely wrong?

Look, if you want
to bone Benji out of your system,

more power to you.

I just want to make sure
that you're respecting yourself.

Look, I'm just saying...

are you being
your most amazing self right now?

I mean, this is... This is my process.

It's like a Benji exorcism.

I'm just exploring my options
in a city of eight million people.

- It's only reasonable, right?
- Yeah.

I'm gonna get a drink.

I like your tattoo.

I don't have a tattoo.

Love is patient and kind.
And so am I, Beck.

For you, I can be patient.
Maybe this is your process.

Nobody buys the first pair of jeans
they try on, no matter how perfect.

But as much as I'm hoping
this is just a stage,

a quick password search
on your iCloud has revealed

a swipe-fest of millennial man-boys.

Guy with tiger.
Junior William Morris agent.

Viking wannabe.
You've been a busy girl, Beck.

It's more competition than I realized.

This thing between us, it's new, tenuous.
And the cost was a corpse.

But I can't get rid of every guy
in New York.

If I want to win your heart,
I'm gonna have to show you.

I'm not a "maybe." I'm the one.

It's time.

Time to get rid of Benji, so I can focus
my undivided attention on you, Beck.

On us.

So, I'm gonna need a few supplies.

Hey, Joe. You said you needed to talk?

I do, yeah. So, here's the thing.

I have a secret project I'm working on,
but I got to open up the shop.

So, I thought you could
run some errands for me.

I'll give you a little money for books?
Just between us.

Yeah. No problem. Between us.
What do you need?

Well, you might have to run
to a few different places.

You can count on me, Joe.

Thanks, Pac.

"The swine and I

Eye to eye

My heart is his

And that was sunset"

I'm not sure it had the vigilance or depth
that you're capable of.

I just wasn't fully invested.

Interesting, Blythe.

How do we maintain the reader's attention?

We infuse the universal
with painful specificity.

- Or they simply turn the page.
- Exactly.

My worst fear, and I'm not commenting
on Yuri's poem, per se,

is not to be bad, but unremarkable.

Unremarkable. That is the fear.

I hope this was helpful, Yuri?

I think that does it for today.

Next up is Blythe. And Beck.

Send a piece of your choosing
to myself and your fellow classmates,

and we'll review on Thursday.


Here's what I've gleaned from
this little exercise in futility, Beck.

You're in no mood to write.

And you need a new bed.

So, hey, maybe your enthusiastic
but ultimately empty encounter

with that Warby Parker-wearing mixologist
could work to our advantage.

I've got time to kill
while Paco's shopping.

You read my mind.

But I have to play this perfectly.

And in order to do that,
I got to break out the big gun.

Mr. Mooney's Buick Skylark.

You bound down the stairs in those tight,
not-too-tight jeans.

You're in flip-flops
and your toenails sparkle,

and your hair is in a bun,

and at least you don't have any hickies,
so there's that.

Oh, my God!
I can't believe this is your car!

Uh, you're a life-saver.

You have no idea
how much I need a new bed.

New challenge.

How do I segue this
from browsing glassware

to, "Holy shit! Joe's the one"?


I have one just like this.

Yeah, I know all about it.
Benji told me.

It was my dad's.

The infamous red ladle.
How you like to be spanked with it.

Is that what you really want, Beck?

Is that the guy you're looking for?

Just pick one.

It's all cut
from the same hunk of over-priced wood.

I can't decide.

People trying to buy
some sort of meaning in their lives

with $60 candles and sustainable lamps.

I mean, they all look pretty good to me.

No. I just mean, should I get the queen-
or the king-sized bed?

Your bedroom isn't big enough
to fit a king.

You're right. It's too...

How do you know that?

It's New York. No one's bedroom
is big enough to fit a king.

What's wrong?

This girl, Blythe, in workshop.
She just submitted her short story.


And I haven't even started mine,
and it's due tomorrow.



It's brilliant.

It's about a crow
that flies into a woman's house,

runs into the walls
and leaves blood everywhere.

That sounds terrible.

Read it.


You might be right.

I know.

Can I ask you something?


Promise to tell the truth?

Scout's honor.

Do you think I'm unremarkable?

Unremarkable people don't worry
about being unremarkable.

This is it, Beck.
This is the moment.

I'm gonna show you
just how remarkable you are.

You want it down and dirty? You got it.

- Stop! Stop! Stop!
- What? I thought that you...

That I wanted to get arrested

for you going all bush diver on me
in public?

It's not exactly on my to-do list today.

I guess I read that wrong.

You haven't made eye contact
for the past ten minutes.

Things couldn't get any worse right now.


Hey, Joe. It's Ethan.

- Ethan from the bookstore.
- Yeah.

Yeah, I know who you are, Ethan.

Right. Thing is, the power's out.

Um, the electrician says
he thinks the system is overloaded,

but he can't
get to the fuse box because...

It's in the basement
with a dead body.

...which is locked.

He thinks he can pop the lock,
but I just wanted to, you know...

No! No, no, no.

Just tell the electrician to go home.
I'll call him later.

You lock up and go home.

I'll deal with it when I get back,
all right?


Everything okay?

Yeah, it's fine.
It's just a little problem at the shop.

I should get you home.

I was afraid this might happen.
Six humidifiers

and an AC unit from the late '70s
cranked to its lowest setting.

Even in death,
Benji is a colossal pain in my ass.

Okay. With the AC out,

seems deterioration speed's
really picked up.


Is that ooze?

Things have grown biologically dire
in the Benji department.

Also, the rare book department.

But I can't protect them
until I get rid of him.

Benji has to go.

Hey, what're you up to?

Do you happen to read Chinese?

Or own a mallet?

The books are safe.
Basement is 100% corpse-free.

Can't burn the body
in the daylight, anyway.

So, the least Benji can do
is wait in the car for a little while.

- All right. Ready for that.
- Ready? Okay.

Okay, let go for a second.

- Okay.
- Yeah.

- It's in the peg!
- Okay.

- Hand me the mallet.
- Yeah.

Should be good.

- Can you do that? That's perfect.
- Ready?

There it is! Go!

Say when.

When. When. When.

Cheers to us.

You make a good apprentice.

I was gonna say the same thing about you.

I'm sorry about earlier.
I didn't mean to get so upset.

It's okay.

No. It's not. It's just...

I don't want you to think of me like that.

I like you, Joe.

Like, actually like.

And I was a little in my head,
to be honest.

Blythe's short story
kind of threw me for a loop.

It's not a competition.

I know, but I wonder...

Am I ever gonna write anything
that amazing?

- You're talented.
- You don't know that.

I know you need to get out of your head.

Forget Blythe. This Blythe person.

Forget everybody.
Just write what you want.

God. Everyone says that like it's so easy.

I know. I know. Okay, so...

Pop quiz.

Don't think.

- Just answer.
- Okay.

What hits you like a gut punch,
when you... The first thought.

My dad.

Before he...

Yeah, right.

Of course.

He was an addict.

It was hard.

And scary.

I mean, there were good days, too.

Like, I always knew
it was gonna be one of those

when I woke up
to the smell of pancakes cooking.

He used this red ladle
to scoop up the batter.

This is the red ladle story?

And I would be laughing,
singing along to some bad Top 40 song.

When everything would be right.

But then he'd go out and...

the ladle would go back in the drawer...

and I'd wait for the next good day.

Until there weren't any more.


I did not expect to say all that.

I think you're right.

You definitely don't have
anything meaningful to write about.


Benji was wrong about all of it.

His whole red ladle story.
You don't want to be spanked.

You want to feel safe. Loved.

You want someone to make pancakes for you.


Um... Hold that thought.
I'll be right back.


- Is everything okay?
- No.

- Thank God you're here.
- Peach.

- I texted you.
- I should've known.

I'm having a really bad flare-up.

I think I need you to take me
to the emergency room.

Oh, Joseph. Didn't realize you were here.

I told you he was coming.

Peach is really sick.

I mean, this is probably more
than you need to know,

but I have a rare chronic bladder disease
called interstitial cystitis.


I mean, you know,
some people think I'm being uppity,

but I can't have any fast food.

And if I drink, it has to be a high pH,

you know, like Ketel One,
or Goose and pear juice.

Weren't you doing Jäger shots
at your party?

- Let's get you to the hospital.
- Yeah.

Joe has a car. He can take us.
Right, Joe? You can take us?

Of course.

I mean, I've got a dead body in the
trunk, but, hey, no biggie, right?

This is taking forever.

He took the worst street
to get across town.

Be nice.

I'm in real pain.

I'm sorry.

- Joseph.
- Yeah.

I'm feeling nauseated.
Can you crack a window?

There's like a sort of putrid aroma
that keeps wafting in the back seat.

What can I say? Smells of the city.

Oh, God. I can't deal. I can't deal!

We'll walk. Need to get out of this.

I'm so sorry.

It's almost the witching hour.

Grab the supplies,
drive the narcissistic cadaver,

formerly known as Benji,
to his final destination,

light a match,
and I'm yours forever, Beck.

Well, this is a development.

That's him.

"Potassium nitrate.
Six rolls of duct tape.

Fire starter. Twine. Burlap. Wood stakes."

You want to explain what all this is for?

Explain the shopping list straight
out of Body Disposal for Dummies?

I know.

I know how this all must look.

I know involving Paco
was the wrong thing to do,

but things have been
a little crazy for me lately.

I guess I was hoping
I could make the world a better place.

You know what?
It would just be easier if I show you.

Yeah, I'll show you. Come on.

Technically, we're not allowed
to plant anything in here.

I was just trying to keep it
a bit under wraps.

And the chemicals?

They dissolve roots.

Fire starter?

I like to grill.


There you go.

- It's good.
- Thank you.

So, he built a garden. So what?

I told this guy,
stay away from my girlfriend's kid.

And what does he do? He gives him money?
For errands?

Hey, I told you,
I'm a parole officer, okay?

We see guys like this all the time.
He is a sicko. I feel it in my gut.

Will you go back inside?

Just tell your mom
I'm gonna be right there, okay, buddy?

All right. All right. All right.

The kid's got ADHD.
Tough to manage at times.

But that's what makes him vulnerable
to freaks like this.

Look, I apologize if I crossed a line.

I just noticed how hungry
Paco is all the time, you know?

I gave him a few dollars
to go to the store,

honestly, so he could
buy himself a sandwich.

I lend him books from time to time, too.
That's all.

He just seems a little neglected.

Are you kidding me right now?

I'm not saying they're unfit.
A lot of people drink.

- That's it! I...
- All right! All right!

Sorry to have taken up your time.

Good luck with the garden.

Thank you, Officer.

People. They're easy to fool.

Like these cops.

I'm the nice, straight-edge guy,
so there's nothin' to worry about.

People believe
whatever supports their worldview.

Unfortunately, that seems to
include you, Beck.

You believed you deserved Benji
and his neglect.

And you believe you deserve Peach
and her drama. And on and on.

I want to call and tell you, but I can't,

because there's
a traditional waiting period

between every goddamn communication
when you're trying to date someone.

I hate this generation.

Thank you.

Thanks for staying with me.

Honestly, I don't know
what I would've done without you.

You can always count on me.


So, what do you think about Joe?

Uh... Yeah, you know, I like him.

I think I might really like him.

I mean, I wasn't sure if I was ready
to get involved, but maybe...

Okay, you can't be serious.

I mean, the guy works at a bookstore.

Beck. Look, I know you.

You don't want to spend
your fifth anniversary

going dutch at Katz's Deli.

You need someone to take care of you.

So you can write, be free, happy.

Not someone like Joe
and his financial limitations.

That is not fair.

Nobody pays me to be fair.

What do you say we get a bite to eat?
'Cause I'm starving.

I think I better skip it.

I should really get home.
Glad you're feeling better.

Oh, no, no, no. Not now.

Okay, Beck, all right.

Hey. How's the patient?

Better. Thanks for the ride.

The doctor said it was good
that we came when we did.

Oh, yeah?

Why don't you meet me back at my place?
Maybe we can pick up where we left off?

What about Peach?

- What about her?
- Where is she now?

Indochine. It's her comfort food.

Perfect. Peach is gulping steamed
Chilean sea bass down her scrawny gullet,

and I'm about to get caught.

So, what do you think?

I think you complain
about not being able to write,

but then you, you know, drop everything
for some medical emergency,

which, by the way, many believe
to be psychosomatic in origin.

I meant about you coming over.

I wish I could. I really wish I could,

but I'm just really busy right now,
so, in fact, I should go.

Look, I know Peach showing up
was bad timing,

but I wasn't exactly writing
when she showed up.

- No, I know.
- Pro tip of the day.

Screen your calls
when you're trying to burn a body,

because it turns out, things slip out
that you didn't actually want to say.

...but, you know, you're sending
some mixed messages, right?

What is that supposed to mean?

I'm trying to do what you want,
but I can't tell what that is.

Like, build you a bed,
be with you on the bed,

drop you down the block

because your friend is asking,
and not very...

Seriously, Joe, shut up.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I have to go.


Hey! How's it going?

Good. That's one hell of a bonfire.

Yeah. What can I say?
I went a little crazy.

You know,
you're welcome to join if you like.

Please say no. Please say no.

That would be great.

But we need to get back to the car
before it gets any darker. Good luck.

- Yeah, have a good one.
- You, too.

I believe in love at first sight.
I had it with you, Beck.

And maybe, just maybe,
I destroyed it just as fast

in the space of a single phone call.

Was all this for nothing?

How may we describe
the joy of the king and queen

when they saw their daughter...

I've been calling you, Beck.

But straight to voicemail.

Worst three words in the English language.

I wonder what our kids would've been like.

They'd have grown up reading,
not glued to iPads.

And we definitely wouldn't have named them

things like Gulliver, or Blaze
or Mysti with an "I."

We would've crushed this. Together.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

Call me back, Beck.

The end.

I don't mean this
to blow smoke up your ass or anything,

but your writing makes me think
that Raymond Carver has been reincarnated.

That is so kind of you
to say, Tomas.

I was born in '88, the year he died,

so weirdly enough, you're not
the first person to have said that.

Again, great work, Blythe.
Excited to see what's next.

Beck, we weren't expecting you.
You didn't send along pages.

I know. I'm sorry.
And I'm sorry I'm late, it's just...

I wrote them, but they sounded super emo.

So I ripped them up and started over,
and I lost track of time.

But this feels like me
and what I want to say.

It's only one page, but...

That isn't really enough
for us to critique.

Are we supposed to read it now?
In front of you? That's kind of awkward.

If that's the case,
I should warn you,

I have this facial autism thing
where I can't hide what I'm thinking.

Let's just reschedule your review
for another time.



Uh, okay, so I hate to admit it,
but you were right.

A little bit.

I will do anything for my friends.
And do I hide behind them? Yeah.

And do I use them as an excuse
not to write?

Honestly, I'd use anything
as an excuse not to write because...

Okay, I'm afraid I might fail.

I'm one terrible page away from confirming
I'm the worst writer in history.

All of that to say,
if I'm sending mixed messages,

it's because I don't know who I am.

So how am I supposed to know what I want?

And I know I sound super gross,
like, so, I don't know, millennial.

Don't say anything.

In this moment, you are everything.

Here's the thing. If you know who you are,
it's not like you share it.

I mean, you're a nice guy
with the "you're remarkable" stuff,

and feelings guy
with the "write what moves you,"

but then, you try and go down on me
in the middle of a furniture store.

If I didn't know better,
I'd think you were hiding something.

For God's sakes,
why are you holding a Pendleton blanket?

I've never even seen your place,

and you never talk
about any of your friends.

I mean, who are you?

Okay, that was too much.

Um... It sounded better in my head.

I want to show you something.

You want to know me, Beck?

I'll show you exactly who I am.

This is where we keep the rarest books.

The collectibles. First editions.

It's paper, cloth, leather, paste.
It's all vulnerable.

All sensitive to light,
humidity, temperature.

That's why they need to be in here.

To protect them.

I can take you to my apartment.
Any time you want.

I want you to meet my friends. I do.
But this...

this right here, is the most
important place in the world to me.

As weird as it sounds.

These books are more alive,

more worthy than most people I know.

You want to know who I am? This is it.

There you are.

That's it. I am officially
out of the Tinder business.

- Bravo, honey.
- I just...

I feel like this is a good step, you know?

Like, this is good for me.

Joe is good for me.

Whatever you need, Becks.

I'm just saying,
and I mean this, honestly...

Maybe a simple life isn't so bad.
Maybe it's what you need.

Maybe I should be looking for that.

Joe isn't simple. He's different.


That's funny. There's a book missing.

Really? What book is that?

Ozma of Oz. No, it was just here.

Joe was looking at it at my party.

I'm sure it'll turn up.

You've deleted Tinder.

And now you've called
and asked me to come over.

My faith in our epic love story
is officially restored.

I'm sorry, Joe. I was so stupid.

I left your list on my bed,
and Ron found it. I'm sorry.

You're not stupid. It's not your fault.

I tried to explain, but...

It's not your fault.

Guys like Ron are bullies.

We just need to stay
one step ahead of them.

Like the Musketeers. Always one step ahead
of the Cardinal, right?


"One for all."

"And all for one."


Get inside.

I can smell the bourbon from here.

I told you. Leave the kid alone.

Look, you may have the cops fooled
with your bullshit tomato garden.

But I'm right.

There's something wrong with you.

I see it in your eyes.

File that away under
"future problems."

Knock, knock. You here yet?

Because tonight...

Tonight, I show you I'm the one.

You can make me pancakes later.

Did you just...

.srt Extracted, Synced and Corrected