Original subtitles

Previously on "You"...

Your old phone, which I have,

is still logged into the cloud,

and that means I'm still logged into to you.

- I'm a poet. - Get off the stage.

Laugh it up.

Did you move here to be something?

I did, but it's not working out.

Do you think I'm unremarkable?

Unremarkable people don't worry

about being unremarkable.

- So good to see you, hon. - You too, Dad.

The addict part was true I see, but he never died.

He's here. He's alive.

Could be helpful to write about him.

Benji was the worst kind of poison.

The peanut allergy was real.

Guess Benji is gonna die an honest man.

Claudia and Ron.

I gotta come home to you bitching at...

- It's not okay to yell. - Grown-ups do it all the time.

Grown-ups are assholes.

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

- He seems a little neglected. - That's it, I...

All right, all right, all right.

This is a lovely collection.

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

Joe was looking at it.

I, of course, never had any intention of keeping the book.

If Peach still has a problem,

I won't let her get in the way of us, Beck.

I won't.

Good morning.

This is my favorite time of day,

when it's just the two of us.

Were you watching me sleep?

Creeper.

I love our little routine.

Always the same but never stale.

Sex...

Showers, more sex.

Breakfast, avocado salted, bacon crispy, every day.

Your father was never consistent,

and you're still healing from that, with my help.

Mmm.

Uh, do you mind if I keep working?

- I just have tons... - Eat, work.

I'll fold the laundry.

That's right, Beck, I even do your damn laundry.

I protect your time.

I let you focus on your work.

And guess what.

Now that I've made our mornings sacred,

you're actually writing.

Free of distraction.

Mostly.

...hear your bitching every night!

Ron and Claudia again?

If the goddamn dishes ever got done,

I wouldn't be stuck doing goddamn...

You watch it!

Can't you say something?

I don't like to mess with other people's lives.

Maybe you should?

Anyway, I gotta get to class.

The worst thing about our mornings?

They always end.

I pass the time by counting down

to the next moment I see you.

You're teaching me to be more patient,

and god knows I need the help when it comes to your friends.

For some reason we share our nights with your friends,

and appointment viewing like "The Bachelor."

How can self-respecting women tolerate this crap?

Sometimes, I swear, I'm the only real feminist you know.

It's either a full Brazilian, or like full bush,

and it's like,

"Listen, my snooch is the third bowl of porridge.

I mean, meet me halfway lady." It's like insane.

That's hilarious.

These girls are even more tedious in person.

Lynn is a dark cavern where conversations go to die.

- That's hilarious. - What personality she has

is only activated by low-calorie girly cocktails,

which is doubtless why she drinks so much.

Annika's decided I'm so amazing... which, true...

but joining Team Joe is just the latest move

in her cold war with queen bitch herself,

Peach goddamn Salinger.

Oh, hope you didn't start the fun without me.

Oh, we did.

Annika, thank God for that chest of yours,

otherwise you'd be spilling guac all over

that Himalayan blanket I got Beck.

So goes the endless merry-go-round of food issues.

Peach snipes at Annika's body.

Annika rubs her assets in Peach's face,

which as defense mechanisms go beats the hell out of crying.

I can get you some paper towels.

- Wait up, I need a refill. - No, no.

I got it, I'll take care of you.

No, no, it's all right, I could use the company.

Oh, this is so much more fun than girl's night classic.

You know, when it was just us girls?

Peach has it out for me.

Probably shouldn't have stolen her copy of "Oz,"

or maybe I shouldn't have returned it.

But all that's behind me, Beck.

If I just keep being the perfect boyfriend,

you'll realize that life is so much healthier

away from this toxicity.

Joseph, I was thinking about thinning out my library,

and I thought I'd ask the expert.

What's a book like this worth?

She's still trying to build a case that I'd be willing

to swipe the damn thing.

Well, it's printed by Riley in Britain.

An original, a rarity.

Mm.

Guess I better act quick, before some desperate person

tries to steal my little beauty away.

The real tragedy would be not appreciating what you have.

If I were you, I'd hold on to her forever.

But what do I know? I'm just a book store clerk.

I'm trying, Beck. I am.

But your friends bring out the worst in me.

- Scoot, scoot. - Okay.

Synced & corrected by -robtor- www.addic7ed.com

And then Rastish taught me this.

D minor. Goose bumps, babe.

Hi Joe!

This place is...

musty.

Hi! Hi!

Annika, what brings you to Mooney's?

Your website,

and the deep sadness it evokes.

I mean, did you do this in MySpace?

I've been telling Joe we need to modernize.

Joe, I have 3.6 million followers,

and I get 12k for a selfie in glasses.

But I'm willing to do Mooney's for free,

out of the kindness of my big-ass heart.

- All right, let's do it. - Yay!

If you need some authentic Russian folk vibes, I can, uh...

Thank you, but I got this.

Smart bitches get their brains juiced at Mooney's.

#stacked.

If you ever wonder what it takes to become an influencer,

specifically a body-positive Insta-celeb, be shameless.

Annika's turning her curves into an empire,

inspiring the ladies, arousing the gentlemen, everyone wins.

It would be genuinely empowering

if it weren't so clearly a rebellion against

being Peach's, quote, "Fat friend from prep school."

And what's this?

Thank you, Annika's private Facebook.

Hello nose job.

And just like that,

I know how to repay Annika for her kindness.

Annika, why the hell is this not on your Insta?

Oh my god, because it's mortifying.

I mean, I'm adorkable, but Peach.

Phew.

Lucky she is not on Facebook.

It is cute, though.

Do you run everything you post by Peach first?

Hell no.

You're right, screw it.

This is the ultimate throwback.

I just need a brilliant caption.

How about, "Bitches being our most authentic selves."

Joe, it's like you're in my brain.

No, I just know her audience.

Team Joe, one. Peach, zero.

You'd be proud of me, Beck. I'm a good friend.

Hi Allison, you wanted to see me?

Guinevere, please, sit.

I understand that some things are harder than others

to write about.

Our own families are usually the top of the list.

- I'm glad you stuck with it. - Thank you.

My lit agent's assistant just got promoted,

and may be able to connect you with some jobs for hire.

Personal essays, reviews.

I'm in. I am so in. Thank you, Allison.

I'll forward her contact info to you.

Okay.

And Beck, I was sorry to read about your father's passing.

Peach tried hard to get you for a girls' night,

but you picked me.

Joe, two. Peach, bupkis.

Whoa!

I think you might be a little overdressed for sushi.

No, no, you're underdressed for the celebration

I have planned.

The theme of our evening is Fitzgerald and Zelda.

Ooh.

Which one of us is Zelda?

Me, obviously.

We begin at the Palm Court,

where our literary couple famously danced

in the plaza fountain...

Where a burger costs 30 bucks.

Shh, shh, shh, shh.

You're gonna want to be in something a little jazzier.

We will be sitting in the very both

where F. Scott conceived of Gatsby.

That seems fake.

And then after we've snarked about our $50 goat cheese cake,

a horse-drawn carriage

will take us to an even more exclusive club...

No way.

Where Zelda herself danced the night away.

Oh, that's weird.

Annika never calls.

Hey Annika.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, what's wrong?

What video?

I've got a bad feeling, Beck.

"Click on my profile." Hmm.

I have black guys.

That's they... like, they see me,

and they're like, "Damn, girl," you know?

Where are the white guys

that want a girl with a big butt?

- Posted anonymously? - Yikes.

This looks old, but casual racism is evergreen,

and the Internet is turning against Annika

at the speed of outrage.

Of course, I can come over.

But the timing, Beck.

A video from college, today,

in response to Annika taking a stand against Peach?

Connect the damn dots.

- I have to go. - Annika's having like...

- Okay, go. - Be with your friend.

Help her push Peach out a window.

I'll text you tomorrow.

I made a mistake,

underestimated Peach, her cruelty.

Today it's Annika. Tomorrow it could be you.

Us.

Beck, I may never be able to prove your best friend

is capable of destroying you with a flick of her wrist,

but that won't stop me from trying.

I'm sorry I'll miss you this morning,

but this is what it's come to.

I'm running. I'm a runner now.

Until yesterday I put all my effort into avoiding Peach.

But you know what they say,

"Keep your friends close, and your enemies..."

Keep losing your enemies,

because you're so goddamn out of shape.

Why does my kidney hurt? This is torture.

But I have to know what we're up against.

I need to get into her head.

So exhibit A,

Peach starts every day by punishing her own body.

Sadomasochist? Orthorexic? Jury's still out.

Exhibit B, Peach is loathed at work.

Jaden, the Jacobsen chairs you ordered are knockoffs,

and the specs on the Vanderbilt townhouse

were supposed to be at my office by seven A.M.

It's 6:50.

- Entitled? Nepotized? - We're getting warmer.

She doesn't go anywhere without that laptop.

If only I could see inside.

Exhibit C in our tour of Peach's psyche,

gauche, demented.

If this is the fruit of Peach's imagination,

there's no telling what horrors she's capable of.

Well, at least I have your old phone,

so I sometimes get a little warning

before miss congeniality appears.

Hey. Is Joseph here?

Yeah, he's, uh, somewhere working.

Morning Joseph!

Anyways, what's the big news?

Okay, so I don't want to be tacky and steal the spotlight

from Annika's meltdown last night,

but, um, my professor is hooking me up with an agent.

Beck!

That's amazing and surprising, but...

Shit! I'm so mad at myself.

What do you mean?

You know, with my family and everything,

I have agency connections,

so I was gonna call a friend, Roger Stevens.

Roger Stevens?

Doesn't he rep, like, famous writers?

You mean like, Pulitzer winners,

Booker Prize finalists,

67% of the Time's Best Sellers list?

Yeah, Beck, I'd say Roger Stevens

has repped some famous writers,

which, no offense, begs the question,

why would he be interested in an MFA student?

You can write for magazines, totally, you know?

That's legit, honest work. Like, what Annika does.

But Roger doesn't sell articles, you know?

He represents real authors.

So it just depends on who you want to be.

I mean, if you can introduce us.

Happy to, yeah.

He and I know each other from when he was a counselor

at my Jew camp, so...

You know what?

Joseph!

Joseph! Joseph?

I didn't know you were here, Peach, hey.

We are gonna need you to shut this place down

tomorrow night for a private party.

You know, it's perfect.

Roger is obsessed with the sad and gritty New York.

I'll take care of everything, if you can just,

you know, clean up a little.

- You're amazing. Thank you. - Of course.

You don't owe me anything, okay?

Happy to.

Oh, but you do, Beck.

But what am I supposed to do, root for your failure?

That's not love. It's not me.

"Wuthering Heights," huh?

It's a near perfect cover

for "Juvenilia: The Prosecution of Minors in New York State."

I hear what goes on when Ron gets drunk.

I get it.

You want options, legally defensible options.

Maybe you're trying to figure out what would happen

if you took a swing at Ron?

Put yourself between him and your mom?

Well, screw the book, I can tell you what will happen.

Best case, you hurt him.

Worst case, he hurts you back.

Someone at school will see what he did to you.

Next thing you know, CPS is at your door,

you have 30 minutes to pack a bag.

Your mom loses custody.

You get punted from group home to group home to group home,

until you're 18, or you get fed up

and see if you can hack it on the streets.

Maybe you can do that. I couldn't.

Read this, instead. "The Count of Monte Cristo."

It's another Dumas, and we'll talk when you're done.

What's it about?

Revenge, but more importantly,

living with the enemy.

So he gives the Pulitzer back, and he's like,

"I'll have to trust you,

I wrote the whole thing on acid."

Hi.

I thought you said this would be casual?

- Oh. - Come on, I'll introduce you.

Wait, I need to get a drink first.

Don't be nervous.

Just be yourself.

I can't be myself.

I mean, the only reason an agent like Roger Stevens

would even be interested in me are my stupid essays

about my stupid dead dad, who is very much alive.

Okay, so don't be yourself, be more interesting.

You know, half the authors you've ever read

made up personas.

You know the Fitzgerald and the fountain story

is tourism-fueled bullshit,

so give this guy a version of Beck,

birthed by the same formidable,

creative mind that put those words to paper.

Fitzgerald.

And Zelda.

Oh, Roger, this is Guinevere Beck,

the writer I was telling you about.

Guinevere, my lady, I love it.

It's so old-fashioned, mwah.

Just call me Beck. A lady, I am not.

Well, I am going to go check on the pear water.

Be back.

So, how long have you known Peach?

Since her Adderall days. You?

Uh, you know, since I started selling her Adderall.

Ah.

Hard not to stare, right? Roger keeps it tight.

I guess the book business isn't always so pale and flaccid.

Did Beck tell you I started jogging?

Fun.

Runner's high is better than sex,

and for some may last longer.

Touché, bitch.

Honestly, I'm starting to think people who run just hate themselves.

No, it's all about the music, Joseph.

Find the right song, and the whole thing becomes effortless.

Like Roger and Beck.

Can I be honest?

She's lucky she has me.

Beck rarely knows what's best for her.

I couldn't agree more.

Of course, password protected.

It's too risky. Peach is already paranoid.

So, these are the humans that made a creature like Peach.

God forbid a hair's out of place

for the country club crowd.

Bingo, diary.

Food diary.

Christ, is there no end to the neurosis?

Hello. How old were you when this was taken, Beck?

And what is Peach doing with it?

Hello, Joe.

Sorry I'm so wet.

Your friend is feisty. Can she write?

There's potential.

She's not quite there, yet, though.

MFA programs are such a scam.

Want me to give your friend some advice?

If she wants to be a real writer, she should drop out.

I'm working on it.

Just, you know, be gentle turning her down.

It sucks to be right, Beck.

Peach is trying to sabotage your career,

and I have to know why.

Here is some of the most common passwords.

Password. 123456.

Babygirl.

Babygirl, really?

In any case, I doubt Peach is that stupid,

so I'm outsourcing to someone who's known her longer.

Hey Annika, how you holding up?

Well, I lost all my sponsors, 'cause they're all a bunch of pussies,

a third of my Instagram followers,

and the only person who tweeted in my defense was a Kardashian,

so, I mean, honestly, where is the witch hunt for the guy

who saw blackout drunk girl

and decided to whip out his camera?

- Where's Beck? - At my place.

She's revising one of her pieces.

She's been slammed.

Not too busy to party with Peach though,

but hey, that's Peach.

Beck's her favorite puppy.

Puppy?

She treats her like a pet, right?

Every day, it's just like, "Beck-alicious this,"

and, "Beck-alicious that."

And you know Beck secretly loves it.

The two of them are so co-dependent.

I'm sorry, I know she's your girlfriend.

You know, in Beck's defense, she really is writing.

I'm pushing her to make her deadlines.

Well, aren't you boyfriend of the year?

- I try. - Yeah.

Hey, did Peach ever have any real pets?

Lame segue. I need the password.

Um, Dalloway.

Dalloway?

Yeah, a purebred Bichon Frise, obviously.

Yeah, Peach was, like, devastated when she ran away.

I'm sorry, I just need to work through this out loud.

It's like, you know who gets away

with a self-deprecating joke that's a little risqué?

And by risqué, she means racist.

The fat girl.

Everybody laughs, because she is harmless,

and drunk, and funny, but like in a fat way.

But you know who gets crucified for that same, risqué joke?

Again, to be clear, racist.

The former fat girl who is actually just

embracing her body.

I mean, girls won't let girls just be.

- Thank god. - This was a huge mistake.

Sorry, it's Beck.

Hey, what's up?

So, um, Peach is here.

As in here, in your apartment.

Something about a stolen laptop.

Why don't you just save us all the embarrassment

and tell me where it is?

Is it in the kitchen? Is it under the sofa?

Some little hidey hole where you squirrel away

- all your stolen goods? - Stolen goods?

Okay, slow down, I don't know what you're talking about.

Yes, you do. Last night you left halfway through.

- Where did you go, Joseph? - Probably to take a piss.

Peach, believe it or not, I can afford my own computer.

- Beck, help me out. - I don't know.

What do you mean you don't know?

- I don't know. - I mean, of course you didn't...

I just... please, don't put me in the middle of this.

Okay, Peach, if your laptop is stolen,

I believe you, but the people at the party

weren't exactly strapped for cash, so I don't know.

I mean, is there, like, some other,

more personal reason someone would mess with you?

Oh, my God, Peach. Weren't you just saying last week

that you were feeling unsafe in your own home?

Whoa.

I mean, you run out in the open every morning.

You're very pretty, you're a Salinger.

What if someone's creeping on you?

It wouldn't be the first time.

It wouldn't?

Hallelujah.

Let's just say that James Franco and I didn't end well.

We should call the police.

And what are they gonna do?

Interrogate every single one of Peach's friends?

Good luck convincing them it's not just misplaced.

I'm sorry, I have to ask,

have you tried "Find My Computer" yet?

It's just this little GPS...

I don't need you to mansplain "Find My Computer."

- I know how to do it. - All right.

Peach, isn't that your place?

She didn't really think I'd be dumb enough

to bring her laptop here, did she?

Classy apology.

Joe, stop it.

Stop what? That was some bullshit, Beck.

And you didn't exactly rush to my defense.

What was I supposed to do?

You two are always sniping at each other.

And breaking into each other's places,

but that's not the point.

She has it out for me from the first day we met.

- No she hasn't. - Are you blind?

Maybe you can't see it, but Peach is next level vindictive.

You know what, if you hate my friends so much,

why do you hang out with them?

Because you force me to.

If I didn't, I wouldn't see you.

You know what, I don't have time for this.

I was supposed to send my pages to Roger Stevens,

like, an hour ago.

He doesn't care, he doesn't care, he doesn't care.

He doesn't care!

He's never going to sign you.

Peach is setting you up to fail.

I heard them talking at the party.

Roger thinks MFAs are a waste time, and Peach said herself

she thinks that you are not ready.

I'm sorry, I know the truth hurts,

but I have to set you free.

You are an asshole.

You know, if you don't believe in me, just say so.

Don't come up with some bullshit conspiracy theory.

No, Beck. Wait, no, I'm telling the truth.

You're allowed to be jealous of Roger.

I get it, you're a guy, boo-hoo.

He's young and successful.

No, that's not... no, no, no, no, no.

I don't care. The last thing I would've expected you to be

was unsupportive.

Our first fight.

It was worse than I could have imagined,

and it's all thanks to Peach.

I want to punish her for coming between us,

but I can't. I'm not that guy.

I'm an understanding, supportive boyfriend.

I'm barely clever enough to have gotten away with this.

The last piece of the Peach puzzle,

proof that she has it out for you.

Here we go.

Dalloway.

God, even the dog is pretentious.

Thanks for nothing, Annika.

"Beck-alicious this and Beck-alicious that."

There's no way this works,

but also, please work.

Okay. Officially skeeved.

Not sure what I'm looking for,

but I'll know it when I...

Oh, GB.

Guinevere Beck?

The hell?

Is this blackmail?

No, there's too much of this, going too far back.

I know what it's like to be in love with you, Beck.

This is not what love looks like.

This isn't how love behaves. This is the work of a sick mind.

Let's call it what it is, perversion.

Now I understand why Peach is setting you up for failure.

She's not threatened by you. She's obsessed with you.

Oh! You know I love you forever, right?

She wants to watch you, have you, control you,

like she controls every other piece of her life.

She wants you all to herself.

Mwah!

Beck, you've got a stalker.

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

A girl grows up in a strict, old money family,

where any deviations from tradition are punished.

Two choices, be like them, or be excommunicated.

No love, no money.

At some point she makes a friend.

That's you, Beck.

She develops a harmless crush, and it's 2018.

So who gives a shit if she's gay, or bi, or pan,

or just a mortal in the presence

of your dangerous and exceptional pheromones?

I'll tell you, who.

Her family, and she knows it,

so she takes her normal healthy feelings

and crushes them, nurses them in a dark, secret place

for years until they mutate

into an obsession, a sickness,

and now your best friend is a stalker and a sociopath,

and... oh God, a liar.

Runner's high is a myth.

Why the hell did I take up jogging again?

I'm in hell, Beck.

Even if I could share the proof, you'd never believe me,

and now you're not even talking to me,

which means, you're in trouble.

Look at you, like a little literary hooker.

Get in.

Hey.

Oh.

I so appreciate you reading my stuff.

Thank you for being down to ride.

I've got this Met benefit lunch downtown this afternoon.

I figured you and I could just bang it out.

Hey, office hours are better without the office.

Well said.

Hey, speaking of, these essays? These poems?

Loved, loved, loved every page.

Oh, my God, really?

Fathers are the worst.

It's like their job is to mess us up.

What if we all just had two moms, right?

There'd be no wars, none.

Oh, I know, right?

Okay.

I'm gonna be real with you.

I think some of your stuff is problematic.

Wait, what do you mean?

Addiction is a disease,

and you want to put your dead dad on trial

for being a victim?

I think the one you're talking about,

it's... it's meant to be about forgiveness.

Ah, I'm sorry, that is my bad.

I skimmed.

So what's your thing?

Like, is it like daddy like daughter?

Ouch! Shit.

What the hell? What are you doing?

Will you relax?

Here, take one of these.

No, I don't... I don't take anything.

Jesus, no wonder I couldn't get through your stuff.

Peach was right, you have a lot to learn.

Do you think sobriety created Joyce Carol Oates, sweetheart?

You have a problem.

- Well, you're a judgy little bitch. - Could you pull over?

This book is crap.

He waits 24 years to get justice?

What kind of message is that?

A smart one, it's all about the long game.

My mom needs help now.

Sometimes putting yourself between two people

is a surefire way to make things worse.

I promise you, we're not going to let anything

happen to you or your mom.

It's too late.

Beck-ish, I got your SOS.

Oh, sweetie, what's wrong? Come here.

- You set me up. - Excuse me?

Your friend, Roger Stevens, was an asshole and a freak.

He doesn't want to sign me. He never wanted to sign me.

This whole thing was just designed to humiliate me.

Okay, calm down and tell me what happened.

He didn't even read my stuff. He was a rude, entitled douche,

who only wanted to get high and...

I wish I was exaggerating... bang me in a limo.

God, and you sent me there!

I had no idea that he was using again.

I mean, he's been clean since 9/11.

Beck, when it happened, he was in an airport.

I don't give a shit! You threw me under the bus.

"She's got a lot to learn?"

Go to hell. Joe was right.

You live to cut down your friends.

Hey, I don't know what your boyfriend told you...

Don't lie to me, Peach. I'm not stupid, I'm not Annika.

Oh, come on, Annika may not remember the night

she went on that rant, but I do.

Junior year, Marcy House.

I was there. We were both there.

Are you accusing me of sabotaging Annika?

And me, and anyone else who edges into your spotlight.

You would rather pick apart your friends than maybe admit

that you're not being your most amazing self right now.

It is exhausting being your friend.

I don't know what to say.

I mean, it was a favor, Beck,

and I don't need to love your self-absorbed poetry

in order to be kind to you.

Where are you going?

Beck!

Beck?

Come back!

Can I come in?

I owe you an apology.

You were right.

About Peach's douche bag agent,

about Peach.

I told you so, I told you so.

I'm so sorry.

How do you see things so clearly?

I mean, things I can't even see for myself?

Oh, you must hate me.

- Are you kidding? - I loathe you.

Get out of here, you trash goblin!

Whatever.

This place is a dump.

Oh, is it honesty o'clock? Because I've been saving up

some intense constructive criticism.

No, no, no, no, I can't handle it.

Back to secrets and lies, please.

- Oh, ignore that. - You think?

I'm sorry, this is gonna keep happening.

She needs to get the message now.

You need to stop calling me.

Peach?

I just wanted to say you're right.

I'm a bitch. I'm sorry.

- Peach? - What's going on.

Nothing, I just...

took some pills.

Which pills?

All of them.

Peach?

Oh, no.

Joe, I need towels and...

and there's a Naloxone spray in the guest bathroom.

- Which one is that? - It's downstairs.

That's good, get it all out.

Where's, uh... where's the nasal spray?

Oh, shit, it must have come out in the hallway.

It's fine, it's fine, I'll get it.

- You sure? - Yeah.

- No way. - Peach logged her own suicide?

200 milligrams Ibuprofen, 15 milligrams Wellbutrin.

There isn't enough in her system

for a light buzz, let alone an OD.

I see you spying, Joseph.

You can't prove I wrote it all down.

Jesus, Beck.

This whole thing is an act.

A trap. Tell me you see it.

I'll call the hospital.

No, they'll put a 72-hour hold on me.

I'll be committed.

Exactly.

Beck, if this is real, she needs to go to a hospital.

If this is real?

Did you even try to find the Naloxone?

Joseph.

Joe, will you wait outside?

Yeah.

Thank you for saving me.

Joe does have a point.

You should get a check-up.

What if instead you just stay the night,

just in case anything happens.

Whatever you need.

Beck, what I said about her faking it...

- Oh, please, Joe, stop. - She could have died.

We're not that lucky.

You two had one fight.

She tries to off herself like that? It doesn't add up.

This isn't the first time

Peach has tried to kill herself.

You're kidding.

I've talked her off of a ledge more times

than I can count.

So when she needs me, she really needs me.

I understand.

I understand that I'm too late.

There's too much history.

I understand, without a shadow of a doubt,

Peach wins.

How is a normal guy supposed to compete

with a rich, unstable stalker,

who would rather fake her own suicide than be apart from you?

Your whole life is braided with Peach's, inseparable,

now and forever, until she drags you

into her own personal Grey Gardens.

Right now she's probably sinking her claws deeper.

- You can't do anything! - Are you listening to me?

You think wrecking this place is going to solve our problems?

Are you high again?

Another person I failed to help.

I thought I could better myself for you.

I couldn't.

I tried to be the perfect boyfriend,

the perfect friend to your friends,

and it wasn't enough, so to hell with it.

It's freeing, in a way,

to know so definitively where I stand,

where you stand,

to know for certain what I have to do to protect you.

And just like that everything clicks into place.

My feet, runner's high, it is pretty great,

and I remember this is why I took up jogging.

Uh oh. She's dead.

Of course she's dead, she fell.

That's right, she fell.

An accident.

Happens all the time, she was running and she fell

into a rock, over and over again.

Okay, let's be real, she was attacked.

Someone attacked her, but maybe they had a good reason, right?

You ever think of that, detective?

Shit! Detectives are real, and DNA is a thing,

and I just hit the girl with a rock.

God, the sound, I would never hurt a woman.

But she, she was at a dangerous, flesh-hungry harpy.

She forced my hand.

That's on her and her family for screwing her up.

I had to, Beck. I had to.

I knew you'd never forgive me, but she gave me no choice.

I'm not a bad person. She was going to ruin you.

But you're safe now, thanks to me.

I just want you to live your best life.

It's brave, what I do for you. It's not easy, it's hard.

Sometimes it makes me sick. I'm brave.

How many guys are willing to do anything for the person they love?

Honestly, Beck, you're lucky to have me.

It's over. What's done is done,

and now there's nothing standing between me and... Paco.

Paco, what did you do?

I couldn't take another night.

I didn't know how many sleeping pills would knock him out.

Well, Beck, you asked me to help Paco,

but turns out you're going to save him because

it's thanks to you that I know exactly what to do.

We need towels, and does your mom have any Naloxone?

It would be in the bathroom cabinet, a nasal spray, fast.

Do I call 911?

No, not if you want to see your mother again.

You freak. You freak.

The universe has a funny way of keeping us humble.

That beating was karmic, I know it.

I did a bad thing today, but for a good reason,

and if there's any justice in the world

you are the reward for all my suffering.

Hey you.

Oh, Joe, thank God.

Peach was attacked in Central Park in broad daylight.

I'm headed to the ER now.

She's alive?