Free The Next Best Thing by Jennifer Weiner

come to Los Angeles with a girlfriend, that things hadn’t worked out but he didn’t regret the move, because he loved the California weather, the chance to spend most of his time in shorts and sandals and see the ocean every day. The ad I’d written spelled out his good qualities, his patience and consideration, his dry sense of humor, and then I discovered that I had feelings for him, and, much to my surprise, that he had feelings for me, too.
    Gary was my first real boyfriend, the first man I’d gone to bed with, and things had been wonderful. At least, they’d been wonderful when I was just the Two Daves’ assistant. When I’drealized I was thinking about Little Dave more frequently, and in different ways than an employee should think about her boss, I’d told myself it was just a workplace crush, destined to go nowhere. David Carter was ten years older than I was, and in a wheelchair, and the women he dated were so far out of my league that they might as well have represented some evolutionary leap forward from human females as I knew them. Gary was steady and funny and reliably kind. We’d bring in a pizza and watch movies on a Friday night, take trips on the weekends to the zoo or the park or the beach. I thought—when I wasn’t fantasizing about Dave dumping Shazia, or the gorgeous research cardiologist he’d dated before her, or the stunning actress who’d preceded the doctor, and declaring that I was the one he loved—that maybe someday Gary and I would get married. We’d buy a house in the Valley, where you could get more for your money, a place convenient to the private school where he taught, with a swimming pool and a guest house where Grandma could stay. I’d write screenplays, he’d teach history, and we would live out the non-glamorous Hollywood version of happily ever after. I would think about it . . . but it would be like thinking in outline, life as a series of occasions without any of the dialogue or description filled in. I could name the orderly procession of events—getting married, buying a house, having children—I just couldn’t imagine actually doing them with Gary. There was no reason why this should be: I loved him, I enjoyed his company, his sense of humor, his good looks . . . but when I tried to imagine the specifics—standing under a chuppah with him, or greeting him with a positive pregnancy test—my mind would shut down. When my pilot had been ordered, it felt like a good excuse to stop thinking about why that was, to simply apply myself to the work at hand and hope that my romantic future would sort itself out while I tended to my show.
    Ever since I’d gotten the call, though, things had gotten worse, not better. I’d thought that Gary, who’d always been supportive, my biggest cheerleader, my number one fan, would be thrilled for me, and that maybe I’d be able to picture more of a future together when I had the grown-up job title “executive producer and showrunner.” Instead of being an assistant, I’d have assistants of my own, and responsibility for a staff of actors and directors, gaffers and grips, set decorators and stand-ins that would eventually number close to two hundred. None of this would change the content of my character, just the size of my bank account. I would be, still, the woman I’d always been: same personality, same dreams, same face. But Gary had changed, becoming quiet and sullen and hard to reach. I’d dial his number and be sent straight to voice mail. Or we’d make plans and then he’d cancel at the last minute. In the past few weeks, he’d taken on extra work at school, agreeing to coach the chess club, offering extra Spanish tutoring sessions. He’d said that he could use the money, but that made no sense: I’d be earning four times what I’d be making as an assistant if the show got picked up, and the pilot shoots alone would give me more than enough to pay for our usual entertainments, and even fund a few weekends out