Nick: "So really, how have you been?"
Carrie: "So really, I have been really awesome. Getting pretty close..."
Nick: "To what?"
Carrie: "My, uh. Goal."
Nick: "Why did you just turn into that one annoying girl on Facebook?"
Carrie: "I can't name names, but I'm circling a certain terrorist..."
Nick: "As long as it's not me! Wockawockawocka!"
Carrie: "No -- and sorry, again, about that -- no, I'm back on the right guy. The big guy. The head-of-the-snake guy?"
There's a moment here, and it's so lovely, where she looks out at him through all the layers, all of them, like he's an animal or an alien and she can't fathom how a person could turn, how you get brainwashed, how you go away and somebody who is a broken version of yourself that is the opposite of yourself moves in: "Who stole eight years of your life?"
What she gets back is: Nothing at all. He turns the knife as it's coming at him, starts to twist the whole conversation in a way that seems kind, but is so fucking sick that it's like the existential dread all over again, as he does it. She puts on her smile, the "we are doing okay" smile. It isn't big enough; it couldn't ever be big enough.
Nick: "Listen, Carrie. You've apologized, a hundred times..."
Carrie: "You want #101?"
Nick: "No, I want to apologize. Tricking you, calling Estes to come kidnap your crazy ass... I only did it because I was worried."
Carrie: "Well, to be fair, it was worrisome. My behavior."
And fuck you. It was because I was right. I was right, I was right, I was right.
Nick: "I'm sorry for all you went through..."
Carrie: "Oh, don't be!"
Nick: "...I mean, ECT? Jesus."
He can barely hide his smile, as he says it. As her body imperceptibly flails; as she pulls herself in.
Carrie: "Where the fuck did you hear about that?"
Nick: "I asked about you, of course. Heard things. Did you have to do it a lot?"
She breathes, jumps into Recovery Girl. The one that has no shame because there's nothing to be ashamed of. Chin juts, quick nods of the head. Making the person you're talking to no longer stigmatize you, by sheer force of will. Relating the facts as appropriate, praying there's no pain or fear or hurt in your throat as you tell the story.