Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Your mother was a big believer in ceremony,” Syd's dad had once said, when he first handed her the keys to the station wagon.

The car, though practically an antique, was her entryway into adulthood, the vehicle that would take her to the next phase of her life. Syd would use it to drive to upstate New York for culinary school, and, later, sit in interminable traffic at the 90/94 split on her way to one of many catering gigs. But emotional ties aside, it was just a 1975 Ford Squire with faded wood paneling and a glove compartment that had been jammed shut for years. Her mother’s car. Now Syd's.

“Ceremony,” Syd had repeated, once she took her place in the driver's seat for the first time and her dad took the passenger side. Over the years, he had taken the car out occasionally for trips outside of the city, but mostly it had stayed parked at an uncle's house, its oil regularly changed and tires kept full of air. “I’ll let you do the honors.”

Her dad had smiled solemnly and reached for the rearview mirror, tying a vintage silk scarf around its base.

“She called this her driving scarf,” he had said in the low, reverent voice he used whenever he talked about his wife, as if he was in church. “Like this was a swanky convertible, and she was driving down the Amalfi coast instead of the Kennedy in the middle of a god awful Midwestern winter.” He snorted a melancholy laugh. “That woman.”

Syd had studied the scarf, its warm, patchwork-like blue and green pattern reminiscent of her favorite Romare Bearden collage at the Art Institute. She could imagine her mother wearing it as she drove, one arm slung over the steering wheel while the other arm stroked her bottom lip, deep in thought. She was always pondering, ruminating, trying to solve life’s great mysteries, her dad had told her, one of the many foundational facts about her mother that he repeated to her throughout her childhood like a prayer.

“Thanks, Dad,” Syd had said, acknowledging the simple act of tying a scarf to the rearview mirror for what it actually was: the ceremony marking the official beginning of her time with this vehicle. “I’ll try to make her proud.”

“I know you will, baby.”

Had she? Syd wondered this now years later as she sat in the car, pulled over in a vacant 7-Eleven parking lot. She looked to the rearview mirror for clarity; the vibrant scarf always cheered her slightly, even against the gray backdrop of a cloudy Chicago morning. As she often did, she pictured her own mother sitting in this exact driver’s seat, pondering and ruminating. Her dad said her mother made up for her petite stature by being resolute and definite in her actions. Once she made a decision, he said. That was it. Trying to change her mind about anything was like trying to fight the tide.

Syd absentmindedly scrolled through her inbox and saw the overdue invoices, the past due notices, and the recent loan rejection from the bank. The depressing sight helped her channel her own mother and feel resolute and definitive in her decision-making, despite the fact that said decision was currently giving her a stress ulcer. Her next move was clear: it was time to call it quits for good on Sheridan Road.

But at that moment an email came in.

The sender introduced herself as Janet, the mother-of-the-bride of an impending wedding that was on the verge of ruin – unless Syd stepped in apparently. In a typo-ridden block of text, she went on to explain that their previously booked caterer had ghosted them with their hefty deposit, a week before her daughter’s wedding. And during this upcoming week, there was a welcome party, wedding shower, bachelorette party, and rehearsal dinner that each required a full spread. Not to mention the wedding reception itself.

Janet had heard of Sheridan Road from the bride of the last wedding Syd had catered. That had also been a frenzied, last-minute affair, but Syd had pulled it off spectacularly – which is why Janet was sure Syd could do it again.

Syd didn't share her confidence. That is, until she saw the astronomical amount the desperate woman was offering to pay: triple what she had paid the caterer that had ghosted. With this chunk of change, Syd could leave the catering world with a modicum of dignity – and even better, she wouldn't have to sell her car like she had initially planned, to pay off the massive credit card debt she had accrued to keep Sheridan Road afloat.

This, Syd decided, was reason enough to cater what sounded like a nightmare week of wedding events. The debt, the anxiety, the exhaustion: she could handle all of that. But selling the car that was basically all she had had left of her mother? She wanted to avoid that at all costs.

She knew she was a bad daughter for even considering such a thing, but when the credit card company began calling her dad’s house looking for her, that was when she felt as though rock bottom wasn’t too far off. She Googled the going rate for vintage Ford station wagons – just for research purposes, she told herself, to assuage her guilt. Apparently these dowdy, boxy vehicles had somewhat of a cult following, and considering how the car had been kept in near-pristine condition all these years, she found that she could get at least 40k for it. Maybe even 50k if she found the right buyer.

But just imagining her dad’s heartbroken face if she told him she had sold the station wagon was enough for her to quickly click out of every vintage car sales tab. That, she decided, would only be the option if shit really hit the fan.

With this in mind, she called Janet and promptly accepted.

“You're a lifesaver,” Janet gushed. “I didn't want to go with just anyone. The groom is a bit of a foodie, so I wanted a caterer who could impress.”

Syd rolled her eyes, imagining the groom as someone who watched too much Food Network and proudly owned a stand mixer. From there, they began emailing back and forth about menus, and despite the breakneck speed at which everything was happening, Syd still got a small rush out of the hustle of it all.

She had started Sheridan Road after working in too many kitchens with maniacal Gordon Ramsay wannabes, getting screamed at about cucumber foam and constantly being referred to by the name of the one other black woman on staff. Despite the shitty economy, razor-thin margins, and terrifying rollercoaster that was owning her own business, Syd found that she had enjoyed catering. At least, for those first few months.

Most clients were cool with her planning out most of the menu, and she got to fully lean into her overachieving tendencies, staying up late into the night rolling out dough while meat marinated in her fridge and making endless spreadsheets to track food costs, invoices, compliments to the chef, etc. She was fucking good at this, and after so much time feeling insignificant and disposable in restaurant kitchens, she needed the reminder.

Of course, running this whole operation solo eventually caught up with her. She tried to hire help when she could afford it, but she found it difficult, as well as time- and money-consuming to train people from scratch. In the end, she shouldered it all on her own, and now, she had the scars –and the fucked up credit score– to prove it.

After she walked away from the last event, a fundraiser at some rich lady's house out in Naperville, with a gnarly oven burn on her forearm and a sunk cost of -$600 when four chafing dishes magically disappeared from her car, Syd was at her breaking point. She felt she had been hustling nonstop since high school, busting her ass by working her way through culinary school, then cutting her teeth at high-end restaurants whose tasting menus cost more than her monthly rent. Now with Sheridan Road on the verge of collapse, even she could admit it: she needed a fucking break.

This wedding would be her last hurrah, a joint farewell and fuck you to the catering world. After that? She had no clue. That terrified her more than anything, but she tried not to dwell on it too much.

Instead, she focused on the slow roasted lamb that was the centerpiece of the first event’s menu. Seasoned with garlic, rosemary, and a few top-secret ingredients she had sworn to take to the grave, the lamb had been roasting for twelve hours to tender perfection. She was proud of this recipe, which she had meticulously tweaked and perfected over the years, and she usually whipped it out when she wanted to make an impression. The welcome reception, a slightly smaller family gathering for thirty guests, was taking place at Janet’s house in Winnetka, the kind of sprawling Georgian-style mansion that people assumed was normal for Chicago after watching Home Alone.  

She was there hours before any guests had arrived, setting up in the massive kitchen and getting ready to strain the lamb for jus, when she found that she had left her extra large roasting pan in her car. She stepped out back to retrieve it, trying to memorize the tree-lined path she was taking in case she got lost – god, this place was huge.

As she got to the car, she felt the wind on her forehead and realized she had also forgotten proper protection for her hair while in the kitchen. Unless she wanted her braids to smell of lamb for the next few days, she needed to cover them up. With no other options, she loosened her mother’s scarf from the rearview mirror and tied it onto her head. Checking her reflection in the window, she smiled slightly. The familiar blue and green pattern was the closest she was going to get to having a friend at this event.

Once Syd had retrieved the pan, along with a stack of other pots she figured she would need, she made her way back down the winding path through the estate. Somewhere near one of the multiple garages, she nearly collided with someone who was apparently pacing in a circle.

“‘Scuse me,” she muttered, stepping out of the way.

The person stepped to the side in the exact same direction as her, so that they almost crashed into each other again.

This time Syd looked up and paused. For the brief moment this person faced her, she could see that the man was breathing somewhat laboriously and that he was shaking his hands as if they were cramping. He was wearing a crisp white button down shirt that looked recently dry cleaned but his hair was a tousled mess, as if he had been anxiously running his fingers through it. She guessed he was only a couple years older than her, but he gave off an air of exhaustion that seemed decades premature. His sleeves were rolled up, displaying an array of tattoos sprinkled across his forearms – was that a sardine?

“You… okay?” She asked tentatively, as he moved further towards a small alcove near the garage. He was still pacing but now seemed to be attempting to keep his hands still. He nodded, not looking at her, his breath coming out in unsteady rags.

When he crouched down, shaking out his hands once more, Syd’s mind flickered sharply with one her earliest memories: she was five years old, holding her dad’s hand as he waited out one of his regular panic attacks in the months after her mother’s death. She had held his giant hand in both of her small ones, inhaling and exhaling steadily until eventually his breathing matched her own. You’re so mature for your age, her kindergarten teacher had often praised her. Well, lady, that was precisely why.

Though it had been years since she had patiently sat with her dad in the dark of their living room, it all came back to Syd like muscle memory now. She put the pots and pan aside and crouched down to meet the man at eye level, and when she did, she was momentarily distracted by the pale cerulean of his gaze. He seemed distracted as well by the fact that she, a complete stranger, was now facing him and taking his hands in hers. As she did, she glimpsed more inky black tattoos across his fingers and hands.

“Watch me,” she said in a firm but kind voice.

She inhaled and exhaled at a measured pace, gesturing at him to do the same. He still looked somewhat startled at the sudden development of this unknown person leading him in a breathing exercise as they held hands, but nonetheless, he did as he was told.

Two minutes passed. During that time, she became self conscious of holding his gaze, so she looked down at his hands, eyeing the tattoos that came more into focus the less jittery he got. The letters S, O, and U were inked on three fingers of his left hand, and she briefly ran through possibilities of its meaning. When she looked back up at him, his gaze was still intently on her. She had to swallow to keep herself from getting flustered and looking away. His eyes – they unmoored her.

Slowly and surely, Syd felt their breathing sync up, his hands becoming steadier in hers. Just as she had done with her dad so long ago. In. Out. In. Out.

They remained silent, the only nearby sound coming from their soft inhales and exhales. The distant noise of the party being set up back at the house seemed like it was happening on the other side of an ocean. When his breathing seemed completely normal, she gently let go of his hands. At this, he seemed to fully come back to himself, his eyes widening slightly as if he had just been woken up after dozing off. 

“I think I'm good now,” he said blankly. Then in the same breath he added, “Fuck.” He suddenly looked embarrassed.

Syd shrugged, getting up. “It's nothing. I’ve seen panic attacks before.”

He got up too, continuing to look slightly mortified. She felt a sudden need to make him understand that it truly wasn’t a big deal. “It’s totally normal,” she added hastily. “I mean, we live in a constant hellscape. If you’re not fucking panicking on a daily basis, then there’s something wrong with you.”

At this, a short laugh escaped from him, and he suddenly looked lighter, slightly more boyish. “You think so?”

“Totally. Panic is the default mode now.”

She glanced at his tattoos again; they reminded her of ones she had seen on countless line cooks and back-of-house mainstays. “Are you with the wait staff?” She asked, making the assumption based on his white shirt and early presence at the party.

“Uh, no,” he said. He seemed slightly amused by this. “I’m a guest.”

“You’re early,” she said, pointing out the obvious since she didn’t have a clue what else to say.

He nodded, then gestured at the small stack of pots atop the roasting pan. “Need a hand with those?”

She didn’t really, but there was something curious about him that didn’t make her want to immediately rush back to the kitchen. “Um, sure. This place is huge – I didn't think people actually lived in homes like this outside of a John Hughes film.”

He seemed visibly relieved that the topic was shifting from his panic attack. He bent down to pick up the pots, while Syd took the roasting pan. 

“I know what you mean,” he said as they began walking back to the house. “It’s almost surreal.”

She glanced at him, her interest in him piqued. The fact that he was a guest at this party meant he must fit in somehow into this world, but his tattoos and semi-public panic attack suggested otherwise. 

“Where are you from?” She asked, trying to place some context around him. 

“Grew up around Bridgeport. You?”

“Roseland.”

“Best donuts in the city.”

She smiled, nodding. “I'm Sydney, by the way.” She figured she should at least introduce herself if she was going to go around, calming strangers down from sudden panic attacks. They were approaching one of the back entrances of the house that led to the kitchen. 

“Carmen.”  

They walked inside, and as he put down the pots on the counter, he seemed to pause, as if he was contemplating something. 

“That's lamb, right?” He asked, gesturing at the meat that had been keeping warm in the oven, filling the kitchen with a rich, savory aroma.

“Uh, yeah,” she said, rather impressed. 

“With garlic, rosemary… and is that zaatar with mint – apple mint? Maybe some sumac?”

As soon as he began unraveling her lamb recipe, she clamped her hand over his mouth. “What the hell, man. Not even my dad knows what goes into my lamb seasoning – and he was the one who gave me the original recipe.”

Carmy's eyes crinkled with amusement, and Syd quickly took her hand back, realizing her reaction had been a tad dramatic. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I've just never had anyone guess those last three ingredients. I thought I was slick all these years.”

He leaned against the counter, not looking remotely offended. “Sumac is an inspired choice. Cuts through the richness of the lamb better than a lemon ever could.”

It was an astute observation. She raised an eyebrow. “You're a cook?”

He nodded. “Technically, yeah. But at the moment, not really.”

“Having trouble finding a spot?”

“My family actually owns a spot. The Beef on Orleans.”

“Oh, I know the Beef.” She took out a cutting board to prepare the artichokes she had planned for the hors d'oeuvres, a sampler of different types of bruschetta served on freshly made focaccia. “A Chicago staple. It’s great.” 

“It was recently shut down by the health department.”

“Oh, shit. Maybe it’s not so great?”

He laughed again at this, surprising her since she often had to remind herself to think before she spoke. Sometimes she thought the sheer amount of time she spent alone in the kitchen had left her without a filter in social situations. “You’re not wrong. At least, it wasn’t so great when it came to its asbestos-covered ventilation system from the eighties. We basically have to gut the place top to bottom now.”

“Sorry to hear that, but no lie: most of my favorite spots have a C in their window. At this point, it's almost a badge of honor.”

He smirked at this, and she watched with intrigue as he took one of the artichokes and a spare paring knife she had laid out. He held a vegetable up and asked, “Stems off? Spines, too?"

She nodded, almost laughing at his brazenness – or maybe just sheer boredom. “Knock yourself out.” She handed him another cutting board.

For a few seconds, they cut into the artichokes in silence. He had an easy grace with the knife, as if his fingers and the blade were barely touching the vegetable and it was just being sliced and diced on its own accord. She tore her eyes away from the quick movements of his hands before finally asking, “How long have you been running the Beef?”

“Not long at all.” His voice suddenly sounded the slightest bit strained, but Syd couldn’t tell if it was just on account of the swift movements of his knife. “I moved back from New York about two months ago to run it. It’s a neighborhood institution, but it was also a fucking mess. I’m surprised it wasn’t shut down sooner, to be honest.”

She handed him a bowl for his chopped artichoke pieces. “Where did you work back in New York? Maybe I’ve heard of it.”

The rapidfire rhythm of his knife hit a slight pause before resuming. “Eleven Madison Park.”

“Fuck.” Syd put down her knife and took a step back from the counter. She felt as though flood lights had suddenly been turned on in the kitchen, throwing everything into sharp relief. “You’re Carmen Berzatto.”

His head was still bent over the cutting board. “Yeah. Most people call me Carmy.”

Syd recalled reading a profile on Carmen Berzatto – was it in Bon Appetit or Food & Wine? He was the youngest CDC in Eleven Madison Park’s history, retaining the place’s three stars, and before that, he had done stints at what amounted to a bucket list of every restaurant she ever dreamed of going to one day: Noma, French Laundry, Ever.

It was an intimidating résumé, but then she had to recalibrate it all with the fact that now he was in Chicago, with a family sandwich shop that was shut down by the board of health. It didn't exactly add up.

He seemed to sense her confusion because he finally stopped chopping and said, “I left New York to run the Beef. But also because of my brother. Mikey was the owner before me, but he, uh, died not too long ago.”

God, no wonder he was having panic attacks out in the burbs. “Fuck, I'm sorry,” she said, reaching for the most obvious, unhelpful thing to say and immediately regretting it.

But Carmy just nodded imperceptibly. “Yeah, it's been–” He seemed at a loss for words. He had paused chopping, his knife suspended over the artichoke.

“Jello,” Syd said finally.

“Huh?”

“My dad would say you’re in jello,” she explained. “My mom died when I was four. Lupus. My dad was a mess, but I didn’t really know what was going on with him – I was a preschooler, after all. So he explained the situation to me in preschool terms. He told me that he felt like he was trapped in jello. And because of this, he was moving slower and with more difficulty than everyone, so I had to be patient with him. Years later, I still think it’s an apt metaphor. He was stuck, trapped, suspended.”

“But he got out eventually?”

Their eyes met across the counter, and she felt a jolt of recognition between them, as if he already knew the answer. “Sort of,” she said. “Or at least, he got better at navigating life through the jello.”

“I hope that’s true for everyone.”

“It is.” She said confidently, as if she wasn’t addressing someone she barely knew.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking up at her, “about your mom.” As he said this, he seemed to be mirroring her reaction from just a few minutes ago, when she had said the same seemingly trite thing about his brother’s death. The words were indeed inadequate, but they were all they had. That, and the comforting distraction of the kitchen prep work.

Syd smiled faintly. “Thanks.” She resumed slicing an artichoke, and she racked her brain for a topic that didn’t involve their dead family members. “So you’ll be running the Beef once it’s back open again?

He stopped chopping again. “Uh, not sure. Since it’s been temporarily closed, I've been thinking about what to do with the place during the renovations. Maybe even renovate more than what’s necessary.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could open up the Beef version 2.0, keep everything exactly the same. Or, you know, scrap it entirely and do something completely new instead. New concept. New vibe. New menu. Just something I've been thinking about.”

Syd had been taking out the dough for the focaccia that had been stored in the fridge, but she stopped to look up at him, the tray poised on her shoulder. “Do it.”

He stopped chopping again, smiling slightly. “That easy, huh?”

“This is your chance to fuck things up – in a good way,” she said as she put down the tray and began sprinkling flour atop the dough. “That's essentially why I went into catering. I was so burnt out from restaurants that I just wanted to do my own thing, my own way.”

“And it's working out for you?” He was done with the artichokes and now pointed at the dough before her. He asked, “Focaccia?”

She nodded, again amused as he began helping her, this time kneading the dough with those strong, capable-looking fingers of his. Focus, she told herself. 

“I guess it was working out.” She replied, attempting to answer his first question. “I mean, the first few months were intense and eye-opening and like being strapped onto a rocketship, but that was kind of what I was going for.”

“And now?”

Something about them both being occupied by the tasks at hand in the kitchen made it easier for her to be honest with this person she had just met literally minutes ago. “It's still intense but maybe more in a what-the-fuck-am-I-doing kind of way.” She paused, deepening her hands into the dough. “It’s gotten kind of out of hand. This week may be my last week doing this. Haven't decided yet, but I think it’s time to bring this shitshow to an end.”

“What will you do instead?” His hands were still kneading the dough but his eyes were on her, awaiting her answer. She had to swallow to clear her thoughts under the intensity of his gaze.

“Not sure yet,” she said simply. “All I know if that I need some time for me –and my fucked up credit score– to recover before I get back in a kitchen again.”

“But you do want to go back? To a kitchen, I mean.”

She shrugged. “I guess? I mean, I do still love to cook. It’s just all the other bullshit that gets in the way.” She paused, always overly conscious of talking for too long or revealing too much. She had already told this relative stranger far more than normal. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You were at EMP. It doesn’t get better than that.”

His eyes focused on the dough, tucking the sides into the middle in a seamless fashion that showed he had done this countless times before. “The bullshit was still there. Probably even more so.” He continued working the dough for a few more seconds before adding, “I’m actually fucking glad I left when I did.”

She raised an eyebrow at this. “Say more,” she said.

But before he could, the swinging door opened, and a young woman walked in, bringing with her a whiff of a sweet, floral perfume that seemed slightly off-key in the kitchen.

“Carmy,” she exclaimed. “There you are. Uncle Joe is here – an hour-and-half early, of course– wait, are you cooking?”

Carmy suddenly looked slightly sheepish at his flour-covered hands. “Uh, yeah. I was just helping out Sydney.”

At this, the woman seemed to finally take notice of Syd. “Oh, Sydney,” she said, waving a finger towards her temple as if her brain was slowly catching up. “My mom told me all about how you’re doing us a solid by taking over the food on such short notice. I’m Claire. I see you’ve already met my fiancé.”

Claire moved over to where Carmy was standing, and Syd got a good look at both of them together. It all made sense now , she thought.

Carmy had almost seemed like an animal on the loose, wandering the grounds with his tattoos and tousled hair and slightly untamed kitchen tendencies. But with Claire, there was a sudden balance; she gave off an air of order and responsibility, someone who had never gotten a fingertip chopped off while using a mandoline.

This, she thought once again, makes sense. But despite this, she couldn’t shake the sudden feeling of disappointment that seemed to have crept up on her as it all fell into place. She also tried to disregard the dazed look on Carmy’s face, as if he was confused as to why Claire was here, at this celebration for their impending marriage.

“Yeah, no problem,” Syd finally said, smiling at Claire. “Five events in one week is a lot, but I’ve got all the menus down. Courses are being prepped as we speak. It’s all good to go.”

Claire nodded, seeming distracted by the sound of the doorbell and more guests arriving. “Why are they all here so early?” She took Carmy’s flour-covered hand and led him to the door. “Nice meeting you, Sydney. Thanks again for saving our asses.”

With a final glance, Carmy gave her an exhausted-looking smile and followed his fiancé out of the kitchen, leaving behind a sudden silence and two sections of impeccably kneaded dough in his wake.

Fiancé. His fiancé.

Syd resumed working on the dough, drizzling it with olive oil, rosemary, and sea salt. All the while, she replayed the last half hour, trying to determine if any of it had actually happened. Had she actually come across the CDC of Eleven Madison Park in the midst of a panic attack? Had she actually helped him out of it, holding his hands and meeting his gaze for a little longer than was considered proper? Had she enjoyed watching his hands knead the dough, again, maybe a little too much?

At the last question, she silently reprimanded herself and shifted her focus back on the hors d'oeuvres, which would probably have to go out soon if guests were already starting to arrive. She slid the dough in the oven and began preparing the bruschetta, finishing up as the wait staff trickled in, looking to her for something to do, something to carry.

As she sent them out with trays of appetizers, she shifted her focus on the main dish, checking on the lamb and putting the finishing touches on sides and garnishes. The sudden rush of the impending meal spiked her adrenaline as she mentally checked off each task that needed to be done before the food went out. It was bittersweet, knowing this would be her last week doing this thrilling, overwhelming dance, but also, she was grateful for the distraction. Otherwise, she’d probably still be ruminating over the question mark that was Carmen Berzatto.

Enough, she told herself.

She maneuvered the lamb out of the oven and let the aromatic smell of the fresh rosemary and spices fill her lungs. Syd was generally modest when it came to her cooking, even in culinary school where she had excelled in the structured, academic setting and her instructors constantly praised her technique and nuanced palate. And yet she rarely let any of it go to her head, knowing there was always more to learn, more to improve upon.

But this lamb, with the meat falling off the bone and perfectly crisp, golden brown exterior, was a fucking masterpiece. Even she could admit that.

“That looks fucking unreal.”

Syd could have almost kicked herself for the small thrill she felt when she saw Carmy back in the kitchen, this time in a jacket and tie that looked as if it had been thrown on mere moments ago. But her rational side prevailed, and any knee jerk reactive joy was swiftly replaced by tentative suspicion.

“Thanks,” she said a little stiffly. She took out her knife to begin carving into the lamb, and without having to ask, Carmy held out a plate for her to put down the first serving. She met his gaze, her eyes softening slightly, a silent thank you.

“So you’re the groom,” she said as she arranged the meat onto the first plate. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

He handed her another plate for the next serving. “Why’s that?”

Because a groom probably shouldn’t be having a panic attack minutes before greeting his wedding guests. Or hanging out in the kitchen, discussing dead brothers and moms, instead of entertaining said guests. He should be with his fiancé.

Syd shrugged. “No clue.”

They plated two more dishes before Syd finally asked, “Shouldn’t you be out there? With the guests? I mean, I assume those are your friends and family.”

“Family, mostly,” he said, “but not mine. Just Claire’s. They’ve all come from out of town, which is why we’re having this dinner.”

“Where’s your family?”

“My sister and mom will be at the wedding. But all these events leading up to it are kind of a lot for them. Especially my mom – especially with an open bar.”

Syd nodded, now understanding clearly his discomfort with this dinner and possibly every other event in store for him this week. “I get it,” she said. And somewhat against her better judgment, she added,  “And I get why you’re hiding out in the kitchen.”

He grinned at her conspiratorially. “If I’m fucking up your system, just let me know.”

She looked at the rows of plated lamb that now took up most of the counterspace. “Nah. You’re actually helping me a lot. I usually do all of this alone, with occasional help from the wait staff.”

“Huh,” he said. “Maybe I should go into catering.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re getting a cut of tonight’s fee.”

“Heard.”

The grin on his face shifted something inside of her, but she barrelled past whatever it was to continue serving up the lamb.

“So how’d you guys meet?” Syd asked, again trying to bring more context to him, to this impending wedding, to this overall bizarre situation.

“Who?”

“You and Claire.”

His grin faltered, and Syd chose to ignore this to keep her focus on the lamb. She felt a weird responsibility to bring up his fiancé, considering all the personal details they had divulged to each other when he had first been in the kitchen. Surely his fiancé was something he could talk about if he could also open up about his dead brother and his mother’s need to stay away from open bars.

“We’ve known each other since we were kids,” Carmy said, adjusting the plating on one dish with a fork. “We lost touch when I left Chicago, but when I came back, we reconnected.”

“You mean, when you came back for your brother’s funeral?”

He put down the final plate of lamb and leaned back against the counter. “Yeah, Mikey’s funeral. She was actually there, and that’s how we got to talking again. She's in med school, finishing up her residency.” He paused. “Mikey had always liked her. She comes from a nice, normal family, and I guess that’s what he wanted for me. For himself.”

Syd faced away from him as he spoke, taking out the parmesan polenta and oak-smoked leeks to be plated next. She couldn’t see him but she could sense the strained tone of his voice. Perhaps bringing up Claire had been a mistake.

Yet he continued speaking. “That’s probably why everything moved so quickly. Us talking again. The engagement. Now the wedding. I feel a little whiplash just thinking about it.”

The more he spoke, the more Syd recalled the panic attack from earlier and the desperate, lost look that had filled his eyes as he paced back and forth. Again, he was a stranger to her, but she couldn’t stop thinking about how she had watched his breathing sync up with her as he found a sense of calm, slowly seeming to return to himself.

That version of him didn’t match up with the way he seemed to tense as he recounted the oddly disjointed story of how they had gotten engaged. Usually, at weddings or other events, when Syd asked couples how they met (one of her go-to conversation fillers with strangers), they’d paint her a cozy picture of kismet or charmed circumstances or bold declarations of love, whether they were newly together or married for decades. Carmy and Claire’s story, at least Carmy’s version, seemed to lack the same warmth.

The timer on her phone suddenly went off, reminding Syd it was time to take the focaccia out of the oven.

“Did you add onions to the brine, too?” He asked, watching her. 

She nodded. “Caramelized them first.”

“Killer.”

She began slicing the bread, and as she did, he placed the slices on the tray for the wait staff. This unspoken synchronicity still jarred her, but she had to admit, it made her job easier. They worked in silence, allowing Syd to assume that there wasn’t much more to Carmy and Claire’s this-is-how-we-got-together story. She wasn’t going to push him to talk about it unless he offered anything more. However, she did still have one question.

“Tell me,” she said, once they began spooning the bruschetta onto the individual slices. “What’s SOU?”

The grin that had faded from his face now returned. “Sense of urgency,” he said.

“Ah,” she said, suddenly understanding. “Thomas Keller?”

“Exactly. He knew his shit.”

This time when the swinging door opened, Syd felt like their conversation being interrupted was less abrupt – it was almost expected, really. The kitchen had become a liminal space where she belonged but he didn’t. It was an accepted marker of fate that he would be whisked away at any moment.

“Carmy,” Claire said, this time sounding less amused as she had the first time she discovered him in here. “Let’s go – my cousins from New York are here now.”

Carmy wiped clean the lip of a dish and automatically threw the dish towel over his shoulder, as if it was just another night in back of house. He was about to walk out the door before Claire yanked the towel off his jacket, tossing it onto the counter. He spared Syd another slight smile as he left.

Before Syd could mull this over, the wait staff streamed in, ready for the focaccia and to begin setting out the dishes in the dining room. Syd directed them where to go, again grateful for the all-consuming nature of her job. For the next few hours, it was nonstop, as she whizzed around the kitchen as servers came in and out, taking dishes and returning with dirty ones. She could hear snatches of conversation and laughter as the guests sat down for dinner, and at one point, Janet swept in, wine glass in hand, praising Syd’s work.

“Everything tastes divine,” Janet said, grabbing another bottle of Cheval Blanc from the wine fridge. “You’re a gem. A diamond.” Her overly affectionate praise and flushed cheeks made it clear that she probably wouldn’t remember a single item from the menu the next morning.

Syd was just relieved the first event had seemed to go swimmingly, despite her brief run-ins with the groom and the alcove panic attack that apparently was going to stay a secret between the two of them. She tried not to think about it too much as she began cleaning the kitchen and packing up her gear, feeling the anxiety and adrenaline of the day slowly seep out of her. She tried to savor this brief moment of release, but she knew her nerves were going to build up again for the next event in two days, the bridal shower.

The chatter and noise from the guests had died down considerably by the time she was bringing her array of pots, pans, and chafing dishes out to her car. Most of the wait staff had left, so she did it all on her own, something she never really minded. It was gratifying to feel this capable at the end of a long day – even if Sheridan Road was on its last legs. That still didn’t take away her sense of accomplishment from this evening’s dinner, and at this point, she’d take what she could get when it came to ego boosts.

When she had double checked that everything was packed and she had said goodnight to a visibly tipsy Janet, Syd sat in her car, taking a moment to breath, her mind spinning with food costs, upcoming menus, and despite herself, Carmy’s eyes on her as they matched each other’s breathing in that alcove.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, she thought.

“Hey, Sydney.” There was a knock on the car window.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She was startled, nearly jumping out of her seat. She looked over to see Carmy, jacket and tie gone, his sleeves rolled up. He was holding up a blue and green patterned scarf.

“Uh, sorry about that. But you left this in the kitchen.”

She lowered the window and took the scarf from him, their fingers brushing. “Thanks,” she said and meant it. “I could never lose this.”

He watched her with quiet interest as she tied the scarf to the base of the rearview mirror.

“This car…” he said, studying the wooden panels along the door. “I think my family drove something similar before I was born.”

“It’s a car that’s definitely meant for soccer moms and family road trips,” Syd said dryly. “Less so for transporting an entire suckling pig and three chafing dishes of potato terrine.”

“Still, it’s a pretty decent ride.”

“It was my mom’s.”

“Ah,” he said, as though he suddenly understood, the same way she had when he had explained the S, O, and U across his fingers.

“I never thanked you,” he said suddenly. He was still standing outside of the car window, his hands pressed against the door as his head bent slightly to meet her eyes. “For earlier.”

Despite knowing that doing so would make it difficult to think straight, she met his gaze head on. “You don’t have to thank me. Like I said earlier, it’s no big deal.”

His brow furrowed slightly, as if he was trying to figure out his next sentence. “You seemed, uh...” He paused for a moment. “You seemed to know how to handle a panic attack really well. Like, you’ve been trained or something.”

“I don’t know about trained,” she said, running a finger along the steering wheel, “but I’ve done it before. A few times, actually. My Dad used to have gnarly panic attacks after my mom died. He was always a good dad, but at the time, he was just…”

Syd wasn’t exactly sure how to describe that part of her childhood, when her Dad seemed to be a distant carbon copy of himself, and she spent evenings and nights with relatives when it got too much for him. Sitting with him through a panic attack was the one thing she could do for him as a five year old, though at the time, she thought she was simply holding her dad’s hand.

She tried again, “He was just…”

“Jello?”

She cracked a smile. “Yes. He was in the jello. Deep in that shit.”

“It sounds like you were there for him though,” Carmy said, his focus still on her as remaining dinner guests made their way to their cars around them, laughing and calling out their goodbyes.

“I was five,” she said. “He was just my dad to me, and I knew he was sad because he missed my mom. When you distill things down like that, you get to see how it’s really not that complicated. I think most people are good at doing that when they're five. Now? Not so much.”

His eyes seemed to grow slightly distant. “Then,” he said after a few moments of weighted silence had passed, “I guess I was just sad because I miss my brother.”

Syd looked at him, letting this stark admission hang in the air for a few moments. “Of course you do,” she said simply.

For the briefest second, she felt as though they were back in the alcove, inhaling and exhaling together until they were perfectly in sync. She still couldn't figure out why his gaze disarmed her, but instead of avoiding it, she found herself seeking it out. This, she knew, was a dangerous game. But before she could examine why, the distant sound of departing guests brought them back to reality. Carmy finally moved back slightly away from the car door.

“Uh, thanks for this,” she said, gesturing at the scarf. “I better go.”

He nodded. “Sure. And thanks for letting me get in your way in the kitchen.”

“You weren’t in the way.” She thought of the ease at which they plated and prepped together in the kitchen. She knew from experience that it wasn’t that effortless with everyone. “If I’m drowning at the wedding shower on Saturday, I’ll tap you in.”

He seemed genuinely pleased by this. “What’s on the next menu?”

“There will be more guests, so it's a buffet. Janet wanted something very…” She rolled her eyes slightly. “...Chicago, so I went with braised garlic beef tips. Throwing in some sesame, green onions…”

“A little mascarpone?”

“Shit. That’s a good idea.”

“You can take it.”

“Really?”

“It’s all yours.” He suddenly looked  completely exhausted by the entire evening. “I’ll see you there then, Syd. Sydney.”

“Syd is fine.” She couldn’t help but smile, again, for the umpteenth time that night, against her better judgment.

“See you Saturday, Syd.”

She rolled up the window, and he watched her pull out of the long driveway, his hands in his pockets against the chilly night air. It wasn’t until she had left the eerily quiet neighborhood and was back on the highway that she found herself exhaling a long, labored breath, as if she had been holding it in since dinner had started.

She stepped on the gas slightly, picking up speed as her mind replayed the evening in jumbled, out-of-order bits. It all left her overwhelmed, fatigued, unsteady, and above all, confused. She had no idea what to make of any of it, and she tried her best to push aside any thoughts of Carmy –the fucking groom of this whole wedding– and focus instead, on the next menu, ingredients, head count, prep work that needed to be done starting tonight…

Through her tidal wave of thoughts, she remembered: sense of urgency.

Syd felt it now, deep in her bones, as she zoomed down the highway, her eye occasionally catching the scarf tied to the rearview mirror. The feeling had been building ever since she had gotten in over her head with Sheridan Road, but now, it seemed to thrum inside of her, like the beat of a drum. It was scary, yes –maybe even terrifying– but also, as much as it pained her to admit it, thrilling.

She'd keep this feeling to herself, of course. She was good at that. For now, alone in her car with the darkened city blurring past, she allowed her mind to wander, back to his hands seamlessly guiding the knife and his eyes catching the blue of her mother's scarf. She smiled, flushing slightly, a secret caught only by her reflection in the rearview mirror.

Chapter Text

Cater the hell out of these events.
Collect your check.
Go.  

That’s what Syd repeated to herself on the drive to the Home Alone mansion two days later for the wedding shower. Aside from the wedding reception, this event, with a guest list double the size of the welcome dinner, would be the biggest one, so she needed to stay sharp. No distractions. No side quests. No staring into anyone's obnoxiously blue eyes. 

When she arrived, she sat in her parked car, going over her various checklists and menu notes, but also, attempting to quiet the whirlpool of convoluted emotions and thoughts within her.

She had done her best to stay occupied and distracted since the welcome dinner, which shouldn’t have been difficult considering the sheer amount that needed to be done: meat was marinating, supplies were gathered, the menu was tweaked, and whatever prep work could be done in advance was swiftly taken care of. In short, a million things she had done countless times before.

But despite her endless to-do list, Syd still found herself fixating on random moments from the other evening that left her feeling further unmoored. The panic attack in the alcove. His hands as he chopped the artichokes. Her mother’s scarf being handed to her through the window. The drop in her stomach when she saw Claire and Carmy together alongside the silent refrain they prompted: It all makes sense.

These discombobulated thoughts all meant something to her on an instinctual level, but Syd wasn’t quite ready to confront what that was exactly.  No, she simply had too much to do; she was only on event number two out of five this week, after all.

Cater the hell out of these events. Collect your check. Go. It was so simple. So why did it set off a low grade panic each time it ran through her head?

Before she could even attempt to answer this question, her attention was caught by an older man in glasses, smoking what looked like a Cuban cigar and meticulously studying her car’s exterior. He was circling the car like a balding shark, examining its details as if he was staring at a priceless work of art. Syd occasionally encountered people like this when she was out in her old vehicle. These gawkers were usually car enthusiasts of some sort, mostly harmless but slightly unsettling with their encyclopedia-like knowledge and expectations that she be just as well-versed as them when it came to old ass station wagons.

When the man crouched down to get a closer look at the bumper, Syd sighed and got out of the car.

“Hi there,” she said cautiously.

The man jumped somewhat, as if he hadn’t realized she had been sitting in the car the whole time. “Oh, sorry for staring, miss. I couldn’t help it. Tell me. This is a, what? 78? 79? Ford Squire?”

“1975,” she replied, slightly taken aback when he took advantage of her opening the door to begin inspecting the car’s interior.

He let out a low whistle. “Even better,” he said. “I remember seeing these all over the neighborhood back in the day. It’s a goddamn battle ax – this baby could probably survive nuclear fallout.”

“Uh, I guess so? It’s been with my family for decades, mostly just sitting in my uncle’s garage.”

“That explains why it’s practically in mint condition.” He suddenly stopped his examination of the dashboard to look at her. “You interested in selling it?”

Though she had just been looking up online vintage car dealerships just the other day, the question still caught her completely off guard. “No. It was my mother’s.”

Her refusal didn’t seem to phase him though, and instead, he seemed to try another tactic. “You here for the groom or the bride?”

“Neither. I’m the caterer.”

“I’m Jimmy,” he said, holding out a hand for her to shake. “The groom's uncle.” He fished a business card out of his pocket and offered it to her. “If you change your mind, let me know. I’m not a car guy, but holy hell, I haven’t seen a vehicle like this in years – instant nostalgia. Think I felt up my first girlfriend in a joint like this.”

“Um. Cool, I guess?”

He seemed lost in memories Syd shuddered to think about, but he abruptly returned to the matter at hand, and asked. “I didn't catch your name, dear.”

“Sydney.”

“I can pay in cash, Sydney,” he said matter-of-factly. “Picture it: you can go out and get one of those hippie dippy hybrids that run on sunflower oil to replace this gas guzzler.”

Syd remembered the hasty online research she had done: $50k if you find the right buyer. She had assumed someone that desperate for an old station wagon didn’t exist, but apparently, here he was, chomping on a cigar like an extra out of a mob movie.

She took the card and slipped it into her pocket. “Thanks,” she said, trying to sound blasé, uninterested by the prospect of all that cash. “I’ll let you know. But for now, I gotta go inside.”

He stepped aside, giving her room to begin unloading her gear from the trunk. As she gathered everything and made her way to the house, he was still circling her car, utterly engrossed by the car’s fenders and muttering to himself.

That was fucking odd, she thought as she made her way to the house, trying not to fixate too hard on the business card in her pocket and the easy fix it could provide to her mounting debt.

Syd began setting up in the kitchen, taking a moment to appreciate the sense of calm that fell over her as she laid out pans on the counter, loaded up the fridge, and switched on the oven. This is where she belonged, and it wasn’t long before the rhythm of the kitchen took over, one that was instinctual for her to follow and calming in its nonstop action.

Though there was so much to do, the kitchen and the house in general were still relatively quiet, as she had gotten there much earlier this time due to the larger guest list. Janet, like so many of her other catering clients, had requested “fresh pasta,” something that they always rattled off without a second thought, as if it was just a matter of snapping her fingers and magically cranking out impeccable bucatini. But Syd had agreed, so she got to work on rolling out the dough for the lobster ravioli, losing herself in the pleasantly repetitive task.

“You need an egg wash on that?”

She recognized the voice before she looked up, and in that split second, tried to brush aside the anticipation that had been building since she had arrived, silently looking for him, not daring to admit to awaiting his presence.

“Yes, actually,” she said to Carmy, pushing some eggs towards him over the counter. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt, which meant she could now see the tattoos that wound around his forearms and biceps, inky black with simple thin lines. She tore her eyes away from them, forcing herself to concentrate on the dough.

“If you’re planning on hiding here again,” she continued, “I think it’ll be a lot tougher this time considering the sheer size of the guest list.”

“I know.” He almost sounded defeated, as he began cracking the eggs into a bowl.

“God, could you sound less excited for people to give you a bunch of wedding gifts?”

He shook his head, smiling slightly, as if he knew he was coming off as an ungrateful asshole. “I know,” he repeated. He began adding water to the bowl. “I’m just not big on all the, you know, pageantry of it all. I would’ve been fine with just going to City Hall, but this is all for Claire’s family. This is just how they do things, I guess.”

Syd didn’t know Claire or her family – hell, she didn’t even really know Carmy, so she kept silent about them. Instead she just said, “I get that. But there’s nothing wrong with a little ceremony though. It doesn’t have to be big. Just something to acknowledge that important shit is happening.” 

“Ceremony, I can get behind,” Carmy said. “I mean, that’s what a restaurant is, after all. Just an entire ceremony centered around eating, something most people do at home, on their couch in front of a screen.”

“Hey, don’t knock that either.”

He smirked. “I would never.”

She handed him a whisk. “Okay, so if you’re not into the family dinners or the wedding shower or, it seems like, actually hanging out with your wedding guests, what part of weddings do you like?”

He proceeded to whisk the egg yolks for a full ten seconds before coming up with an answer. “Braciole.”

Syd paused her work on the dough. “You mean the roulade? With the breadcrumbs and the provolone?"

Carmy nodded. “And parm. And pine nuts. And top loin – none of that flank steak bullshit.”

“Is that something traditionally served at weddings?”

“No clue.” He was now helping her with the dough, meticulously forming circles for the ravioli with the pastry cutter. “But it was something Mikey used to make every Sunday, just for the family. It was the closest we got to being a somewhat functional unit, so I guess that was our very own ceremony. If I had to pull a tradition to have at my wedding, that dish would be it.”

He went quiet, as if he was cutting himself off, afraid of talking too much.

“In case you forgot,” Syd said finally, “you’re the groom, and that’s kind of a big deal – you have a say in your own wedding. So if you want braciole, you can have braciole.”

The way his eyes turned downward as he smiled made Syd want to suddenly stop time from barreling forward, so that no one could barge into the kitchen and no guests would arrive, demanding to be fed. She just wanted an extra second of two to stay still in the moment, enjoying the two of them in the kitchen, hands covered in flour and the main course slowly marinating in the oven.

Stop, stop, stop, the voice of reason within Syd chimed in, knowing this dreamy line of thought was counterproductive. She reluctantly listened to it.

“It’s not a problem,” she said hastily, resuming her work on the dough a little too quickly so that it tore slightly. He reached over to knead it over, glancing at her. He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and bergamot. “I’ll adjust the menu.”

“That’s actually really decent of you.” He was looking at her with a stark expression of gratitude. She reverted her eyes back down at the pasta dough to keep her thoughts in order.

“Again, you’re the groom. You call the shots. Sort of.” She moved towards the fridge, where the lobster filling was already prepared and ready to be poached in stock. “Did you have a particular recipe you want me to use for the braciole? I’m guessing your brother had his own methods, ingredients.”

“He did.” Carmy pulled out the stock pot and placed it on the stove, allowing her to pour in the olive oil and other various vegetables. “It was a pretty specific recipe when I think about it. All of his recipes were kind of a fucking mess, but that’s what made them work, weirdly enough.”

“Did he write any of them down?” Syd asked, stirring in chicken and veal stock along with the lobster.

“Of course not.” He paused, as if he was just now seeing the problem that this posed. “How about I help you make it? Most of the work is in the prep, and that can all be done the night before the wedding.”

Syd swallowed, unsure how to proceed. Her immediate reaction had been a silent, resounding yes at the thought of working through such a complex and meaningful recipe with Carmy. But as she had been doing so often lately, she had to force herself to be rational, prudent. “Janet’s not paying me so that you can cook for your own wedding. Just give me the basics, and I can figure it out from there. You shouldn’t be cooking the night before you get married anyway. Go enjoy your wedding.”

“That is me enjoying my wedding.”

Syd knew what he meant, but it still sounded odd, given the sheer amount they had learned about each other in only a few interactions, given whose wedding it was exactly. Again, she could have stood to examine the predicament closer, but instead, she had an entire dinner to roll out in less than two hours.

“Fine,” she said, folding immediately. She placed a lid on the pot, letting the ingredients simmer. “We can make the braciole together.”

His smile from earlier only widened at this, essentially blocking out anything her feeble voice of reason had to add in that moment. Even with all her defenses and guards put up, somewhere deep within her, Syd knew she was letting herself give in. Give in to whom or what exactly? She ignored the question to focus on the next dish: the duck breast with sweet potato hash and balsamic-doused sun dried cherries.

As they began laying out cutting boards and bowls, Syd felt it was time to veer the conversation away entirely from sentimental recipes and the prospect of cooking together, this time alone.

“So,” she said, “I met your Uncle Jimmy. He tried to buy my car. In cash.”

“He what?” Carmy asked, not looking entirely surprised. “First, he’s not really my uncle. Second, don’t sell him your fucking car.”

“I mean, I probably won’t,” she said with a sigh. “But it was a tempting offer, especially considering that I’m knee-deep in credit card debt trying to keep this whole operation alive.”

She handed him a sweet potato and they each began peeling the small pile between them.

“Don’t do it,” Carmy said. “Trust me, you’ll feel like shit if you do.”

The edge to his voice surprised her. She glanced at him, and he caught her eye. Now he sighed. “When I first moved back here and the Beef was tanking, we couldn’t afford the meat delivery one day, so to cough up the cash for it, I sold Mikey’s 1955 blanket-lined Type 3.”

“Shit.” Syd said. Then she paused. “A Type 3 is a… car?”

A slight smile crossed his face. “A jacket. Mikey was into vintage denim. He had given it to me as a kid, and I never thought I was cool enough to wear it. So I just kept it on me, every place I moved. Had no idea these secondhand nut jobs were paying hundreds for denim like that.”

He was going through the sweet potatoes at an almost mechanical rate, keeping his eyes focused on his work as he spoke. “Mikey had stopped speaking to me about a year ago. No idea why. But then a few months ago I got a voicemail from him, the first time I'd heard his voice in ages, asking me if I still had his jacket and if I could mail it to him.”

Syd listened intently, her hand on the peeler slowing while Carmy's continued at a steady pace. Though his movements with the peeler were precise and steady, his voice hitched slightly as he continued speaking. “I didn't send it to him, of course. I was being a dick, but also, I was starting to suspect what was going on with him – probably the last to put the pieces together, honestly. Then a few weeks after that, my sister called me to tell me that the motherfucker had shot himself on the State Street Bridge.”

At this, he placed the last peeled sweet potato in a bowl with the others.

“Carmy,” was all Syd could manage to say. 

He was finally still, leaning forward slightly with his hands on the counter. Her instinct was to take his hand, which she noticed was trembling faintly – but she remembered where she was, who he was. A flare of frustration jolted through her as she felt helpless, watching him.

So she took out the paring knife and slid it over to him, along with a cutting board. He glanced at it, and then the sweet potatoes, before his eyes flicked up at her. She nodded. With a similar expression of gratitude from earlier, he began dicing the potatoes with a seamless grace and practiced ease that was almost magic. She watched him for a moment before moving to the fridge to gather the sun dried cherries.

“Did you ever get it back?” She asked finally. “The jacket, I mean.”

“Nah.” His eyes remained on the cutting board. “It’s probably out of the country by now. But yeah, I wasn’t thinking straight at the time I sold it.”

“Well, your brother just died. That’s not exactly a time to rationally make any big decisions.” As soon as she said it, she realized what could possibly be construed as left unsaid: …like getting engaged and married in the span of a few weeks.

Syd froze for a moment, hoping he hadn't inferred what she said as patronizing or judgemental, but he kept his eyes on the prep work, his hands as steady and swift as ever. If he did sense anything behind her statement, he seemed to move past it easily.

“So,” he said, not seeming remotely phased, “credit card debt, huh? How’d that happen?”

The concentration required for the repetitive kitchen tasks allowed for conversation to flow and change directions easily. Their hands and eyes were occupied, giving the rest of themselves more leeway to wander.

Syd proceeded to recount to Carmy Sheridan Road’s journey from idealistic small business to bankruptcy-bound headache, and as she told him about every small victory and subsequent loss along the way, she felt oddly lighter. She found it easy to talk to him, something that still baffled her since, as she reminded herself time and time again, they were practically strangers.

But, Syd had to consider, it wasn’t every day that she let a stranger help her strain stock, the both of them standing shoulder to shoulder, their arms touching and brushing against each other in a way that left heat creeping up her neck. Nope, she told her guilt-ridden conscience, not weird at all.

If Carmy found the dynamic weird, he didn’t seem to show it. By the time the lobster was ready to be scooped onto the pasta dough, he was telling her about the nightmare that was his time at Eleven Madison Park. The way he talked about the near-constant stress and abusive EC made Syd reframe the panic attack she had helped him out of the other day. 

He had mentioned that Syd seemed to be trained at handling panic attacks, but now she sensed that Carmy seemed to be trained in experiencing panic attacks, like they were something that happened regularly and were hardly noteworthy. He had recovered from the most recent one quickly, as if it had been nothing. The thought saddened her. Even her Dad eventually stopped having regular panic attacks – though the proverbial jello remained and he continued to navigate his life through it. She wished the same for Carmy.

“That’s the last of it?”

“I think so.”

Syd stepped back and looked at the impressively varied spread that now lay out on the chafing dishes, ready to be carried out into the dining room. She could hear a few guests who had arrived early, and the wait staff was trickling in, checking in to see if she was ready to start setting up.

“Thanks again for helping me prep,” she said, wiping down the counter. “If Janet finds out how much you’ve actually done, she may demand a discount.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve been in a kitchen,” Carmy replied. “I didn’t want to get rusty.”

“It’s only been, what, a few weeks?”

“Still.”

Syd got the distinct feeling that he, too, heard the guests outside and other general party-related noise brewing and was choosing to linger in the kitchen, at least for a little longer. A server popped into the kitchen and asked Syd if she was ready for them. She nodded, also feeling reluctant about bringing whatever this was to an end.

“I better go, too,” Carmy finally said, sounding about as enthused as a dog about to be put down.

Syd’s eyes glanced down at his hands, which were anxiously fidgeting.

“Here,” she said, handing him the spoon she kept tucked at her back in her tied apron strings. Most chefs she worked with had a spoon on them at all times, mostly for tasting and measuring purposes, but also, as a conduit for all their nervous energy.

He grinned, taking it and sticking it in his pocket. “And about the braciole. We can make it at my place – I have the space for it. Let’s figure out a time?”

“Sure.”

He handed her his phone, and she entered her number, all the while teetering between feeling excited about the prospect of cooking together again and slightly duplicitous, even though everything they were doing was (technically?) above board.

Once more servers came in to take the finished dishes into the dining room, the flurry of activity signaled that their time hiding in the kitchen was officially over.

“Try to have fun,” she called over her shoulder, following a server to the dining room.

He watched her leave, looking slightly adrift. “I’ll try.”

Syd let herself get swept up in setting up the rest of the buffet, ensuring everything was laid out perfectly before the food was swarmed. Once the spread was made available to the guests, Syd streamed in and out of the kitchen, heating up second and third helpings and whipping up anything that needed to be made fresh. It was nonstop for over an hour, and by the time a lull finally came her way, she found her forehead sticky with sweat and her back and legs sore from standing for so long – nothing she wasn’t used to at this point.

Taking off her scarf, she made her way leisurely to the dining room to replace one of the entrees, taking the time to cast her eyes for the first time around the party. Carmy had mentioned that again, most of the guests tonight were friends and family of Claire, and Syd sensed this as she caught Claire flitting between groups, laughing and smiling, completely at ease. She scanned the crowd until she finally found Carmy, backed into a corner with his Uncle Jimmy and a tall, lanky man in a tracksuit who was talking loudly, emphasizing his point with wild gesticulations.

Syd could admit that one of the reasons she had come out of the kitchen in that moment was to see Carmy and Claire together. She wanted a visual reminder of why the two of them just made sense. But seeing them apart failed to incite the same sentiment from before. They seemed to not only be at different parties but different worlds entirely, with Claire, effervescent among her family, and Carmy, clearly uncomfortable and seemingly bored out of his mind, anxiously rubbing the stem of Syd’s spoon with his thumb and index finger.

Syd sensed she was drawing conjectures out of nowhere, so she made her way back to the kitchen. As she pushed the door open, she caught Carmy’s eye from across the room, and his face softened as he smiled slightly. Syd tried to throw him what she hoped was a look of solidarity, as he currently seemed trapped by the tall man monologue-ing before him.

As the evening wrapped up and Syd prepared to drag herself to her car, her limbs exhausted and her mind even more so, she made a conscious effort to stay in the kitchen. It seemed when she was away from Carmy, her rational, prudent side made a strong case for avoiding him. Whatever feelings he evoked made her feel confused and guilty as fuck, and since she was too busy (or, as those who knew her best would correctly clock, avoidant) to examine this, the safest course of action was to just steer clear of him.

But it was another matter entirely when she was in his presence, prepping vegetables side by side or shooting the shit over a simmering Dutch oven. Any attempt at sensibility was swept to the side in favor of the seamless flow of their rhythm in the kitchen together and the easy flow of conversation. Syd spent most of her life in some suspended form of anxiety or neurosis, so she knew any moment where she got a reprieve from both was fucking rare. And it was hard not to enjoy it. To seek it out. To crave it.

When Syd was finally in her car, her backseat and trunk piled high with chafing dishes and errant pots and pans, she sat back in the seat, closing her eyes and feeling drained enough to fall asleep right on the spot. But her phone buzzed with a text, and she picked it up to see a message from her Dad.

Hey, baby. 30 minutes wait for a train on the red line. Can you give an old man a ride?

She felt a tinge of guilt, realizing it had been a while since she had seen her Dad in person. Since she had thrown herself fully into Sheridan Road, their time together had been sparse. And yet she texted with her dad nearly every day, still charmed by his habit of texting her every morning with a jaunty: What's the news today, baby? It was how he used to greet her at the breakfast table every morning before school. Now it was their main way of digitally debriefing each other on the day ahead.

Earlier today she had mentioned to her Dad that she’d be in Winnetka that evening, not too far out of the way from him, and he knew she worried about him going home by himself when he worked the late shift. She sent her reply promptly:

Of course. Give me 15 min.

She got there in ten minutes thanks to the empty late night highway. The sight of her dad in his rumpled work clothes was such a welcome sight that she felt her exhaustion temporarily lift.

“Long time no see, baby,” he said once he was inside, pulling on his seatbelt. 

As was his habit any time he was in the station wagon, he gave the jammed glove compartment a sharp jab with the side of his fist in an attempt to see if it would spring open. No such luck.

“Stubborn thing,” he said airily. It had been stuck for decades at this point, having first been rendered permanently shut when her mom had suddenly slammed on the brakes one evening to avoid hitting a stray dog. Her parents had been on one of their earliest dates at the time, and her dad liked to joke that not even her mom’s death-defying driving skills could dissuade him from asking her out on another date.

“Sorry, Dad,” Syd said through a heavy sigh. “Things have been hectic.”

“Work?”

She hadn’t yet told him her plan to call it quits on catering for good after this week of wedding events. She knew he would be nothing but supportive, if not a little worried, but she wasn’t ready to officially announce Sheridan Road as her first big failure in adulthood. At least, not to her dad, who had been so proud of her when she called last year to giddily tell him about her first booked gig, that he had shed an actual tear. Syd just didn’t have it in her to tell him it had all crashed and burned.

“Work,” she just replied. “Life. Everything. You know.”

“I do know.” He glanced at her as they made their way through the familiar streets of her childhood. “I know how you get when you’re working towards something. Hectic doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Syd had been a classic overachieving only child, and no matter how much she convinced herself she’s changed since then, being around her Dad was always a stark reminder that part of her still existed, aiming for straight A’s.

“Just promise me,” he continued, “That you’re at least enjoying a part of it.”

Her mind immediately went to earlier that evening: a quiet kitchen and a mountain of vegetables to prep with just her and Carmy to take care of them, the conversation boundless in its ease and natural flow.

“Yeah,” she said simply. “I’m still enjoying it.”

“Good. It would break my heart to know you're working yourself to the bone out there just to be miserable while you do it.”

Syd stopped at a red light to give him a pointed look. “I’m not miserable, dad. I’m just busy. And busy is good.”

“Sure, sure.” He didn’t sound entirely convinced. He had always supported Syd’s culinary aspirations, though he had never always understood the non-linear path it took to get there.

They drove the rest of the short ride in a comfortable silence, her Dad occasionally pointing out condos or Chase banks as they passed, naming which ones used to be their favorite deli or used bookstore.

When she pulled over in front of her childhood home, her dad gathered his things and fixed her with a faux-stern look. “Come by for breakfast one of these days,” he instructed her. “Any day. Surprise me. I’ll have all your favorites.”

She had to laugh, knowing her Dad always kept pancake mix just for her. “I promise.”

“And you’re sure?”

“Sure about what?”

“You’re still enjoying it?”

“Yes, dad. I’m still enjoying it.” She tried to push the hours spent prepping in the kitchen earlier out of her thoughts. The neatly stacked pile of peeled sweet potatoes. Tattooed hands rolling lobster into freshly made dough. Cigarette smoke and bergamot.

Her Dad gave her a crooked smile, ran a hand through the scarf on the rearview mirror, and then heaved himself out of the car. As she watched him make his way up the stairs to the apartment, her phone lit up with a new message.

I tried to have fun. I really did.

She stared at the screen, picturing Carmy typing the message from the same corner she had spotted him throughout most of the wedding shower.

How’d that work out for you?

A few seconds later, she received a photo of the spoon she had given him earlier that evening, now sharply bent at the neck, smudged with fingerprints. She let out a burst of laughter in the quiet, dark car.

You tried. That's what counts.

I've been trying.

She thought of the pile of wedding gifts that she had seen at the end of the shower as she left. And Claire laughing with her guests, looking at ease and, Syd had to admit, genuinely happy. As if someone had flipped a switch, Syd's guilt swept in, making it difficult to even look at the words on the screen.

Try harder.

Chapter Text

He cornered her at the rehearsal dinner when she stepped out of the kitchen to retrieve another Sterno can from her car. They stood in the alcove near the garage, where she had seen him that day for the first time and had taken his hands, syncing his breathing to hers. But this time, she was the one lightheaded, dangerously unsteady.

“You were right,” he said, stepping towards her.

“About what?” He was staring at her so intensely that she had to swallow before speaking. She took a small step back, too, but this only left her pressed against the brick wall of the garage.

“I should try to have more fun at these things.” His voice was low and insistent in a way that made her want to lean forward and feel it vibrate against her skin.

The distant sound of the guests and silverware against plates from the house barely registered to her. Instead, she could only focus on his hand gently brushing across her jaw until his fingers curved around the back of her neck, bringing them close enough that when she blinked, her eyelashes fluttered against the small scar along his right cheek. Their heads slightly tilted, they stood there for a moment, unbearably close, their mouths just barely touching.

Her mind made a feeble attempt at reason, reminding her that Claire, Claire’s family, and Claire's mother –the person paying the catering bill– were all mere feet away, and it wouldn’t be long before someone noticed that the groom, and to a lesser extent, the caterer were both missing.

But the attempt went ignored when he finally bridged the gap between their lips, kissing her with an unhurried softness that took her by surprise, considering the intensity of his gaze just seconds ago. It was just as much a question as a kiss, she realized. He pulled away slightly, his lips lingering on hers long enough that she felt slightly crazed by the absence of something she had experienced for only a few moments.

They opened their eyes, meeting each other’s gaze as both of them caught their breath. It only took her half a second to answer the question he had just posed: she wrapped her arms around his neck and resumed the kiss, this time without an ounce of caution. This was all he apparently needed to shake loose any hesitancy on his part, as his arms encircled her waist, eliminating any remaining space between them, while his tongue met hers with a low groan.

It was the groan that undid her, spurring her on to dig her fingers into his unruly hair and press against him like she was trying to melt into him. She felt his hands leave her waist and begin untying her apron, and once it was loosened, they heard the spoon she had tied back there clatter to the ground, making them both jump.

They both instinctively looked back at the house, and then at each other, a nervous shock of laughter escaping from both. Without missing a beat, they resumed their kissing, this time with him hitching her leg flush against his side, one hand gripping her like he wanted to make up for the hours they had spent in the kitchen, inches away from each other. His other hand slid beneath her shirt, skimming up her back before drawing back down with his palm flat against her skin, trailing every inch with heat.

“Syd,” he breathed into her mouth. “I tried. I really did.” His fingers were unhooking her bra, while hers were tangling deeper into his roots, pulling slightly. 

She gasped when his calloused fingers brushed against her nipple before cupping her breast, prompting her to imagine the S, O, and U claiming the soft flesh. His head bent down so that her mouth was at his ear, allowing her to speak by barely raising her voice at all.

“I did, too.”

Syd blinked awake, the covers kicked off her completely and the distant sounds of early morning traffic seeping in through her closed window.

“Fuck.” She said out loud. “What the actual fuck.”

Her hand trailed down to her thigh, as if she imagined she'd find a bruise there from fingers that had pressed deep into her flesh. She found nothing there, of course. Disappointed and still disoriented, she did the only sane thing she could think to do: get out of bed and start her day, preparing for Claire’s bachelorette party.

This was supposed to be the easiest, most stress-free event of the week. All Syd had to do was drop off and set up a few trays of finger food and desserts at the apartment of Claire's friend, Kelly, near Little Village. Then she could leave, as from there, the guests would go off to something called the Thunder From Down Under, rendering Syd's catering duties effectively done for the evening.

When she got to the apartment and was welcomed in by Kelly, there were a few people already there, congregating around a bottle of wine. Syd headed straight to the closed-off kitchen towards the back of the apartment to switch on the oven, so she could begin heating up the small spread. Her presence there seemed to be hardly noticed by anyone the more the music was turned up and extra bottles of wine appeared. Syd didn't mind. In fact, she preferred it this way.

The sleek condo was the kind of place that made Syd question all her most recent life decisions, especially when she compared it to the almost comically tiny studio she was renting uptown, which had poorly insulated windows and a neighbor who played the bassoon – but had a decent kitchen that suited her catering needs. This apartment, though, with its high ceilings and Pinterest-friendly neutral color palette, seemed to imply a cushy office job, private parking, and a 401(k). Syd felt as though she was a stranger in a foreign land, one where the rosé was flowing and money (or the lack of it) wasn't a source of constant dread.

You're doing what you love, she reminded herself. Even if it is kinda killing you.

As she laid out trays and assembled bougie cake stands, she heard the group in the living room collectively squeal and uncork another bottle: Claire had arrived.

Syd remained occupied by the countless small tasks at hand, but she couldn't ignore the tightness around her shoulders and her heightened awareness of the group’s muffled conversation. Any tension was completely one-sided though – how would anyone out there know that mere hours ago, Syd had woken up from an incredibly vivid softcore sex dream involving herself and the groom? Or that she had been replaying it in her head all morning? And maybe at least twice in the elevator up here?

Just thinking about it made Syd jab a wooden skewer through a cherry tomato with a little too much force that it squished the poor thing.

That dream was just that, she repeatedly told herself. A meaningless, stress-fueled dream of a person whose social life has been near-non existent ever since she started her own business.

She heard two voices approach the kitchen, and she straightened up – but no one entered and instead, she listened as the two people slipped into the small guest bathroom just across the hall. It was of little consequence to her – until she heard a sniffle and a voice that belonged to Claire.

Syd, already feeling like an interloper in this nice ass apartment, decided to lean into it. She moved to the counter near the kitchen door and nudged it slightly open with her foot, making it easier for her to hear the voices through the thin bathroom wall.

“...it’s nothing.”

“C'mon. No offense, babe, but you look like you're at a funeral, not your bachelorette.”

“I mean, that's kind of the problem. The funeral. I can't stop thinking about him.”

“Who? Wait. Mikey?”

There was no response, and Syd felt herself lean closer to the door, trying her best not to be a full-on creep and cup a drinking glass around her ear for optimum hearing capability. But still, Claire remained silent.

“Mikey was, what? A childhood crush? Someone to fantasize about because actually being with him would be, I dunno, insane?”

Syd finally heard Claire speak, her voice even more muffled. “Ever since the funeral, I've felt out of it. Like I'm sixteen again, doing everything I can to catch a glimpse of him around the old neighborhood.”

“Um. But ever since the funeral, you've been with Carmy.”

“He's been out of it, too. It's like he's going to disassociate his way through this fucking wedding. Maybe even beyond that.”

“Babe.”

“I know. This isn't how it's supposed to go.”

Syd moved away from the door, letting it shut so she could no longer hear anything but the whirr of the oven fan and the giddy laughter from the living room. She busied herself with trimming a pineapple and separating its core. Mikey. The name echoed through her head. And then another. Claire and Mikey.

She remembered Carmy mentioning that Mikey had always liked Claire, but she had never gauged to what extent. She supposed if Claire had nursed a childhood crush on him well into adulthood, then attending his funeral must have been heartbreaking. Again, not the best mindset to rationally make any big decisions – but again, none of Syd’s business.

Between her illicit dream and eavesdropping on a private conversation, Syd's guilt was an all-time high. It was no wonder that she nearly jumped out of her skin when the kitchen door opened, and in walked Kelly and Claire, the latter of whom looked perfectly fine, save for a slight redness to her cheeks.

“This looks great, Sydney,” Claire said. Syd couldn't detect if her enthusiasm was a tad overcompensating. “Everything has been great. The duck yesterday – my god.”

“I'm glad.” Syd couldn't elaborate, afraid that her guilt would somehow broadcast what she was thinking clearly on her face: I dreamt about throwing myself on your fiancé last night. And I'm sorry you're still in love with his dead brother.

“Everything is pretty much set up here,” she continued, suddenly eager to get out of there and forget everything she had just learned in the past five minutes. “I’m going to head out.”

Claire waved her on, thanking her again for her help, and Syd leapt at the chance to hightail it out of there. Her heart rate didn’t return to normal until she was finally in her car, driving through the city with the dusky skyline as a backdrop. At a red light, she finally took a moment to decide what she wanted to do. Go home. Do more prep for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow. Go to bed.

At least, that's what a smart, level-headed person would do – and Syd was usually the smartest, most level-headed person in the room. But not in that moment.

She continued to drive straight ahead, past buildings and alleys and corners she could navigate through in her sleep, before finally turning right on Orleans.

The illuminated neon sign over the Beef was turned off, but light shone through the shuttered windows. As she continued to approach the restaurant, she saw a figure standing out front, smoking. It’s not too late to go home. But then it was. Carmy looked up and seemed to recognize her car – it was hard to miss, after all.

Syd pulled into the empty lot, directly in front of where he was standing. He put out his cigarette almost sheepishly, as if she had caught him in a forbidden act, while she pulled the brake and took off her seatbelt, all the while thinking, This is on you now, Syd. Whatever happens from here on out – it’s on you.

“Here,” she said once she was out of the car and standing before him. “I had extra.”

She handed him a small bag that she had collected from the bachelorette party spread, and he took it, peeking inside, eyebrow raised. His white shirt was streaked with what looked like dry plaster and paint, and he had an exhausted air about him, as if the restaurant (or what was left of it) had drained him of all his energy.

“Is this arancini?”

She nodded, watching as he took a bite. As soon as he did, he nodded vigorously in a way that made her laugh.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” he said admiringly, his mouth still slightly full.

“I mean, it’s just arancini,” she said, leaning against the car’s hood. “Why not fuck shit up by adding some truffle oil?”

His mouth was too full again to reply, but he pointed his finger at her in agreement. As he ate, she studied the restaurant’s storefront, and through gaps in the window, she could see the inside was essentially a gutted construction site, complete with partially erected scaffolding and hastily torn down walls.

“So this is, what?” She asked, nodding towards the shuttered restaurant. “Your bachelor party?”

He shook his head, continuing to look depleted. “Not a party at all. More like an ongoing nightmare. Every day we learn something new about this shithole. Last week it was asbestos. Yesterday it was black mold. Today the gas line is down for the foreseeable future.”

“It gives you time though.” She continued to study the exterior. “Time to think about the new concept. New vibe. New menu.”

He seemed slightly taken aback by her remembering his exact words from that first night. “True. But who knows if that’ll ever happen. It was always just something Mikey and I talked about. We never made any concrete plans for actually getting that shit done.”

“What do you want now?” She asked. “Outside of what you had planned with Mikey, I mean.”

She had expected him to take his time answering, but without hesitating, he simply said, “A fresh start.”

It was only then that he paused. Seconds passed before he finally spoke again. “But after that? No clue.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “Aim high, even if the target is imaginary.”

“Is that a quote?” He said, looking amused. “Something your Dad used to say?”

“No, it’s from the Official UPS Truck Drivers Manual. It’s the key to making a safe, three-point turn.”

“UPS? Like, the…”

“UPS, like the mail.” She almost laughed again at the confused look on his face. “Paid my way through culinary school driving for them between semesters.”

“You must be a hell of a driver then.”

“I did okay. Not a single complaint on any of my routes.”

“Did you have a favorite?”

“A favorite route?” She threw him a sideway glance, prompting his mouth to turn upward slightly. “I mean, I named my business after it. Sheridan Road, along the Lake.”

He nodded, seeming to take this all in. His eyes were on her in a way that reminded her too much of her stupid, painstakingly vivid dream. But despite the way it made her flush, she didn't look away.

“It’s still golden hour,” he said, gesturing towards the fading light in the sky. “Wanna show me?”

At this point, Syd was too tired to engage with her internal monologue, which was mostly just her guilt nagging her to go home. But a slightly more destructive, irrational part of her couldn’t help but whisper in her ear that if Claire was going through everything for the wrong reasons, Syd could, too.

“Let’s go.”

Once they were in the car and making their way up north, Syd figured Carmy effectively couldn’t leave, so she asked him the question she knew she would have never asked if they weren’t both strapped in with their seatbelts. “So how did you propose?”

Carmy kept his eyes on the passenger window, one hand resting under his chin, making his voice slightly muted. “I didn’t.”

Ever the diligent driver, Syd kept her eyes straight ahead, though she knew she’d do the same, even if they weren’t in a moving car. They could talk about nightmare kitchens and dead relatives and lamb seasoning preferences, but when it came to Claire, the conversation tended to turn weighted, awkward. “So she was the one who proposed?”

“No. Not really. No one got down on one knee. There wasn’t even a ring.” He continued to face away from her, looking out the window as the dark blue of the lake made its initial appearance. “We were talking about what would happen once she was done with residency. She’s applying to places outside of Chicago – but I had just moved back, and hopefully, the restaurant will be back up and running sooner rather than later. So we were basically at an impasse.”

“And the solution was to get married?” She asked, trying her best not to sound even the slightest bit skeptical or critical, though she had many, many questions.

“It wasn’t a solution,” he said. “More like a stop gap.” She sensed his voice straining slightly. “At Mikey’s funeral, the priest was going on and on about Daniel in the lion’s den, talking about forgiveness and faith and deliverance. Everyone in the church was a mess, which was funny because Mikey had stopped going to church in middle school. Said it was a Ponzi scheme.”

“I left halfway through the service for a smoke, and that's when Claire and I started talking for the first time in, like, a decade. Mostly about Mikey. It was nice talking about him with someone who hadn’t been around him during all the dark shit. Tons of people showed up to the funeral, but I got the sense that not many of them really knew him. Claire seemed to know him, like, really know him – they kept in touch even when she went off to med school. Talking to her about Mikey was almost like he was still there – but the version of him from when I was a kid, when he gave me his jacket and made me feel brave when I wasn’t.”

They were coming up on Syd's favorite curve along the route, where the stones off Juneway Beach butted up against the road. A long pier jutted out onto the lake, and back when she had been driving the UPS truck, she had always been tempted to pull over and stroll down the wooden planks. In the winter, when snow and ice took over the beach, she could squint away the skyline and imagine she was in Antarctica or the moon or any place where she didn’t have to deliver packages to pay her tuition.

This time though, she simply wanted to be right where she was, despite her guilt, despite the dead end situation, despite everything.

“I held onto that feeling pretty hard those first weeks back,” he continued. “So when Claire and I started talking about the future and it was all a big unknown, we somehow decided that whatever happened, we’d stick together – basically getting engaged without saying those exact words. Next thing I know, a date was chosen to get married because the venue had a sudden opening, and Claire was wearing her mom’s engagement ring.”

Syd was gripping the steering wheel, picturing Carmy at the funeral, her stomach dropping slightly. But as he tried to explain the logic behind his engagement, she couldn’t help but get snagged on every point along the way.

“What?” He asked her, finally turning to look at her. “You look confused.” In that moment, Syd realized she must have had a telling look on her face to warrant his attention.

“Um, I don't know,” she started, not entirely sure where she was going, “it’s just all so passive.”

As soon as the word slipped out, she wanted to reach out and grab it back, but instead, it just hung in the air long enough for her to begin scrambling to apologize, “I don’t mean to be a dick, I just mean–”

“No, you’re right,” he said. “It sounds crazy, but I didn’t realize how fucking passive I was being until Claire finally heard that she had gotten a fellowship out in California – starting as soon as her residency wrapped up here. She found out right before that first welcome dinner. You know, in case you were wondering what exactly prompted that particular panic attack.”

The sight of Carmy pacing back and forth in the alcove came back to her in that instant, and she pictured their two separate trajectories intersecting at that moment. Or, she imagined, less of an intersection and more like a collison.

“So that’s our engagement story,” Carmy said finally. “Kind of a shitshow, huh?”

Syd just glanced at him briefly before returning her eyes to the road, trying to keep her face expressionless. Although, knowing herself, she imagined she was probably failing at that. But the further north they got, the more the scenery provided enough of a distraction. The blue of the lake continued to stretch out on the passenger side, refracting the setting sun into a mosaic of dusky pinks and blues. Syd wasn’t sure if it was the familiar route or being in her mother’s car or her present company – but she felt oddly at peace despite the somewhat off-putting story Carmy had just told.

“If it makes you feel better,” she said as they reached the bend in the road where Rogers Park turned into Evanston, “my dad proposed to my mom without a ring. No one got on one knee either. Mostly because they were in the parking lot of the Harold Washington Library. And my mom was sobbing.”

“Shit. His proposal was that bad?”

“No, it wasn’t the proposal. The crying was mostly on account of her just having taken a pregnancy test in the library bathroom – and it coming back positive. She was barely twenty-two at the time.”

“Okay, fuck. I get it.”

Syd smirked. “So if you think of it in terms of their shotgun wedding, then maybe my dad’s proposal was somewhat of a stop gap, too. But my mom always insisted on ceremony, and my dad knew this.” She kept her eyes on the road, but she could sense him watching her as she spoke. She had felt his eyes on her other times, when they were in the kitchen supposedly absorbed in their tasks, and each time, it flustered her like a warm spotlight.

“Since he was broke as hell and didn’t have a ring,” she continued, “he proposed to her using a piece of string. Back then, if you got an interlibrary loan, you’d get the book delivered to your branch wrapped in brown paper and string. Super convenient if you have to propose to someone on the fly in the library parking lot.”

“That actually sounds better than the real thing,” Carmy said.

“I think so, too,” she said with a smile. “It was less an engagement ring and more of a promise.”

By then, the sun had gone down over the lake, so Syd was making the loop back to drop Carmy off at his place. As they made their way back to the heart of the city, they pointed out their favorite spots for pizza or soup dumplings or tacos al pastor as they drove past them.

“All the places you like,” Syd couldn’t help mentioning, “seem to have been Mikey’s favorite places, too.”

“I mean, he was the one who’d take me out as a kid and take me around the city,” he said somewhat wistfully. “Hey, isn’t Belmont Snack Shop up ahead?”

“Nah, it’s gone. A fire, of all things.”

“Damn.”

“Now that you’re back in the city,” she said, “you should make some new favorites. A lot has changed around here – not all bad.”

He glanced at her, the warmth in his eyes making them even bluer, if that was even possible. Syd had to change the topic, just to keep her thoughts in order. 

Ironically or not, she was in the midst of recounting her time at UPS and her allegedly flawless driving skills when suddenly, she barreled over a particularly egregious pothole somewhere along North Ave, causing her suspension to clank loudly in protest as the old car hit the road with a resounding thud.

But miraculously, the sharp impact also jolted the jammed glove compartment, finally unlocking it, decades after it had first gotten stuck. It snapped open, and with it, a small array of cassette tapes, unpaid parking tickets, a pair of sunglasses, and a yellowing car owner's manual cascaded out.

“Oh, god,” she said, struggling to keep her eyes on the road. “I've been dying to know what's been inside there for years now – it's essentially a time capsule at this point.”

“Then pull over,” Carmy said, gathering the odd collection of items that had fallen out practically onto his lap. 

Once she pulled over into a nearby lot, she sifted through the contents, grinning slightly at her mom’s name on the parking tickets, past due by about thirty years. Each item was as mundane and ordinary as it could be, and Syd reveled in it all. It only made her mother all the more real.

“Anything good in there?” Carmy asked, amused.

“Just your average glove compartment from the early nineties,” she said. “My Dad will never believe this though. He’s been trying to open this thing for years.”

“Glad I was here to witness history.”

She smirked, and they resumed the drive, with Syd composing an excited text to her Dad in her head. Carmy chose one of the ancient cassette tapes at random and slipped it into the tape deck, which Syd was surprised to find still worked.

Amid a static-filled crackle, the jaunty rumble of a piano followed by the sultry bass came on, followed by lyrics Syd remembered her Dad singing around the house as he vacuumed, attempting his best Smokey Robinson impression. 

I don't like you, but I love you. Seems that I'm always thinking of you…

Their conversation took a pause, with Carmy only speaking to occasionally direct her to his apartment. For the remainder of the short drive, the music filled the car, almost ghost-like in its presence in the way it brought the long-considered obsolete tape deck to life, adding a forgotten spark to the old station wagon. As she had done countless times before, Syd imagined her mother driving the car, the same song playing, maybe even down this exact same street.

Once Syd pulled up in front of his building, Carmy finally broke the comfortable silence. “So much for your flawless driving skills,” he said.

She laughed. “It’s called defensive driving. They teach you that day one at UPS.”

He grinned, not looking remotely convinced. “So tomorrow. We’re still on for making the braciole?”

Syd hadn’t forgotten, but it seemed as though so much had transpired since they made their initial plans. “Yeah. We could do it after the rehearsal dinner – if that’s not too late for you.”

He shook his head. “Still on kitchen hours,” he said wryly.

She looked over at him, his seatbelt still on, and she tried to remember what exactly had compelled her to drive to his restaurant in the first place that evening. To tell him about what she had overheard Claire admitting about Mikey? To turn her softcore makeout dream into a reality? Both? Or more realistically: neither?

She still didn’t have an answer by the time Carmy finally undid his seatbelt.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said. “I hope this.” he gestured at the glove compartment door, still hanging ajar, “lived up to the hype.”

“Of course. Unless it's supposed to be more of an omen. But not sure if it’s a good one or bad one though.”

“We’ll find out, I guess.”

He opened the door and got out, but before closing it, he leaned his head in one final time. “Syd.”

“Yeah?”

“You were right.”

She felt heat creep up her neck at the déjà vu prompted by his words. “About what?”

“About trying to have more fun at these things.”

She was sure the heat had spread to the rest of her face and beyond, but she kept her voice steady. “Technically, this wasn’t a part of one of your wedding events.”

“True,” he admitted. “But I still had fun.”

She sighed, leaning back in the seat slightly before turning to look at him. 

“I did, too.”

Chapter Text

Syd had learned how to cook from her Dad, who was a capable home chef with a solid roster of go-to recipes that he had honed over the years. It wasn’t long before Syd surpassed him, whipping up her grandmother’s fish pepper soup or her mom’s scalloped potatoes to perfection by the time she was in middle school, and even tweaking the recipes based on her own palate. 

When she was twelve, she decided to make her dad his favorite milk-braised pork shoulder for his birthday, which he had had once years ago at Burke’s inside the James Hotel and hadn’t stopped talking about it since. She had put together a recipe constructed from other recipes and bits of things she had picked up from cookbooks and TV and proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon engrossed in the kitchen, chopping and seasoning and blending. 

“You’re pretty good at this, huh?” He had asked her, once he had tried the dish and proclaimed her a genius.

She had simply nodded. “It’s all I want to do.”

He had beamed watching her beam. “Just make sure you keep the joy behind it, baby.”

Syd found that the noise of the kitchen quieted the anxiety and low-grade panic she was already experiencing at a young age. And unlike school, where she pushed herself to excel (because: why not?) , she could get that same high by simple acts like deglazing a pan or bringing stock to a simmer. The joy she got from cooking was simple, and even at twelve, she knew that simplicity, especially when it came to happiness, wasn’t something that came along that often, so she tried to bottle that feeling and keep it close when she needed a reminder.

Syd needed such a reminder once the rehearsal dinner was in full swing back at the Home Alone house, this time with an intimate guest list of twenty people. The menu, which was centered on a swordfish and mussel tagine with braised lamb, had been executed flawlessly, and as she put the final touches on each dish, she exhaled the rich, savory aroma deep into her lungs, an attempt at both calm and acceptance.

The meal would be served shortly, and Carmy had yet to make an appearance in the kitchen. She hated that she had been anticipating his appearance the moment she started her prep work, but this didn’t dissuade her from looking up eagerly any time the kitchen door swung open.

But each time, it was usually just a server or Janet, or once, a blonde woman with an anxious expression.

“Was my brother in here?” She had asked Syd.

“Who’s your brother?”

“Tattoos, desperately in need of a comb, every word out of his mouth is ‘fuck’ this or ‘jagoff’ that,” she had rattled off Carmy’s most discernible features. “He’s the – ugh, I still can’t believe it. He’s the groom.”

“Oh.” Syd had paused mid-stir over the Dutch oven. She had recalled Carmy saying none of his close family would be attending any events until the wedding. Apparently this had changed. “No, I haven’t seen him.”

The woman sighed dramatically and turned back around out the kitchen, calling out as she left: “If you see him, tell him his sister is looking for him, and he can’t fucking avoid me forever.”

But there was no sign of Carmy. At least, in the kitchen. Syd had no intention of further shedding her dignity and stepping out to look for him, so instead, she threw all her concentration into plating dishes as if her life depended on it.

He doesn’t owe you a single thing, she thought, spooning the tagine as artfully as she could and silently cursing herself for even indulging in this line of thinking in the first place. You’re getting worked up over nothing.

Moments later, Janet came in and told her dinner was going to be delayed by about ten minutes.

“We’re waiting on a couple of guests,” she said, sounding irritated. “The important ones.”

“No problem.”

And Syd meant it – last minute changes were practically a fact of life when it came to catering. The plates were ready to go, so she stepped outside for a minute to breathe in a lungful of cool air. As she watched her breath fog out before her, she glimpsed a figure walking towards the house from a parked car – Claire. She was quickly striding with purpose and, if Syd had to guess, slight annoyance, as if she was trying to beat someone to a finish line.

Syd looked back at the parked car where she had come from and spotted another figure hanging back, smoking a cigarette. She recognized him immediately: tattoos, desperately in need of a comb, perennially exhausted. He put out the cigarette and made his way to the house slowly, his head bent down in concentration.

She returned to the kitchen, just in time for Janet to pop her head in, announcing that dinner was ready to be served, prompting a stream of wait staff to charge in, collecting plates. Syd allowed herself to get wrapped up in the controlled chaos of the kitchen, getting through the rest of the dinner without once giving into her urge to sneak a peek at the dining room. She had never been more grateful for the nonstop rush of serving dinner, and by the time she finally had a second to check the time, she saw that nearly three hours had passed. For Syd, the only clear evidence of what she had just accomplished was the dauntingly high pile of dirty dishes and the soreness in her muscles, as if she had just ran a marathon.

By the time guests were making their ways to their cars, Syd finally took off her apron, mentally crossing off another event for this week from hell. Four down, one to go. She made her first trip to her car with a random assortment of supplies, only to find a small piece of paper under her windshield wiper. A business card.

She took it and noticed it was one she had already seen before: James Kalinowski, KBL Electric. Uncle Jimmy. On the back, he had written: “In case you change your mind. (I can still pay in cash.)”

She stuck it in her pocket, rolling her eyes at the vague creepiness of the message and her annoyance that she was indeed still tempted by all that hypothetical cash. She then took out her phone and tried to ignore the way her stomach flipped when she saw there was a text from Carmy.

Ready to go?

Confusion hit her at first – Go where? Just the two of us?– but then her memory prompted her back to reality: braciole.

Yeah. I can drive.

By the time her car was all packed up, Carmy arrived, looking thoroughly depleted. Upon seeing him, Syd tried to ignore the dual waves of giddiness and confusion within her, while also hoping she still didn’t smell too strongly of tagine. He gave her a tired half-smile before getting in, and she slid into the driver’s side and turned on the engine, equally ready to get out of there. The cassette from yesterday was still in the tape deck, and the music came on as the car coughed to life, softening whatever edge Carmy seemed to have brought with him from dinner.

“Your sister was looking for you,” Syd said, as she pulled out of the driveway. “She sounded pissed.”

Carmy blinked slowly as if he knew this all too well. “Yeah. She was. We talked – she didn’t stay for dinner. Her loss. That swordfish was fucking genius. Was that olive relish?”

“Yeah. I switched things up a bit by using kalamata instead of niçoise.”

“That explains the sour–”

Suddenly Syd didn’t want to talk about olives. She went ahead with the question she had initially wanted to ask. “Why did your sister look like she wanted to kick your ass?”

Carmy ran a hand through his disheveled hair as the car sped up, getting onto the highway. Syd always felt a wave of relief, the further she got from the eerie antiseptic quality of the suburbs, but this time, she was too distracted waiting for Carmy's response.

“She thinks I’m making a huge mistake.”

Syd waited for him to elaborate, so for a few more moments, they drove in silence. Eventually she glanced at him, and their eyes met. There was a restless look to them that reminded her of the first time they had locked eyes in the alcove, his panic attack in full swing. Perhaps it was because of this memory that she gave him a brief reprieve, at least for the time they were in the car together, staring down the mostly empty highway.

“The sour, slightly earthy note in the relish was also on account of the saffron threads I added at the last minute,” she said, finally breaking the silence.

“Earthy, yeah, that’s it.” She could sense the gratitude in his voice. For the rest of the drive, they talked about olives and immersion blenders and anything else that seemed a million miles away from the rehearsal dinner or the impending wedding the next day. Syd wasn’t sure if she was offering him grace or just being a straight up coward. Either way, they fell into the easy dynamic they had established in the past few days, her mother's tapes playing in the background and their hands inches away from each other on the armrest.

The conversation flowed naturally and enthusiastically, as it always did with the two of them up until they reached his building and a strange solemnity seemed to take hold. She followed him up three flights of stairs in silence, again wondering how she got herself in this situation: coming over to the groom’s apartment the night before his wedding to make his dead brother’s favorite dish.

Once they were inside, Carmy only flipped on the light on the range hood, so that it was mostly just the kitchen illuminated, while the rest of the place took on the midnight hue of the night reflected from the windows. He had already taken care of all the ingredients, so they quickly got into it: throwing ingredients into bowls, dousing everything in olive oil, and flicking on the oven.

As Syd did the last part, Carmy quickly moved her aside, his hand on the small of her back, to open the oven again and take out a stack of folded denim that had been stored in the oven.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Gotta find a better place for these.”

Syd smirked, as she knew she was the exception when it came to chefs who actually used the kitchens in their homes. “Are those Mikey’s?”

He nodded, placing them on the couch. “They’re apparently worth a lot. But again, it feels weird to sell them.”

“Speaking of which,” she said, adding breadcrumbs to the large metal bowl she was stirring, “your uncle –or whoever he is– is still trying to get me to sell him my car. He left me his card. Again.”

“He’s a persistent motherfucker.” He pounded the top loin with the tenderizer for a few minutes before adding, “But now that you got the glove compartment open, you definitely can’t sell the car now.”

Syd snorted. “You should’ve heard the way my dad shouted when I told him I got it open. Like, he shed actual tears. Over a glove compartment full of old tapes and unpaid parking tickets.”

“I kind of get it though,” Carmy said, reaching over to take some of the breadcrumb mixture to sprinkle over the meat. “It’s like finding a pint of Baldwin cherry ice cream years after that shit was discontinued.”

“God, the cherry.” She laughed, setting the heavy Dutch oven atop the stove. “But of course, I get it, too. Maybe to his detriment, my dad has stayed devoted to my mom.” As she spoke, she felt his eyes intently on her – it was distracting but in an oddly enjoyable way. “Still wears his wedding ring. Still sleeps on his side of the bed. Still insists on putting up the Christmas tree every year exactly how she liked it.”

“That’s really…” Carmy had paused prepping the meat and was watching her, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“...heartbreaking?” She supplied. “Lonely?”

“I don’t know. Aspirational. To have loved that deeply. It does sound heartbreaking and lonely, but it also sounds like he doesn’t have any regrets.” As if he was unsure of what he was saying, he repeated, “I don’t know.”

Carmy returned to his work on the counter, but Syd continued to watch him. For the short time they had known each other, they were uncharacteristically open with each other in so many ways, and at the same time, hyper avoidant of one topic –or one person– in particular.

She asked, “Don’t you think you have that with Claire?”

He seemed to know she wouldn’t let him off the hook this time, so he turned to her again, his gaze surprisingly fierce. The dimly lit kitchen cast long shadows across their faces, making his eyes on her all the more intense. “I think if I did,” he said slowly, weighing each word, “I wouldn’t be wanting to spend the night before my wedding with you, Syd. And not just tonight but everyday this week. Maybe even beyond that, if I’m finally being honest.”

Syd felt her breath hitch, but even then, she couldn’t look away from his eyes. There had been an unspoken reason for their blatantly obvious avoidant behavior this week, and this was it – unleashing this level of truth was just too much to deal with. She took a small step back, and in the process, nudged the Dutch oven slightly off the burner.

She started. “Fuck–”

“Here.”

They both lunged towards the stove to fix the pot, their hands both landing on the sturdy handle. She felt herself flush but immediately felt slightly less conscious once she saw Carmy looked equally unsettled.

“Look,” he said. He took his hand off hers slowly, and she felt its absence keenly, though they had touched for barely a split second. “I should just shut the fuck up. I mean, that’s what I’ve been doing since that first day we cooked together. I’ve just been confused. So let me just shut the fuck up.”

She swallowed, finally feeling able to speak. “I’ve been confused, too. I don’t know what I’ve been doing either.” She shook her head, thinking of every opportunity she’d had this week to do the correct, rational thing, but every time, she had taken a sharp left deeper into her muddled feelings. “So maybe we should both just shut the fuck up and cook.”

Syd knew it wasn’t a permanent solution –and maybe, again, they were letting each other off the hook– but she could use the time spent cooking to come up with her next move. After all, that’s what the kitchen provided for her: clarity. She knew this truth when she was twelve, and she knew it now, preparing braciole in a small apartment kitchen with someone whose presence both calmed and confused her.

Carmy just nodded, looking relieved, as if he had expected her to storm out. If anything, he seemed grateful for the simple directive: keep cooking, something they could both do easily. He continued using the tenderizer on the meat, drowning out their recent conversation with the loud thud of the hammer, while Syd added garlic and red pepper to the pot on the oven. They continued like this in silence, the air heavy with the sudden burst of honesty that had just been unleashed between the two of them.

“Can you give me a hand with this?”

Syd turned to see Carmy rolling one of the slabs of meat, gesturing towards the butcher’s twine and scissors nearby. She nodded, taking the twine and tying sections of string around the meat’s two ends and middle. They worked in tandem with the remaining strips of top loin, Carmy rolling the meat and Syd neatly securing each section with twine. With each movement, Syd watched the S, O, and U inked across his fingers, trying to stay focused and clear-headed and clearly failing.

When they were done, the meat went into the Dutch oven, along with a heavy pour of wine, to simmer. Syd placed the lid on the pot, and the soft clunk sounded like a concluding piece of punctuation on their muted cooking interlude.

“It’s not just my sister who thinks I’m making a mistake,” Carmy said quietly, wiping down the counter. “My cousin – who was also Mikey’s best friend– thinks so, too. And Jimmy. Hell, even my mom.”

Syd lowered the heat on the stove. “But what do you think?”

“I think,” he said, stopping his movement around the counter, “I fucked up. I wanted something steady after Mikey. After EMP. After the last few years. So I made an attempt at normalcy and happiness – in the most unhinged way, of course. Turns out I’m just not cut out for that.”

“No, Carm,” she said, sounding harsher than she had expected. “You deserve normalcy and happiness and all of that, but you’re not going to get any of that shit if you’re dragging your feet the whole time, letting a whole ass wedding take place while you’re hiding out in the kitchen with the caterer.”

“Exactly.” He stepped towards the stove, adjusting the lid of the pot to let out some steam. He was close enough that she could see that small scar on his face, the blue of his eyes in the dim light of the range hood. “I talked to Claire about just that before dinner. She didn’t take it well.”

“But she still wants to go through with it all?” Syd asked, ignoring the way her stomach had dropped as if she had just hit a pothole.

“She just kept insisting that this is what Mikey would have wanted. As if that was reason enough to get fucking married after only a few weeks.” He looked slightly crestfallen after having said his name. “I kept asking her for anything beyond that, but she just couldn’t give it to me. And that’s when I knew we were both going into this completely blind.”

“So tomorrow,” Syd blurted out. “The wedding is still on?”

“Claire just wouldn’t give me a straight answer,” he said, his exhausted look from immediately after the rehearsal dinner had returned. “I think she’s still in that headspace, insisting that this is what Mikey wanted. I never realized how much his opinion meant to her. I mean, he kind of had that effect on people – when his attention was on you, it was like you were the only person that mattered.”

Syd began packing up her knife and wiping flour off her hands, a different sense of urgency suddenly pulsing through her. Carmy watched her, slightly alarmed. 

“Syd.”

“Carm,” she said, throwing her bag over her shoulder. “I have eighteen pounds of scalloped potatoes in my fridge at home. And a giant vat of sharp vinaigrette that’s in danger of congealing on my stove. All for your wedding that may or may not be happening tomorrow.”

She felt her voice waver and took a deep breath to settle herself. At this, Carmy took a step closer, and though she wanted to keep packing her things and make her way to the door, she stood still, watching as he took his hand in hers, the same way she had that first time in the alcove.

“You’re right to leave,” he said firmly. “This is bullshit.”

Syd nodded but didn’t take back her hand. She thought of her mother, so resolute and definite in all her decisions that it was damn near impossible to change her mind. At that moment, Syd knew the correct thing to do was leave and disentangle herself from this entire situation, but she found that despite everything, she had made up her mind about Carmy – and the firmness of her decision continued to surprise her.

“I like you,” she said, meeting his gaze head on, even though it continued to unmoor her. “Probably too much. I mean, it’s easy to be in the kitchen with you. And it’s easy to drive around with you. And easy to talk to you.” She paused, trying to pace her words to her thoughts. “I’m not used to easy.”

“Me neither.” He looked at her, slightly breathless. 

“What’s worse,” she continued, “is that I know I want to keep seeing you, and that’s just not within the realm of possibility right now. At least, not in any way that doesn’t make me feel like the shittiest person alive.”

“Syd, I like you, too.” His eyes had a desperate quality to them that both warmed and infuriated her. Either way, she felt rooted to the floor, unable to move. “Way too fucking much. So much so that it seems impossible to think that we won’t be back in a kitchen together again after all this, under completely different circumstances.”

At this, Syd laughed in disbelief, despite a part of her wanting so badly to be optimistic enough to believe it could happen.

“What?” He asked. “You don’t believe me?”

“It just doesn’t seem likely.” She knew now was as good a time as any to start being realistic, but Carmy didn’t seem as ready.

His eyes were searching hers in a way that had her doubting if any of this was real, and at any moment, she’d wake up from another dream. “Maybe you just need some – what was it you said your mom insisted upon? Ceremony.”

He finally put her hand down, but only momentarily, as he went for the roll of butcher’s twine on the counter. He measured out a small length and took her hand again, carefully tying it around her wrist. She watched him the whole time in silence, completely engrossed, the brush of his fingers against her skin making it hard to breathe.

“I know we don’t owe each other anything,” he said, finally looking up, “but here’s a promise for me to keep. Me. You. A kitchen. Who knows when. But it’ll happen.”

She looked at the string, grinning despite herself at the slight theatricality of it all. Her mother had been right: a dash of ceremony always solidified things, providing clarity to moments of uncertainty. And though Syd was nothing but a bundle of uncertainty, doubt, and nerves in that moment, the thin circle around her wrist suggested another possibility. And sometimes just a suggestion was enough.

 “Deal.”

“Deal,” he repeated.

Syd knew she wanted to leave with a modicum of grace and whatever dignity she still had left, so she finally did gather her things and make her way to the door. Carmy watched her, an uneasy look on his face the whole time. As soon as she closed the door behind her, she exhaled, feeling slightly lightheaded and, she hated to admit, slightly empty, as if there was still so much left unspoken. She knew, ultimately, that there was no way things could’ve been neatly tied up for them, but still, something gnawed at her.

She made her way towards the stairs but stopped when she heard the door behind her swing open again.

“Syd.”

She turned, and Carmy encircled her waist in his arms, pulling her against him. He locked eyes with her momentarily, and his mouth opened, as if he was about to say something. But instead, his lips sought out hers, all desperation and stark want, and Syd found herself wrapping her arms around his neck as the kiss deepened. His hands roamed her back, keeping her pressed against him, heat pulsating with every gasp and tease of his tongue against her. 

For a brief moment they separated, each of them catching their breath with their mouths still barely touching before the pull was too strong and they were back together, her body pushed against the dark hallway as his hands sought the warmth under her shirt, practically lifting her off the ground with impatient excitement. Every inch of skin he found made her draw him in closer, her fingers tugging on his hair in a way that made both of them groan, while her other hand ran up his arms, across his shoulders, reveling in the firm sturdiness of him.

This, Syd managed to think amidst all of it, makes sense.

A sharp sound of a door opening on the ground floor suddenly drove them out of their frenzy. They broke apart, still breathless, his hair now at its unruliest. Syd adjusted the bag on her shoulder, still trying to catch her breath. Terrified of what would happen if she allowed herself to stay a second longer, she turned and headed down the stairs, only pausing for the briefest of moments to catch Carmy’s eyes as he left. His expression was one of shock and anticipation – and hopefulness.

The curious expression stayed in Syd’s head, all the way until she was back in her car, seatbelt on, and foot on the gas. Unable to process anything that had just happened, she just drove and drove, letting the cassette that had turned on when she got in play until the tape ran out. She was so deep in thought that the sound of static unspooling continued for a full minute until finally, she ejected it, flipped it over, and slipped it back in.

The Smokey Robinson song from yesterday’s drive back from Sheridan Road came on, and she continued to make her way home in a daze, one arm slung over the steering wheel while the other arm stroked her bottom lip, deep in thought.

Chapter Text

At one of Syd's first fine dining restaurant jobs, she had worked closely with a sous who had been on the line for decades at that point. She had taken one look at Syd's anxious fidgeting and general jittery demeanor and told her, "Baby, you gotta compartmentalize all that shit."

Syd had assumed the sous was being a condescending asshole, but over time, she learned that most chefs were deeply anxious, fidgeting messes whose only substance-free hope at getting through a standard dinner rush was to compartmentalize all that nervous energy into another dimension. And as she did with most things in the kitchen, Syd mastered that as well.

So while one part of her was mentally still back in Carmy’s hallway, giving in to every single urge she had repressed this past week, the rest of her was up at dawn the next day, pouring liters of red pepper coulis into squeeze tubes for Carmy’s wedding reception. Carmy and Claire’s wedding reception, she corrected herself, simultaneously kicking herself and reminding herself just how much she would be getting paid for this nightmare week.

For that much money, she could compartmentalize the shit out of anything.

Or at least, that’s what she thought when she drove up to the venue, a boutique hotel in the West Loop, only to find the booked dining room and attached kitchen still locked. In the time it took Syd to walk back to her car while carrying a heavy chafing dish, she had received two missed calls from Janet. She waited by her car, trying again and again to call her back, but, Syd guessed, the woman’s line would be tied up for the near foreseeable future.

“Yeah,” a voice behind her said, “this ain’t happening.”

She turned to see Carmy’s Uncle Jimmy, again with the cigar. (It’s 9AM…) He was sitting in his parked car with the window down and the backseat overflowing with several ridiculously large flower arrangements.

“And here they got me,” he continued, “driving down here with enough flowers for two goddamn weddings. When in actuality, there will be zero weddings today.”

“Zero,” Syd repeated, her phone at her ear, still hopelessly ringing.

“Zilch.”

Syd looked down at her phone and saw that while she had been dialing and re-dialing Janet’s number, she had received an email from her. In another typo-ridden block of text, Janet explained that the wedding wouldn’t be happening for “unforeseen circumstances,” and following their contract, Syd would be paid for everything – except the wedding reception.

God, I hope he’s okay, she thought immediately before her thoughts transitioned to: Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Syd read and reread her screen at least three times before allowing herself to fully panic. Yes, she’d still be getting paid, but the reception had made up a large chunk of what she had expected to earn from the week – plus she had already spent a fortune on ingredients and equipment rental. Once the wedding check cleared, she had been hoping to take care of her credit card debt in one fell swoop and still have a bit of a parachute so she wouldn’t have to move back in with her dad. (At least, not immediately.) But apparently, this was no longer the plan.

“How’d you find out?” Syd asked Jimmy eventually, in an effort to momentarily distract herself from her own spiraling thoughts.

“Natalie called me. Carmy’s sister. I mean, it makes sense. Seems like we were all just together for the poor kid’s funeral. And here I am, a few weeks later, wearing the same fucking suit for his baby brother's wedding that’s a no-go. Of course, I find out all of this once I’ve already merged onto the fucking 55. You ever noticed that stretch around Stickney smells off?”

“It’s the cornstarch factory,” she said, still distracted.

“Another point in favor of public transportation,” he said, not even trying to hide his intentions through his clunky segue. “Speaking of which…”

Syd snapped to attention. In those few seconds of Jimmy ranting, Syd had mapped out the dire situation that was her current finances and had come to an even direr conclusion: she was fucked. Sheridan Road was effectively over, but she still had to contend with its debt, and somehow, still pay rent and find a new job and stop thinking about a certain hallway kiss that partially contributed to her current predicament. The panic had officially set in, and not even an expert could compartmentalize it all away.

“Fine,” she said, shutting off her phone. Like her mother, she had made up her mind, and there was no going back. “It’s yours. $75K in cash.”

She had pulled out a number that she thought would be ridiculous and mildly offensive, but Jimmy just nodded vigorously and said, “Finally. Some good news today.”

Once she sold her mother’s car, Syd felt it: the jello. Instead of learning how to navigate through it though, she fell face-first into her despondency, spending her days in suspended nothingness. For the first time in years, she wasn’t busting her ass in school or multiple jobs or keeping her own business afloat, and she was unsure what to do with the seemingly endless hours in a day.

She gave herself homework at first: dutifully completing the steps of filing for chapter eleven bankruptcy for Sheridan Road, which sounded like a huge, momentous acceptance of her own failure, but in reality, was just a headache of paperwork and poorly designed government websites.

It wasn’t until she had officially laid Sheridan Road to rest that she told her dad about the car. Her mom’s car. Or, now, James Kalinowski’s car. Her confession came alongside a much bigger story: Sheridan Road coming to an end, the mounting debt, the wedding reception she hadn’t been paid for – and her dad had understood. She knew he would, and she also knew it would break her heart that he did.

“But I made sure to at least hold onto these,” she said, after she told him the bleak story over tea in the kitchen of her childhood home. She presented him with the contents of the glove compartment: the cassette tapes, the parking tickets, the sunglasses.

Her dad sifted through the items with a grin, looking at each tape one by one.

“I’ll keep this one,” he said, taking the Smokey Robinson. “You can have the rest.”

“So you don’t hate me?” She said, feeling like a six year old confessing to a crime.

He gave her a look to show she was being ridiculous. “It was your car, baby, and yours to do whatever you thought was best with it. You knew what had to be done. If you had told me ahead of time, I wouldn’t have tried to change your mind. That would’ve been as effective as trying to fight the tide.”

They sat in silence, her dad examining the liner notes of the rest of the cassette tapes and smirking at the unpaid parking tickets.

“Whatever your next move is” he finally said, “just make sure there’s joy behind it. Even if it’s difficult and not always fun.”

“I know, dad.” She said with a sigh. She knew her dad meant well, but he seemed to expect every life decision would result in the kind of joy that would have her doing the Aunt Viv revenge dance in the streets – not possible. So she tried to placate him by her ongoing job hunt. “I’m following up on a few sous positions at a couple of places.”

This was true in the sense that she had sent out a couple of emails, but mostly, she was at home, restlessly making her way through the recipes she often cooked when she was anxious. As the weeks passed, she made her mother’s cola-braised short ribs, whipped up two needlessly complicated cakes, and Chilean sea bass with tomato confit – all with the hope that it would help quell the unease within her. It was the first time in a long time she was cooking simply to cook, and though the lack of stakes or expectations was a nice reprieve, she couldn’t deny that there was something distinctly lacking. A sense of urgency.

When she landed an interview at a Mediterranean one-star restaurant, she tried to muster up an ounce of excitement but was slightly appalled to only sense a simmering dread within her. If Sheridan Road had gone belly up and now she couldn’t bring herself to care about working in a professional kitchen again, Syd wasn’t sure what was the next path she should take to access that requisite joy her dad placed in such high importance.

At a loss for what to do, she returned to the kitchen, hoping prepping enough vegetables and simmering enough stock would bring her some clarity. She began preparing her take on milk-braised pork shoulder, the same one she had made for her dad’s birthday all those years ago. She had chosen the recipe at random, but as she began taking out ingredients and summoned her patented six-hour cooking playlist, her mind flickered with the sense memory of why she enjoyed making it.

The recipe called for a bounty of different herbs for the seasoning, and as she gathered together a small bouquet of fragrant leaves and sprigs, the sharp, heady scent reminded her of a very specific facet of her childhood. She could recall her dad’s panic attacks shortly after her mom’s death and the time spent holding his hand as his breathing steadied – but there was a second part to this routine as well.

Once he was himself again, he’d busy himself in the kitchen, preparing lunch or dinner, tossing thyme, rosemary, and basil into a pot until their entire home was fragrant with the fresh, slightly woodsy aroma. Later, Syd considered it her dad’s version of burning sage to clear the air and his mind. Even more, there was an ounce of ceremony to the whole affair that seemed to pay tribute to her mother.

As Syd brought sprigs of thyme, sage, and oregano to a simmer on the stove, along with a bay leaf and some lemon zest, she inhaled deeply, feeling the slightest bit lighter as the comforting scent enveloped her. She picked up her phone to tell her dad about the upcoming interview and saw a new message. Carmy.

Are you busy? I have something of yours I’ve been meaning to return.

She nearly dropped her phone into the simmering pot.

They hadn’t spoken since the frantic moment in the hallway, something Syd tried with limited success to block out of her mind entirely. She figured he’d be in the midst of navigating the aftermath of his short engagement, not to mention the ongoing construction at the Beef. Of course he would be busy, so she doubted that he, unlike her, could still recall in vivid detail the way they had sought each other out in the hallway, pulling from those seconds every ounce of warmth and yearning they had tried to deny those past few days. And if he did – she would have no idea what to do with it.

So instead of responding, she stirred the herbs in the pot with a wooden spoon, inhaling and exhaling steadily in an effort to calm her quickening pulse. As she did, she tried to pinpoint the rising feeling in her chest, something slightly dizzying that felt like a weight being lifted after the recent months of uncertainty and impending failure.

Joy, she decided. It was joy.

No, I’m at home, cooking.

What are you making?

Milk-braised pork shoulder.

What else did you braise it in?

That's none of your business.

Fair.
Do you mind if I stop by?

Without hesitation, she typed out her address, and once she hit send, she put down both her phone and the spoon, trying to keep her breathing and thoughts steady. It proved to be near-impossible, so she did what she knew best: threw herself into the kitchen tasks at hand. As she prepared the meat for the oven, her mind raced with the possibilities that lay ahead, some of them disappointing and some of them positive – which she considered the most terrifying.

The pork was transferred to the oven by the time she heard him at the door. She gave her small studio a quick once over but figured that since he had already seen the inside of her car, that was as intimate as it got in terms of her personal spaces.

“Hi,” she said, opening the door to find him standing there, a spoon peeking out of his pocket. His hand made the slightest move towards it, but as if on second thought, remained resolute by his side.

“Smells good in here,” he said, as the aroma from the kitchen wafted towards the door.

“It’s just a bunch of herbs.”

“Still.”

She realized he was still standing awkwardly in the hallway, so she moved aside to let him in. Not surprisingly, he automatically made his way to the kitchen, peeking at the glass window in the  oven door.

“That sauce – it’s a demi-glace?”

She nodded, trying to act like it was a perfectly normal occurrence to have him suddenly in her kitchen after not seeing or hearing from weeks. She leaned against the counter in an attempt to further sell the charade. “How have you been?”

“It’s been kind of a shitshow. But a manageable one, if that makes sense. You?”

“About the same.” She couldn’t help her next question. “How’s Claire?”

He didn’t seem put-off with the question, as if he had been used to answering it in the past few weeks. “Good, I think. She’ll be going to California soon.”

“A fresh start,” she said, repeating the phrase he had uttered like it was something taboo in his kitchen weeks ago. 

He studied the pot of herbs still simmering on the stove and seemed to take a long inhale of the crisp aroma. “We could’ve saved everyone a lot of time and money if we had both gone for that from the beginning.”

“We tend to only anticipate hazards that are immediately visible in our eyeline.”

“Let me guess,” he said after a pause. “UPS Drivers Manual?”

She nodded again, biting back a smile. “I had to memorize the goddamn thing to get through the driving test. Might as well continue to pass on its wisdom.”

“Is there anything in there about just not fucking up in general? And somehow making it right again?”

“If there was,” she said, their eyes meeting in a way that was almost painfully familiar, “I must have missed it.”

“That doesn't sound like you.”

She watched his hand gravitate towards the spoon in his pocket again and then drift back to his side. “So things are okay?” She prompted. “No angry wedding guests?”

He exhaled slowly. “It was fine once the entire wedding guestlist moved onto the next piece of gossip. I didn't have to go into hiding or anything. Nat –my sister– has me going to Al-Anon meetings with her. Oh, and we got rid of the black mold at the restaurant.”

“How is it?”

“The black mold?”

“Al-Anon.”

“About as fun as the mold,” he admitted. “But they’re helpful.”

The sound of the herbs bubbling on the stove filled in the subsequent silence that fell upon them for a few moments as they stood in the small kitchen. Syd had been looking down at her hands, but when her eyes finally flicked up towards his, she found them watching her. Resolute. Almost determined.

Carmy reached into his pocket, bypassing the spoon, and instead, took out a familiar piece of fabric. “I wanted to give you this. You forgot to take it with you when you sold your car to Jimmy.”

The sight of her mother’s green and blue silk scarf made her heart ache slightly as she bridged the space between them to take it from him.

“Thank you,” she said, genuinely happy to see it again. She wound the soft silk through her fingers. “Seeing this always reminds me of the day my dad first gave me the keys to the station wagon before I went off to culinary school. So I think of, you know, potential and possibility.”

“Me too,” he replied, a little too quickly. “I mean, I remember you were wearing it at the welcome dinner.”

“So much for that.” She said, laughing a little bitterly at the thought of that evening, from the panic attack in the alcove to the conversations in the kitchen to him handing her the scarf through the car window.

“So much for what?”

“Potential. Possibility.”

“You think it’s too late for that?”

If the past few months had made her cynical, it was easy to understand why. But something remained within her that stubbornly continued to hold out hope, that one day, something that was always thought of as permanently shut would spring open and reveal itself.

“No,” she admitted. “It’s not too late.” 

A lightness filled Carmy’s eyes that made her feel like something was falling into place, piece by piece, between the two of them.

“I don’t regret the past few weeks,” she continued. “Well, except selling the car. The money saved my ass, but you were right: I still feel like complete shit for selling it.”

At this, he broke out into a grin. “I figured.”

“Okay, you don’t have to look so smug about it,” she said, trying not to laugh.

“I’m not being smug. I’m just –” He paused, as if his words were failing to catch up to his thoughts. He shook his head, starting over. “So even after the wedding was called off, Jimmy kept insisting he owed me a gift. He has a permanent soft spot for my fucked up family – he loaned Mikey and the restaurant hundreds of thousands of dollars over the years. So he offered to forgive the loan as a, you know, sorry-you-called-off-the-wedding gift.”

“God, that’s generous of him.”

“I didn’t take him up on it though,” he continued, “since I asked for the station wagon instead.”

Now it was Syd whose mind seemed to be lagging because a full second passed before she asked, “Sorry. What?”

He took the keys out of another pocket and handed it to her. “Syd,” he said, “I’m pretty sure your mom would’ve wanted you driving that car instead of a middle-aged ex-mobster.”

She gripped the keys, still looking at him in disbelief as she crossed the kitchen to the window, where she could see out into the front of the building. There, parked next to the curb, was the 1975 Ford Squire with faded wood paneling and her mom’s Northwestern bumper sticker.

She continued to stare out the window, dumbfounded, until Carmy prompted: “So you’re sure it’s not too late?”

She turned and almost rolled her eyes at him. “I told you,” she said, making her way back towards where he was still next to the stove. “It’s not too late. And when I decide something, that’s it. No turning back.” She pushed back the sleeve of her sweater to show him the thin ring of butcher’s twine that encircled her wrist. “It’s kind of fucked up when you think about it.”

He held her wrist to take a closer look at the string before planting a kiss to her pulse point and then another one to the inside of her palm. She watched him, lips parted, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.

During the half second it took him to drape her arm gently around his neck, they locked eyes, and the final piece seemed to fall into place within her. Their lips met, slowly and tentatively at first, before deepening as their arms found their way around each other, his hands sliding up her neck to cup her face. She smiled into his lips, committing everything to memory: the late morning sun streaming into the kitchen, Arthur Russell singing about being a little lost, the herbs simmering on the stove, the low groan from Carmy when she sucked on his lower lip before pulling away.

When their eyes opened, the intensity of his gaze still unmoored her but in a way that was thrilling in its unknown depth. She wrapped her arms around his neck again, the car keys falling to the counter with a thud and his lips drawn back to hers, as if by sheer magnetic force. They were still kissing, still claiming whatever they could of each other with their hands and lips, when the oven’s timer went off with a ding. They reluctantly pulled apart, but only just barely.

“Have to turn the thing over,” she murmured, practically into his mouth. “Plus add the leeks.”

His nose brushed against hers. “I’ll help.”

He bent down to open the oven, removing the tray and flipping the pork shoulder over with a pair of tongs before tilting it slightly so she could slide in the halved leeks, along with the herbs. They didn’t exchange any words, and instead, just followed an unspoken choreography they had learned over the years in various kitchens. She took the Dutch oven from the stove and tilted it, pouring the remaining liquid over the meat, with Carmy holding the strainer to catch the herbs. Their eyes met over the pan briefly, both of them trying and failing to hold back smiles, as if they had done this a million times before and had a lifetime ahead of them to keep doing it.

As he returned the tray to the oven, he asked, “How long does this need to be in here?”

“Two hours, three tops.” She glanced at him. “Do you have some place you need to be?”

“Not at all.”

She grinned, taking the oven mitt from him and placing it on the counter, before leading him to the other end of the studio, where a tall, overstuffed bookshelf acted as a makeshift wall between the rest of the apartment and her bed. The stark ease she felt at having him here surprised her – but similar to the rhythm that fell upon them in the kitchen, it seemed to have always existed, as if they were simply picking up where they had left off from another lifetime.

They sat down facing each other, his hands drawn to her waist, pulling her onto him. “Syd,” he said, shifting a few loose braids behind her shoulders before letting his hand linger on her shoulder and down her chest.

“Carm.”

He buried her face in the crook of her neck, and she noted that they both smelled of rosemary and basil from standing so close to the stove for so long. She inhaled the scent on him as he covered the soft skin of her neck with kisses, the both of them still slightly in disbelief that they were holding each other.

“You were right.” When he looked up at her she could see the small scar along his right cheek. 

“I tend to be.”

“Okay, now who’s smug?”

She laughed as he lay back, bringing her with him. “You were right,” he continued, “that neither of us are used to, you know, things being easy.”

“I mean, we’re chefs. We are clearly gluttons for punishment.”

“I know.” His hands were distractingly skimming up her waist, claiming the skin under her sweater. “So all of this,” he gestured between the two of them, “being easy is fucking strange. But.” His lips were back on her neck, muffling his voice. “I think we should lean into it.”

“Me, too.”

At first it seemed like a windfall (of luck, of happiness, of sweetness), lying in bed with him while the sun cast lines on them through the blinds, Carmy taking his sweet time making his way down her chest, stopping too often to return to her lips for one kiss that would turn into five or to laugh at the assortment of photos on her bookshelf and nightstand. (“Is that you? With a sword?” “I fenced in high school – what about it?”) But as the herbs in the oven grew richer, more fragrant in the heat and Syd got to know every inky black tattoo along his forearms, she decided that this wasn’t all just a windfall. Not exactly.

No, a windfall implied that something sudden happened, and though this was all still new, there was something lived in and comfortable about the way they fell so easily into each other, as if they had both just been waiting for their lives to align for this moment to finally unfold.

The week of wedding events had been their crash course introduction to each other, complete with the full complexity of each other’s lives, but even then, they had still managed to connect at the most inopportune time possible. Now, when their kisses took on a feverish edge, she reveled in the sturdiness of him, the firm weight of his body on hers keeping her grounded while her mind raced with thoughts of how they had gotten here. 

So that’s why none of it seemed particularly sudden to Syd. They had each lived separate lives with complete histories and setbacks and losses to grieve, only to finally intersect and reach this moment now, when they could finally be reckless and indulgent with their desire for each other. There was nothing stopping her from reaching out and tracing his jaw with her finger as they helped each other out of their clothes, his impatience finally showing as he placed a slightly desperate kiss to the inside of her thigh. They caught each other’s gaze as he moved between her legs, making her breath hitch and their fingers enlace at her side.

If it wasn’t a windfall, then it was more like the arrival of a season, sought out with hope and anticipation but still subject to snags and false starts. But now that they were here, they saw no reason not to drown in each other, for Carmy to tease her with his tongue until he had to hold down her thigh with a firm grip to keep her still, or for her to wind her hands into his hair and tug when his fingers found the spot within her that left her breathless.

“Carm.”

His name on her lips came out instinctually, and the more she said it the closer she got, the more it seemed at home amidst the whirring of the ancient oven and the soft simmering of the pot on the stove. This, she decided, didn’t just make sense – it was an immovable fact. There was no use in denying it, so she continued to call out his name, as if that would only make it truer. This spurred him on, doubling his efforts with his fingers and tongue until Syd let go, finding her release as he continued to pin her thigh to the mattress so that there was no escape from every wave, every aftershock.

“Holy shit.”

“Good holy shit?”

“Carm. C’mon.”

“I figured.”

“Now who’s smug?”

They lay there entangled, dozing off until the oven timer dinged again, and they awoke to the afternoon light streaming into the studio, casting everything in a highly saturated hue. Syd propped herself up on her elbows, inhaling the scent of the herbs, now at its richest and fullest, encasing the small studio in its aroma.

“Can you help me strain the rest for the puree?” She asked Carmy, placing a hand just below his collarbone.

He put his own hand over hers, his index finger twisting around the carefully knotted circle of butcher’s twine. “Yeah. Then after, do you want to go for a drive?”

“To where?”

“The reno was just finished at the restaurant, so it’s basically a blank canvas now,” he said, looking up to study her face. “You can take a look and tell me what you think.”

“You want my professional opinion?”

“Yeah. If you get the sense that there’s potential for a new concept. New vibe. New menu.”

She laced her fingers in his to help him get up, so that they were now face to face. “I can do that.”

They sleepily made their way to the kitchen, putting the final touches to the pork shoulder, making it an entirely too-decadent lunch for two people. But if the theme for that morning was abundance, then it seemed only right. Syd was still slightly lightheaded, still reveling in the boundless nature of this reality, where their touches could linger as they worked at the counter and his hand always found its way to her waist or thigh when it could.

It wasn’t until they finally stepped outside, that she felt the world steady around her somewhat, as if the noise of the city and the gray of the concrete made the two of them as a unit suddenly real. The easy joy of it all made even more sense once they finally got in the car, the glove compartment still hopelessly ajar and the same cassette still in the tape deck.

Carmy glanced at her as she put the key in, gesturing towards the dashboard as a silent reminder.

“Oh.” She laughed. “Almost forgot.”

Syd pulled the blue and green silk scarf from her pocket and tied it to the base of the rearview mirror, the small ceremony of it all hitting her as her hands returned to the familiar, worn-in steering wheel. She adjusted the scarf, along with the mirror, catching Carmy’s eye long enough for them to grin, still in slight disbelief at each other’s company. All set now, she hit the gas, and they made their way, eyes ahead, hands entwined.