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"I'm just nervous, he says. I feel like it's pretty obvious I don't want you to leave. In a tiny voice she says: I don't find it obvious what you want." - Sally Rooney
Richie sits them down to talk them through a change in the seating plan. It’ll be a headache to execute but Syd can see that it will give them more space. They’ve been constantly having these types of conversations the last couple of months, the finessing of a restaurant still in it’s infancy. This one stands out for two reasons.
The first is that Richie presents them with a new floorplan he’s clearly drawn himself. When Syd sees it, she’s struck so strongly with the memory of her presenting her dossier to Carmy when she first started at The Beef, and how she hid it from Richie because she knew he’d make fun of her.
The second is that midway through Richie’s explanation, Carmy reaches out and brushes his fingers against her arm. He’s looking at her sleeve, clearly not listening.
“You good, cousin?” Richie says, and Carmy jerks his hand back.
“Yeah, fuck. Sorry,” he says to Richie, and then to Syd. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Syd says. She allows herself five seconds of fantasising a world there he puts his hand on her arm and keeps it there.
Carmy promises that they’ll look at moving the tables around before the end of the week and Richie heads out with a you fucking better.
“Yo,” Syd says once they’re alone. “Are you good, though?”
“Yeah,” he says. “We good?”
“We’re good,” Syd says, something she’s told him enough times over the past few months that she almost believes it herself.
He gets up and she thinks he’s going to leave it at that. But he turns back before he gets into the kitchen.
“Did you do that yourself?” he says, and he’s indicating to his own sleeve. Sydney doesn’t get it for a second, looks down to her own body and sees what he means. The janky SYD she embroidered into her sweatshirt.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m not good at it. It’s whatever.”
He’s staring at her needlework and she can’t help but look at his hands. He’s clasping them in front of himself. If she’s letting herself be truly delusional, maybe it’s to stop himself from reaching out and touching.
“Cool,” he says, and then turns and is gone.
My mum used to do it, she doesn’t say. My baby clothes all have my name sewn into them. She used to do it for my dad as well, and I want to but my sewing’s not neat enough, he takes so much pride in his clothes and I don’t want to fuck them up.
But she can’t tell him all of that. He wouldn’t want to know.
--
“It looks really fucking good, dude,” Sydney says. Marcus’ forearm rests in her hands, a fresh tattoo wrapped under plastic now stretching down to his elbow.
“You can’t see it under there,” he says. “I’ll send you a picture once I take it off.”
Syd runs her fingers over the tiny leaves imprinted on his skin. He’s right, the plastic is blocking what Syd suspects is a vibrant forest green. She’s seen ink colours that haven’t worked on darker skin but Marcus clearly went to someone who knew what they were doing.
“Is this like at Wrigley?” she asks of the ivy that traces it’s way up his arm.
“Yeah,” he replies. “She loved going to games there. Before… she always liked going. Said it was special to Chicago.”
“She’d love it,” Syd says. “She’d be so proud of you.”
Marcus scoffs.
“She hated tattoos,” he says.
Syd looks up at him, sees the expression on his face. The love and the hurt whenever he talks about his mum since she passed.
“She’d still be so proud of you,” she says.
The back door slams as Carm arrives. Syd forces herself not to immediately drop Marcus’ arm, regrets it a bit when Carmy’s eyes dart down between them.
“Chefs,” he says, and then disappears into the office.
Syd sighs, releases her grip on Marcus and indicates her station.
“I better do onions,” she says.
“Heard,” Marcus replies. “I’m playing with a cherry semifreddo right now. Come try some after lunch service.”
“That sounds superb, chef,” Syd says. “For summer?”
Marcus shrugs, but the one-shouldered shrug with a smile that indicates that it is for summer and it will be superb.
--
“Our beef delivery didn’t come,” Syd says about fourty-five minutes later. Carm’s at the desk, a spreadsheet open on the computer in front of him. She hopes he sends it through to Nat to check the numbers before actioning anything.
“I’ll call them,” he says. “For now, eighty-six the brisket and see if you can-”
“Do the ragu with pork and a different sauce,” Syd finishes. “I’ve already got Tina on it.”
Carmy nods. He’s looking at her intently, the look he gets when he’s trying to work out what she’s thinking. Syd hates to disappoint but she’s got no ulterior motive, she really did just need to tell him about the beef.
She gives him a nod back, turns to go.
“Syd,” he calls to her, and suddenly she’s nervous. She turns back to him and feels like a school kid waiting for permission to be dismissed. They haven’t been alone much since the night of opening, and she doesn’t know if she’s avoiding him or he’s avoiding her or that’s just how it’s happened.
“Yeah?” she says, trying to keep all of that out of her voice.
“Is everything good with Marcus?”
“Uh, yeah, I mean as good as it can be,” she says. “He’d probably be happy to talk if you asked. Healing’s a journey, you know? But he seems like he’s doing all the right things, leaning on the right people.”
Carmy blinks at her.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s good. But is everything good with you and Marcus?”
“Me and Marcus? There’s no ‘me and Marcus’,” Syd says, and knows straight away that it was too quick, too high pitched. Carm’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Fuck,” Syd says. She closes the door. “I mean, there really is nothing between us. He asked me out on friends and family night. I wasn’t interested, he was kinda weird about it, but we’ve talked it out. It’s all good.”
Syd doesn’t really understand what’s happening to Carmy’s face right now. He’s clearly trying to stay impassive and failing, but she doesn’t know what it is he’s trying to cover up.
“He asked you out after friends and family?” he says.
“Uh, before,” she says. “Not that it matters, like I said, we-”
“That was a while ago. And you didn’t tell me?”
Oh, fuck this.
“No, dude, I didn’t. You were locked in the walk-in and then his mum died and we had a restaurant to open. At what stage should I have brought it up with you?”
“I’m just saying,” he says. “If this is something that’s going to effect the kitchen-”
“It doesn’t effect the kitchen,” she cuts him off. “Which you know, because it happened months ago and you’re only finding out now. And if you want to talk about stuff that’s effected the kitchen-”
And she forces herself to stop talking. The moment’s dangerous now, close to cracking open the one topic they’ve never broached.
Syd wants to talk about it. She’d die if they did.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right. I was just worried that he made you uncomfortable or something.”
“Richie once asked if I blew a journalist in front of everyone,” Sydney reminds him. He blinks, like he doesn’t remember what she’s talking about, or maybe he didn’t think properly about it until now.
“Do you want me to talk to him?”
“No,” she says. “I don’t want you to talk to Richie about something that happened almost a year ago. I can handle my own shit.”
“I know you can,” he says. “I just- I just want you to be able to tell me stuff. Want everyone to be able to.”
He’s been like this since friends and family. Acting like he’s been given penance by a priest. Constantly cornering people and asking them how they’re going, if they need anything. Sometimes she looks up and sees his stupid eyes on her, following her around the kitchen.
She gets that this is him trying to be better, a better person and a better boss. That his fight with Richie and then with Claire really unseated something in him. It’s just really fucking annoying, that he seems to think she’s another one of his employees and not a partner.
“Okay,” she says. “So maybe don’t accuse me of sneaking around with Marcus-”
“I wasn’t!” he exclaims, throwing his hands up in surrender. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to make it a thing. I was just asking, okay?”
“Fine,” she says. “I have to-”
“Yeah, go check on Tina,” he interrupts and turns back to the computer in what can only be a dismissal.
Fuck.
She gives herself a second before she goes back into the kitchen. Forces herself to take some deep breaths, think happy thoughts.
It’s so wrong that he can do this to her. She doesn’t react like this to anyone else.
“It’s fine,” she says to herself. “It’s all fine.”
--
And everything is fine for the rest of service. They’re good at being fine, at ignoring whatever comes between them. Have it down to an artform by now. At this stage, Sydney thinks, one of them could set the other one on fire and still be able to have a normal conversation the next day.
But what actually happens the next day is Carmy comes in and immediately says “Chef? Can I talk to you?” and disappears into the office once she’s nodded her assent.
Tina gives her eyebrows and Sydney shrugs back, genuinely unsure what he wants but knowing she doesn’t want anyone else picking at her relationship with Carmy.
He’s standing when she comes in, his backpack occupying the spot on the chair. His eyes dart down to where she’s wiping her hands on her apron, then back up to her face.
“What’s up?” she says, trying to keep her tone neutral, not ready for another fight.
He genuinely looks like he’d rather do anything other than be in this room. Syd has the brief, absurd thought that he’s going to fire her.
“I was, uh, shitty to you yesterday,” he says. “You were right, it wasn’t appropriate.”
Syd’s masturbated thinking about him more times than she can count, if they’re talking inappropriate. But she just nods and says,
“I appreciate that, chef.”
Carmy’s reaching into his backpack.
“I got you this. Not to make up for it. I don’t know, I thought maybe you’d like it.”
He hands her a sewing kit. It’s clearly from the pricier section of JoAnn or wherever the fuck. The clear plastic casing reveals needles of different sizes, brightly decorated thimbles, and more colours of thread than she could ever need. She has no idea at what point between last night and this morning he even had time to get it.
He’s studying her intently. What reaction does he want from her?
“You didn’t have to,” she says, an automatic response to receiving a gift.
“You said you wanted to get better at sewing,” he says. She’s pretty sure that’s not what she said, but of course she can’t stand being bad at anything, and of course he knows that.
“I can’t-” she says, and stops herself, not sure if she has the right words. “I mean. You don’t have to do this.”
“I want to,” he says.
“No, I mean, you’ve been on your apology tour for too long, Carm. We’re all here because we want to be. Whatever you’re trying to prove, you don’t need to.”
His gaze is steady on her face. She stares right back, needing him to get this. She can’t keep working with a ghost.
“I’m not…” he trails off, and then shakes his head. “Okay. Okay, thanks, Syd.”
A knock on the door and Tina is poking her head in. She looks back and forth between them, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Yesterday’s beef delivery’s here,” she says. “You want me to have words with him?”
Carm shakes his head.
“I’ll go,” he says, and does exactly that.
T gives it a moment, then indicates the box Syd’s holding.
“We doing gifts?” she asks.
“If you want to ask him for another knife, now’s probably the time,” Syd replies.
They stop by the store room on the way back from the kitchen and by the time they return, Carmy’s finished with the delivery and is crouched over a notebook with Marcus. Marcus is staring intently at whatever Carmy’s showing him, and Syd feels curiosity burning her up.
She passes by, grabbing a pan for no good reason, and peaks at an extremely detailed drawing of Marcus’ cherry semifreddo. It looks a bit different than what he showed her yesterday, Carmy’s own reimagining, but clearly done with love and care.
Marcus glances up as she passes, smirking like he knows what she’s doing. Which he would, she’s not being subtle. If Carmy notices her, he doesn’t look up, midsentence about ideal freezing temperatures.
She has all these stupid little fantasies about Carmy. When he’s pissed her off it’s about murdering him. Last night she literally dreamed about opening the walk-in and finding his frozen body. And then as soon as he expresses the slightest remorse, she’s straight back to the other extreme. Now the thinks about his fingers and how they felt inside of her, how she wishes he’d put them in her mouth and she’d demonstrate how well she could suck them. She fantasises about a world where they’re married, working together every night and then going home to a house they own together.
She has the weirder ones- occasionally she imagines if she could get Carmy pregnant, how he would stay at home and raise the kids while she earns the Michelin stars he scoffed at. Or he gives her that hard stare from across the room and she pictures what it would be like if he took her from behind in the middle of the kitchen, the rest of the crew be damned.
Sometimes her rage fantasies combine with her sexual ones and she wants to bite at his bottom lip so hard it comes off. She wants to keep him chained up in a basement, make him beg for food and then feed it to him by hand. She wants to brand her name on his forehead so there’s no doubt about who he belongs to.
She sets the pan down on her station. She’ll have to take it back at some point. Fuck, she can’t keep doing this.
--
A few weeks later, Syd gets home and her dad is asleep. This is normal, but dinner rush was more fucked than usual and she’s keyed up. She wants to talk it out with someone.
There’s the only child part of her that wants to wake him up, make him listen to the tiny moments she needs to dissect with someone else. But that thought passes as quickly as she has it.
She wants to call Carmy. She just saw Carmy. If she wanted to, she could have lingered, reached out and touched his arm.
But she didn’t do that and she knows she’s not going to call him. She can’t call him, because Carmy has his own life and his own people to talk to that she’s not part of.
After she showers, she lays on her bed in the dark for approximately five seconds, accepts that she’s not even in the ballpark of being able to fall asleep. She turns the light back on and tries opening a book. She stares at the pages, not taking anything in, and slams it shut again.
She slides her hand into her pants but service has left her feeling so deeply unsexy that not even the physical proximity she had to Carmy all day is enough to get her in the mood.
Fuck, this is so stupid. This is what happens when you’re the only chef in existence to not take drugs.
Syd pulls the sewing kit out from where she shoved it at the back of her closet weeks ago. Her old sewing box is in the linen cupboard. She doesn’t know why she didn’t put this with it.
Except she does know why. She’s spent more hours than she could admit puzzling over this little plastic box. This weird little manifestation of Carmy’s guilt. She still can’t work out why he gave her this specific thing at this specific time. They’ve had worse arguments. He’s had worse arguments with other people and she’s never seen him gift Richie or Nat anything.
She runs her fingers over the spools. She should try and sleep.
Two weeks ago, Carmy lent her a shirt. She had spilled chicken stock all down the front. She’d insisted it was fine, but he pulled a spare shirt from his locker.
“It’s clean,” he’d said, and Syd was left to ponder her attraction to someone who stores jeans in his oven but keeps a spare shirt in his locker.
It was tight on her. She kept thinking about how it was tight on her and wondering if Carm was thinking about it too. She didn’t catch him looking but still hoped that he was. She promised to wash it and return it but here it is, scrunched up at the bottom of her closet next to the sewing box.
This is so stupid.
She picks out a cream-coloured thread. He’d thought her embroidery was cool, or at least Syd thinks that’s what he said. Every interaction she has with Carmy is so coloured by her own overthinking, her willingness to read deeper meaning into everything he says.
It’ll just be small, near the tag. It’s not in a bright colour, so people will only really be able to see it if they’re looking for it.
The rounded letters in ‘CARMY’ are a bit annoying. Syd wasn’t being modest, she’s not a skilled sewer. But now that this idea’s in her mind, she can’t stop herself. It feels like she would be giving something back to him.
--
She doesn’t bring the shirt in the next day, or the day after that. She waits until Sunday, so if he has a weird reaction she doesn’t have to see him the next day. And even then she waits until after service.
Syd throws the shirt at him as he’s pulling his backpack out of his locker. With the lightning-fast reflexes of someone who grew up with two older siblings and Richie, he snatches it out of the air before it can hit him and throws it back at her in one fluid movement.
“I’m trying to give you something!” she laughs, and tosses it back to him. This time he catches it with one hand and stares at it like he’s seeing it for the first time.
“I’ve been meaning to return it to you,” she says.
He stuffs the shirt into his bag without looking at it.
“You could have kept it, it’s fine,” he says. Regret hits Syd in the gut. The idea of having something of Carmy’s that she could keep, could take out and look at when she’s feeling particularly insane. But no, she had to go and practice her arts and crafts on something he clearly won’t even notice.
“But thanks,” he continues.
He pauses, once he’s got his backpack over his shoulder. He’s doing the thing where he’s avoiding eye contact and blinking a lot. A tell-tale sign he’s deciding whether or not to tell her something. She likes that she can read these types of things about him now; she doesn’t like that he can probably read the same things in her.
“You, uh, I’ve been meaning to return this,” he says. And he pulls her fucking scarf out of his bag.
It’s dark blue with a lighter blue floral pattern. Her dad bought it for her after friends and family, and she’d worn it for the first and only time on their opening night.
It’s the first time either of them, even indirectly, have acknowledged that night.
The scarf hangs between them in his outstretched hand. She promised him that she’d be normal.
“Thanks,” she says. She takes it and doesn’t pause to put it away. She needs to get out of there. She calls a farewell over her shoulder and lets the door slam shut behind her.
--
She spent the day leading up to opening so sure something would go wrong. The whole day she checked and rechecked the prep, she went through the menu with the front-of-house team, conferred with Tina on ways they could be faster.
“Take a second to breathe,” Nat told her at one point, and ushered her outside before Syd gave herself chemical burns from how much she was scrubbing the benches.
Carmy was out there, because of course he was. He stubbed out his cigarette when he saw her.
“Hey,” he said. “You good?”
Syd sat next to him, and unable to help herself, put her head in her hands.
“It’s all going to go wrong,” she said. “That’s what I keep thinking. It’s going to go so wrong.”
He’d bumped his knee against hers and that brief physical contact had surprised her so much that she’d jerked up, making direct eye contact with his piercing stare.
“It’s not going to go wrong,” he said. “It’s going to be fucking great, and you’re going to kill it. I won’t let anything else happen.”
You’re part of the reason it’s going to go wrong, she doesn’t tell him. Because you distract me, and because you were so unfocused when you were with Claire and you’ve been off-kilter since she dumped you, and you and Richie still haven’t made up. And I want to impress you so badly that sometimes it’s all I can think about. And I want you so badly and you don’t even see me.
And then, miracle of miracles.
Opening night was fucking incredible.
Front of house was a well-oiled machine, Richie and Nat brought notes into the kitchen and solved problems before they even come up. Tina had the new hires working together in a way that Syd could never manage. Marcus’ desserts were plated up and sent out and Syd actually takes a moment to appreciate how good they are, especially when it must be so hard for him even being there. She found time to laugh at Neil and Sweeps’ jokes. The restaurant was full of reviewers and fellow restaurateurs and she thinks even someone from the government, and they should be so fucking honoured to eat here. That’s how good they are.
And then there was Carmy.
Syd didn’t know what it was, if it was because he knew she was stressed out, but something had changed in him. She didn’t have to finish her sentences, he was ready with whatever she needed before she even said it. She would reach for a utensil and he’d already be offering it to her. It was every moment of connection they’d ever shared, every spark of brilliance she’d clung on to, magnified and made better. She could feel whatever was happening between them in her whole body.
At one point, he was plating up while she called out orders and their eyes met. His mouth quirked up into a smile and she’d smiled back, so pleased he was feeling it too.
Afterward, she was breathless. She felt like Carmy’s sucked all the air out of her. All she had left was her new scarf and a burn on her arm.
She rubbed ointment into her forearm. They keep the first-aid kit in the office and it was perfect at that moment, the peace and quiet offering relief from everything that was stirring in her. The pride, the relief, the arousal.
The door was ajar but Carmy had knocked anyway, and then not waited for a response before he stuck his head in.
“That okay?” he asked.
“Yeah, I just knocked it against a tray fresh out of the oven,” she said. “I don’t even think it will leave a mark.”
He nodded, so serious. His eyes followed the circle of her hand movements.
“Good. That’s good” he said, and then his eyes flicked up to her face and he seemed to remember why he came in here. “Some of them are going to get drinks. Fak and Sweeps, mainly. Says we deserve to celebrate. I said I’d come and tell you.”
“Thanks,” she’d said. “But I don’t think I could do it. You go.”
His brow furrowed, and she guessed at what he was worried about.
“We should celebrate sometime,” she said. “We did good tonight. I do think we did good. I just feel like someone’s deflated me.”
She was putting the ointment back in the kit, so she didn’t know what his face did when he said:
“We’re always good together, Syd.”
He means as cooks, Syd told herself. Stop trying to twist it.
“Yeah,” she said, turning to face him. He was giving her his full attention. “Thank you for tonight. Like, seriously. It was… I’ve really wanted it to be like that.”
He was still standing in the doorway. They’d both taken off their chef whites so he was just in a thin shirt. He never seemed to get cold.
“I know, Syd,” he said. “And I’m, uh-”
“Don’t apologise to me,” she cut him off.
“I wasn’t,” he said. Not defensive, but low and serious. “I was going to say that I’ve wanted that too.”
It was too much. Between the way her energy was drained and the way he looked at her, she couldn’t stand it.
She’ll replay this moment over the next few months, and never really be able to work out what happened. The main thing is that she thought he’d move.
She picked up her bag and started towards the door and thought he’d move. She stepped through the doorway and she’d thought he’d move. But he didn’t, and she had to turn so they both fit. And she could’ve turned to face away from him, but she didn’t, she turned in. And then she’d stopped because his gaze was so sharp and she didn’t think she could ever turn away from his attention.
She felt his hand on her chin but didn’t really register it. She saw him lean in but didn’t really believe it. He kissed her. They were kissing.
She kissed back because how could she not? She was so exhausted moments earlier, but came alive beneath his touch.
She kissed him and it was everything she’d wanted. His focus, his attention, all on her. And she could feel it, can feel the level of precision he was putting into kissing her right now, as attentive as he would be to any of their dishes.
He pulled away and embarrassingly she tried to chase him, didn’t want them to be separated for even a second. He cupped her face with one hand, and she loved how rough it was.
“I really want you, Syd,” he said, voice low.
“You can have me,” she said.
He drove them to his apartment and she kept her hand on the inside of his thigh the whole time. Occasionally she’d slide it higher, and he’d let out an exhale of breath or say her name like a warning. She couldn’t believe she could get a reaction out of him like this. That he wanted her.
He kissed her again before they got out of the car. He unbuckled his seatbelt and put himself in her space, a hand on her hip as he pushed her back against the car seat. It’s a hungry kiss, and it’s a promise of what’s to come. This is also the moment when she committed to memorising all of this. If it only happened one time, she needed to remember it.
It doesn’t work that way, because of course it doesn’t. Later, she’ll have sense memories of some things but not know how they fit in with the rest of it. She knows at some point Carmy pushed her braids out of the way to kiss her neck. She remembers his dick in her hand, feeling the weight of it for the first time and not even having thoughts about the size of it, just being so impressed that it was his and she was holding it. She remembers being on her hands and knees and having to turn onto her back because her thigh was cramping.
And she remembers the parts she wishes she could forget. When he pulled her scarf off her head and it dropped to the floor. She instinctively tried to grab it because it was a gift from her dad, and Carmy said you okay? So she let it drop and said yeah, I’m fine.
And when he laid her down on his bed and put his head between her legs. Syd kept making these stupid sounds, high-pitched and desperate. Twice she covered her mouth with one hand and both times Carmy reached up and pulled it away. He said you’re really good, Syd, it’s so good. Which just made her make more sounds.
At one point he was inside of her with her knees up at her ears and she was so wet that they couldn’t get any friction. He didn’t say anything about it but she could feel him continuously adjusting, trying to find an angle that worked and wasn’t sabotaged by how needy her body was.
She was making noises she’d never made before in her life, her body finding new sensations and desires. She thought she knew what she liked, but it turns out what she needed was Carmy, who fits her perfectly. She lost all track of the idea that she was supposed to be giving something to him, supposed to be showing him that she was good at this. All she could focus on his how she needed more of him, needed everything he could give her.
Afterward, he’d gotten up and she hadn’t realised he was cleaning up until it was too late.
“Fuck, sorry, I should have-” she said, as she sat up and took a washcloth from him. He was physically within arm's reach of her, but it felt like an unreachable distance.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. She moved the cloth over her skin, and realised she was trembling.
“I better use the bathroom,” she replied, and got up without looking at him. He was still naked but she wanted to put clothes back on, would button herself up in chef’s whites if she had the option.
She shut the door behind her and doubled over, sobbing in the way she could hardly breathe. She blindly grasped for the sink, turning on the faucet to cover the noise she was making. Fuck, she couldn’t believe she let that happen. More than that, she let herself be so needy and desperate. He was never supposed to see that part of her.
How could they possibly go back to work after this? How were they supposed to look each other in the face now that he knew how much she wanted him? There was no way he could view her as a partner and equal after seeing how depraved she would be for him.
She had one good night at the restaurant and decided to celebrate by nuking her personal and professional life. Fuck. She can’t even have casual sex right.
She forced herself to take deep breaths. The faster she stopped crying the faster she could leave. Keep busy. Distract yourself.
She felt sticky, so sweaty and disgusting. She cleaned herself as methodically as she would wipe down her station. By the time she felt halfway human again, she’d stopped crying. Her breathing was still shallow, but hopefully Carmy wouldn’t notice. She splashed some water on her face. That would have to do. She had to get out of there.
She stepped back into his bedroom. He was lying on the bed, still naked, but she didn’t let herself linger on him. Syd’s underwear had been dropped at the foot of the bed. He sat up as she put it back on.
“I better head out,” she said, before he could make any suggestions. “But, uh…”
She’d been about to thank him. Fuck, she was never going to recover from this.
“You don’t have to,” he said, and she had to look away from him. She thought she wanted his full focus but it turned out she couldn’t stand it.
“No, it’s fine,” she said. She was mostly dressed by this point, though she was pretty sure her shoes were near the front door. “Um. Hey. We’ll still be normal at work, right?”
She said it because she thought he would need reassurance, after her embarrassing performance, that they weren’t going to fuck up. That she could be normal. But it was apparently the wrong thing to say because when she looks up his face is closed off, he’s not looking at her.
“I just mean, everything can stay the same,” she stammered.
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing one hand across his face. “Yeah, sounds great, Syd.”
“See you tomorrow,” she said. And she put her shoes on and got on the train. She cried in public for the first time since Sheridan Road had shut down. It was early morning by the time she got home, and she showered and lay on her bed for a while and then went to work.
For the next few days, she’d felt Carmy’s eyes on her constantly. Waiting for her to fuck up somehow, but it makes her more determined to be on the ball. Her work is excellent, she double-checks every remark to check that it’s something normal, something she would have said before. She doesn’t give him a reason to doubt her. And eventually, he stops watching her so closely and she stops having to think about what the right thing to say is, and if she wants to, she can pretend the whole thing never happened.
--
The Tuesday after she gave him the shirt back and he ruined her life with a scarf, things are suspiciously fine. Good, even. Service is smooth, dishes go out on time, there’s barely a raised voice in the kitchen. At one point Carmy puts his hand on her back to get past her and she doesn’t even react. Her self-control needs to be studied in history books.
Wednesday, the two of them huddle together and try a new sandwich that Ebra’s put together, pulled pork and coleslaw. A classic for a reason but Ebra’s clearly been trying out some spice mixes and it pays off in a big way. As Carmy’s giving his thoughts Syd is hit by a bit of musk from him. It’s only notable because he’s such a fastidiously clean person- Syd’s seen the way he washes his hands, like he’s in a medical drama. Maybe he woke up late and skipped a shower. It happens to everyone.
On Thursday, Richie walks past him on the way in and shouts “Cousin! They didn’t teach you how to wash at culinary school? You stink!”
And he does. Syd realised why when she saw him putting on his apron. There’s a mustard stain on the front of his shirt that he got on Tuesday. He’s been wearing the same shirt three days in a row.
She doesn’t let herself hope. Forces herself to wait until he turns around to get confirmation. But when he moves away from her to grab a spoon, there is it.
CARMY
Cream thread on a white shirt. Small, near the tag. You wouldn’t see it if you weren’t looking for it.
He’s been wearing the shirt she gave him all week. She feels like he’s pulled a rug out from under her. No idea how she’s supposed to take this information, what conclusion she’s meant to draw. She puts a hand up to her cheek and feels how warm her face is. Her body reacts to him before her brain can.
She doesn’t realise she’s still staring at him until he turns around and sees her looking. His eyebrows go up. She wants to strangle him. She wants him to fuck her.
“Richie’s right, Chef,” she says. She can hear how croaky her voice is. She hopes that no-one else can. “Time to do some laundry.”
“Yeah?” he says. His face is shiny with sweat already. She could lick it off.
“Yeah,” she says. If she was reading into it, she thinks he maybe looks disappointed.
On Friday, she wears her blue scarf. The last time she wore it, Carmy pulled it off her head and dropped it on his living room floor.
Her train got delayed so by the time she arrives at work everyone else is already busy.
“Apologies, Chefs, the L got held up,” she calls out, even though she texted Marcus this information so she’s sure everyone already knows.
This gets a variety of responses, from Tina cursing the Chicago public transport system to Richie’s suggestion that she get a fucking car already.
She’s so attuned to Carmy that when he doesn’t say anything, she turns to seek out his reaction.
He’s staring at her. He’s staring at her at the scarf on her head and he’s not moving. His jaw is slack. Syd’s eyes moves past him to the stove he’s supposed to be watching.
“Chef, your pot,” she calls. Carmy jerks backwards like he’s been woken up suddenly, and whips around to where his pot is boiling over.
“Oh, fuck,” he says with such passion that it draws laughter from the rest of them.
He’s changed his shirt. Just another identical white t-shirt but Syd can tell. Usually he smells of cigarettes and coffee but today when Syd passes him, he has that artificial lemon smell of cleanliness.
She thinks he’s going to say something to her. Every time they interact, whenever they pass each other, he’s got a look on his face like he’s holding himself back. She lingers in their interactions, makes up excuses to talk to him. But he keeps it professional, everything is yes, chef, or excellent work, chef.
At the end of the night, she takes time changing her shoes and collecting her things. They’re the last two left. This is it, she thinks, he’s going to blurt out whatever he so desperately needs to tell her.
But he just picks up his backpack without looking at her and says “Goodnight, Syd.”
So fuck it. On Saturday, she wears the blue scarf again.
She doesn’t see his reaction when she comes in, doesn’t even know if he has any sort of reaction to see.
“You don’t usually wear the same one,” Tina says. Syd feels called out, like T’s going to start putting pieces of a puzzle together that Syd doesn’t want to be solved. But Tina doesn’t seem to read too far into it, her face clear of suspicion.
“It’s a good colour on you, huh?” she says. “Don’t you think it’s a good colour, Jeff?”
And mortifyingly she’s asking this question to Carmy, who happens to be passing them. And just as mortifying, he barely looks up at them.
“Great colour, Chefs,” he says with the enthusiasm of someone being asked to watch paint dry. “Maybe get this prep done before discussing.”
Tina turns back to Syd with a roll of her eyes, gives her a look like can you believe this guy?
Syd hopes she makes an appropriate facial expression back because her brain has short-circuited at the sight of Carmy’s name sewn on the back of his shirt. He’s wearing it again. What the fuck does it mean?
Syd doesn’t get back to prep. She follows him into the walk-in.
He’s pulling some fennel down from the higher shelf as she closes the door behind her.
“Ican’tdothisanymore,” she says, so fast that there’s no way he comprehended what she said.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she says slower, and he spins around to face her with more urgency than he ever seemed to feel when she was trying to open a fucking restaurant with him.
“What did I do?” he says, and she’s shocked by how wrecked his voice sounds. It didn’t sound like that just a few seconds ago.
“We have to have this out,” she says. “Not here. But we can’t keep doing this.”
“Right,” he says. “Tonight?”
“No,” Syd replies. She tries to find ways to explain she’s going to need both a run-up the conversation and a recovery time afterward. Nothing about that isn’t embarrassing, so she just says, “Monday.”
He nods, fast and frantic.
“Okay,” he says. “Monday.”
They barely talk for the rest of service and all of the next day.
On Sunday, Carmy wears a grey t-shirt Under his chef whites that Syd’s never seen before. The scarf she uses is green and non-descript.
He doesn’t eat with the rest of them both days, and Syd’s out of the door as soon as their work is done. No pleasantries, no casual chats, no lingering.
--
She wakes up on Monday to a text asking if she wants to come to ‘the apartment’. She can’t help but like how he never says my apartment, it’s always the apartment, as if it’s a space they have equal rights to.
She turns up at the apartment two hours later. Forces herself to tie her hair back and put on jeans. Doesn’t let herself dress nice.
For some reason, they stand in his kitchen. As far as she know neither of them plan on cooking anything, but maybe it’s just familiarity. Or maybe it’s less intimate, to be in an area of his apartment he uses for work.
They stand on opposite sides of the island. Syd has no idea if Carm’s looking at her because she’s making direct eye contact with his ceiling light.
“What did you want to talk about?” he asks, his voice flat.
She went through what she wanted to say that morning on the train ride over. She can do this.
“I guess, I, uh,” she says, immediately stumbling at the first hurdle of having to discuss a feeling out loud. “I guess I’ve been feeling kind of weird. Like, bad weird. Recently. I don’t know where we’re at.”
Which is absolutely fucking not as good as what she’d planned in her head. But whatever, it’s out there now. She hazards a glance at Carmy who annoyingly doesn’t seem to be sharing her anguish.
“What do you mean, Syd?” he says. He’s intense, of course he’s intense. But it’s the intensity he would bring to the table if they were, say, discussing what substitutions to make in a dish. There’s no softness or fondness there. She’s a puzzle he needs to work out.
“Why were you wearing that shirt all last week?” she asks.
He pulls back straight away, scrubbing one hand over his face.
“Fuck, sorry,” he says. “I wasn’t thinking when I did that.”
“Don’t apologise to me,” she says. “Tell me why you did it.”
His fingers are twitching like he wants a cigarette, but he’s valiantly powering through it.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about how you spent time on it,” he says. “That you’d sat down and sewn my name on my clothes. No-one’s ever done that for me before.”
He stops talking but so clearly has other stuff to say. Syd does a wave of her hand to indicate for him to go on. His eyes follow the movement.
“And I was thinking about how I got you something and you liked it enough to use it,” he says. “And I wanted you to know that I liked that you did that. It’s so stupid because I know you don’t mean it like-”
He cuts himself off so quickly he might as well have slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Like what?” she says.
“You don’t like talking about it,” he says.
“When we slept together?” she says. Neither of them have ever said it out loud before. It was an automatic response from her, to be told she doesn’t like something and then to do the thing, just to prove the other person wrong. But he’s right, she doesn’t want to talk about it. She would love if instead of talking about it, one of them could go back in time and stop the whole thing from happening.
His whole body tenses up, like maybe he’s uncomfortable thinking about it. But he just says, “Yeah.”
“I don’t care if we talk about it,” Syd lies. “I just don’t get why the shirt’s related.”
He puffs out a breath. He’s so clearly frustrated that it makes Syd annoyed just watching him. As if she wants to be having this conversation any more than he does.
“We shouldn’t get into this, Syd,” he says. “Not if you want everything to keep being normal.”
“Things aren’t normal,” she says.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Sorry. I’ve been trying. I know you just wanted it to be a one-night thing but I-”
He stops talking abruptly and turns away from her, but bizarrely he’s now facing his fridge. He so clearly wishes he hadn’t said that. Syd can’t believe he did.
“… I wanted it to be a one night thing?” she says.
“Yeah, I know,” Carmy says. “And I know I haven’t been normal-”
Syd puts a hand up to try and get him to stop talking but he’s still looking at his fucking refrigerator.
“I’ve been fucking trying, but you don’t make it easy, you know,” he’s still saying.
“No,” Syd says. “No, absolutely not.”
“I’m not saying it like I blame you because I know you don’t mean it-”
“No, no, no,” she says, a mantra she can’t get her brain past.
“And you’re committing psychological warfare with a fucking scarf, I’m losing my mind out here, Chef-”
“I like you more!”
Syd shouts it. She can’t remember the last time she raised her voice at him. She didn’t mean to say it but it does achieve her goal of getting him to shut the fuck up. But now he’s looking at her and she has to continue.
“I care about you more than you care about me,” she says. “Its like- it’s a fundamental fact of our relationship. Even before we met. I’ve always had more skin in the game.”
Even thought she knows he won’t, she’s still hoping he’ll deny it. Like she’s a child needing comfort. He doesn’t contradict her though, just stands there with his mouth hanging open.
“I don’t want it that way,” she continues. “It’s just true, and I’ve gotten over it. I want us to be normal.”
He’s wearing his navy blue sweater, which she only thinks about because at some point in her little speech he pulls it over his head and drops it on the ground. He can’t think we’re going to fuck again after all that, she thinks.
Underneath he’s got a white shirt on, tattier than what he would usually wear to the kitchen. She can’t even appreciate that she’s seeing him in what is possibly his pyjamas because he pulls one sleeve up to reveal his upper arm and shoulder and-
Oh.
It’s no more than a pencil-length long. Surrounded by other tattoos and right at the top of his bicep.
It’s her name.
She automatically moves around the kitchen island, her instinct to touch overwhelming any rational thought. She’s suddenly so close to him, and she can’t help her fingers brushing over her own fucking name.
It’s SYD. The same way she’d sew her name into her clothes, now on his body in black ink. Thin lines smooth under her fingers, it’s been there long enough that it’s healed.
“What the fuck,” she breathes, an involuntary reaction. He shirks away from her and pulls his sleeve back down.
“I’m so sorry, Syd,” he says.
“Shut up,” Sydney replies, reaching out and tugging him back to her. Suddenly touching him feels so easy. She pushes his shirt back up and there it is again. SYD. Real. On his body.
Carmy’s breath is short and sharp. His head is turned away from her. Syd wonders if he’s holding back tears. She’s never seen him cry, can’t even picture what that would be like.
“You want me,” she says, simple and matter-of-fact. As if that’s not a revelation that changes her entire life.
He laughs. He so rarely laughs. It sounds deeply unhappy.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do. Constantly, Syd.”
She forces herself to stop touching him. Takes a step back, physically and mentally.
“Since when?” she says.
He turns to face her. She was right, he is crying, or his version of crying that involves looking wrecked and like he’s trying to suck the tears back into his eyes.
“Are you fucking with me?” he asks. It’s not sharp or accusatory, but the question rubs Syd so badly the wrong way she feels herself crossing her arms without thinking about it.
“You’re gonna have to give me some adjustment time, dude,” she almost drawls. “Seeing as how you’ve gone from not being interested in me to getting my name tattooed on your skin-”
“Not being interested- Syd, what?” he says. He’s staring at her like she holds all the answers to his problems. It’s the same issue as opening- she thought she wanted his attention but the full force of it is like looking into the sun. “We’ve slept together. I don’t know how more interested I can get.”
“That was just adrenaline from opening,” she scoffs. This is what she’s been telling herself. This is what has to be true.
“I asked you to stay,” he says. He says it like she turned down a marriage proposal. There’s no way that Sydney, who spends so much of her spare time thinking about Carmen Berzatto and analysing his behaviour, could miss something like this.
“The night,” she says. “You asked me to stay the night, Carmy. That’s not- that’s not the same thing. You didn’t- you’ve never-”
“I thought you knew,” he says. He’s staring at her so openly, so earnestly, with her name tattooed on his body, that she has to believe him. “You told me you wanted everything to stay the same.”
She doesn’t remember saying that to him, has no idea what context that could be in. Maybe it was an off-hand comment she made one time. It seems so irrelevant right now, every misunderstanding and incomprehensible action he’s made no longer matters to her.
He’s standing in front of her and telling her that he wants her.
She steps back into his space. He doesn’t move away. Her hand covers her name on his skin.
The main thing she remembers about the first time they kissed is how she couldn’t believe it was happening. He’d been so fresh out of his relationship with Clare, she’d been consumed with making The Bear a success. He’d kissed her and she’d been so in her head she couldn’t enjoy it.
This time she spends time thinking about how their mouths fit together. How warm he is. She brushes her hand across his face, wipes away the tears there. They’re touching each other so softly, like neither of them thinks the other is sure. She wants to take him, wants to take everything he’ll give her.
“What do you want?” he says into her ear, so quiet she can barely hear it.
“Can I stay here? Today and tonight?” she asks. She can’t see his face but she can feel him nod against her neck.
“Please,” he whispers.
It’s their one day off and she knows that they need to be sorting out a new supplier for capers and look through a bunch of paperwork Nat sent through. They don’t do that, don’t even bring it up.
Syd straddles Carmy on his couch, kissing him until she feels like she knows his mouth as well as her own. She didn’t realise it last time, but he opens up for her just as easily as she had for him. His hands are everywhere, she’s always been so obsessed with his hands.
“This is all I’ve been thinking about,” he gasps against her mouth. “Ever since opening. Losing my fucking mind every time I looked at you.”
“I want to keep you,” she says.
“You can, Syd. Fuck.”
They don’t actually fuck- she’s not sure which of them is keeping it to groping and a bit of dry humping but somehow it feels normal, like there’s no urgency to get to the main event. Like these types of days together are something they do all the time. Eventually they tired of the relentless grinding and exploring, leaving Syd draped over Carmy, both of them panting and boneless in various states of undress.
He asks about the tattoo on her back- apparently has wanted to ask about it since opening. She explains the meaning of the Three of Swords- heartbreak and grief.
“It’s not about one event or anything- it’s just everything. A reminder. That bad things have happened and probably will happen again, and I’ve always gotten through it.”
She asks him about his ink. A lot of them don’t have a specific meaning, apparently- he used to walk into tattoo parlours and ask them what designs they had available.
“What about this?” Syd asks, running her thumb over the globe nestled inside the measuring cup. “Cooking’s your world, huh?”
“No,” he says, not looking at her. “Or, maybe at the time.”
She suggests they eat and laughs at him when he sheepishly reveals he doesn’t have any food. They order take-out, which Carmy collects while Syd showers.
After they eat, he gets her some sweatpants to sleep in. She’s never seen him in sweats, the image of it making her smile. She wraps her hair with a spare scarf she’s got in her bag. His movement stops as he watches her do it.
“What?” she says, and his gaze snaps to her face and eyes widen like he didn’t realise she was aware of him.
“You’re really beautiful, Syd,” he says.
“Shut the fuck up.”
Once they’re in bed, though, she can feel how rigid he is. He’s facing the ceiling and his arms are straight by his side.
“What’s up?” she whispers. There’s something about being in the dark that always seems to invite confession.
“Syd,” he says, then stops.
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t mean… Or, I don’t know, I don’t want you to think…” He trails off. Syd sits up so quickly he recoils in surprise.
“Hey,” she says. “I can head out if I’ve like, gotten the wrong idea, or-”
“No,” he says hurriedly. “No, fuck, that isn’t what I meant.”
He reaches out and tugs her back down, and she goes into his arms. He presses himself against her now, so warm, and she can’t help but find it comforting.
“Sorry,” he says. “Or- I know you don’t like me apologising.”
“Just don’t be a dick instead of fucking apologising about it,” she huffs out.
“Yeah, I know. When you came here today, I didn’t think this would happen. I realised a while ago that there’s no future for me that doesn’t involve you. But I don’t want to put pressure on you. Just because this is something big for me- I don’t know what I’m saying. If you have different expectations, I get it.”
In the dark, Syd can only see the outline of his face. She strokes one hand over it.
“You made the best meal I’ve ever had,” she says. Feels his jaw work under her palm.
“What?” he says. “When?”
“Years ago,” she says. “Before we met, when you were at Eleven Madison Park.”
“Which dish?” he says, urgent and demanding.
“The lamb,” she says. “With-”
“Fava bean relish,” he finishes for her. “That was- I used to put those nepitella leaves on with tweezers. So many fucking times. But it was for you.”
“It was for me,” Syd confirms. “My dad did bring me to The Beef a couple of times as a kid but I don’t know, I don’t really remember it. When I asked to come and work there, it was because of you.”
“Fuck,” Carmy breathes. She’s imagined telling him about this before. She thought it would be in the kitchen, a moment of respect between two professionals. But the intimacy of this is so much better than anything she could have pictured.
“I’ve always been serious about this, is what I’m trying to say,” she finishes.
“Heard,” he says, and she can feel his breathing start to slow. Their bodies are ready to rest, and she’s so excited to sleep because it means they’ll wake up next to each other.
“I’m probably not going to book a tattoo appointment straight away, just so you’re aware,” she murmurs.
“Fuck off,” he grunts, and puts his other arm around her.