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Richie stands motionless in front of Carmy’s apartment building, trying to remind himself of his purpose.
In the past, Richie would’ve chickened out; would’ve probably turned around about 15 minutes ago and slumped back to his empty apartment with his proverbial tail between his legs. Richie would’ve swallowed his hurt and let it sit in his stomach like a stone. And then he would’ve gone back to The Bear the next day and pretended that nothing was wrong.
But something has changed. And something has to change. After this past year—the sleepless nights and crack-of-dawn mornings, the endless waiting-for-the-other-shoe-to-drop, the screaming fights, and the fucking knifing that Carmy gave him last night—Richie needs something to change.
And it has to start with him leaving The Bear. For his own good. And to show Eva that her dad can stand up for himself and not fold like a cheap lawn chair for another Berzatto brother.
He pulls a cigarette from the nearly empty pack in his jacket pocket. Pinching it between his finger and thumb, Richie thinks that if he smokes now, it’ll buy him a little time to go over his lines. Practice. On the other hand, it might give him just enough time to overthink the whole thing and chicken the fuck out.
It’s not too late to pretend that nothing’s wrong.
It’s not too late to just go home.
Maybe he should just forget this face-to-face talking-to-Carmy thing. He could just leave an innocuous white envelope containing a bona fide resignation letter on Nat’s desk. But what if someone tries to stop him? Worse than that, what if nobody tries to stop him?
But the old-fashioned part of Richie—the part that gives a shit about things like family and positive masculinity—thinks that Carmy deserves a face-to-face. Richie just didn’t expect it to be so fucking scary.
He forces one foot in front of the other and approaches the intercom system. Speak now or forever hold your peace, Rich. He punches the button next to the label for apartment 403. An electronic doorbell chimes, and Richie waits, but nobody answers. Richie shifts on his feet. They’re still sore from Friends and Family.
Maybe Carmy’s not home. Richie hasn’t actually considered that possibility, to be honest. He rings the buzzer again, this time holding the button under his thumb.
The intercom lights up. “Hello?” Carmen’s voice is low, groggy.
Last chance to back out. Last stop before the shitshow.
Richie clears his throat. “Uh, it’s me.” There’s a long stretch of dead air. Richie starts to think that the intercom isn’t working properly.
“Oh,” Carmy says, finally. “Okay. Come up.”
The door unlocks and Richie feels a strange sense of relief, probably similar to someone being lined up for their lethal injection. At least it’ll all be over soon.
The foyer is warm and the place smells clean and regularly disinfected, which has to be a step up from the last shitty apartment building that Carmy lived in. Richie never understood how Food & Wine’s Best New Chef could tolerate living in such a shitty apartment building. It was like he wanted his experience in Chicago to be as miserable as possible—probably as some kind of atonement that only a Berzatto could conceive of.
Richie begins to climb the stairwell, opting to bypass the elevator. Walking up the stairs will give him more time to think; more time to calm his racing heart and hide his sweaty palms. I’m leaving, he’ll say, just like that. I’m leaving, but I’ll stay until you can hire someone. I’m not an asshole. I’m not like you. I’m not like your asshole brother. Obviously, he would never say that last part, but it pops into his head like an uninvited guest.
In front of apartment 403, Richie realizes that he still has the unsmoked cigarette in his hand. He replaces it in the pack with more care than he’s probably ever done in his life. Then he knocks, gingerly, almost hoping that Carmy will decide at the last moment not to answer.
But no, no—Carmy opens the door right on cue, emerging from the black hole of his apartment like a boy-vampire out of an Anne Rice novel. Basically, he looks like shit. That’s the only way Richie can put it. His eyes are bloodshot and his skin is about five shades paler than usual, which is saying something. He’s wearing an old Bears sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. Maybe it makes him feel safer. Carmy looks from Richie to the floor and back.
“Hey, cousin,” Richie says, scratching at the back of his neck. Great opener. Solid.
“Hey.” Carmy nods and presses his lips together into something almost like a smile. “I, uh, do you wanna come in?”
Richie looks around him. “Um, no, I just came to uh, tell you something.” He trails off, frozen.
Carmy blinks at him.
Richie feels like throwing up, but somehow he gets the words out: “I think I need to leave.”
Carmy squints at him. “You just got here.”
“No. The restaurant.”
Carmy makes a face as if he doesn’t understand. Maybe he doesn’t. “What do you mean, ‘leave’?”
“I think I need to leave The Bear.”
“Like, resign?”
“Yeah, resign.”
Carmy hardly reacts. “Um. Uh, okay. Where is this… where is this, like, coming from?”
“Look. First off, this is not an easy decision, okay? I just don’t think I can do it anymore.” Richie swallows a painful lump in his throat that almost definitely wasn’t there a moment ago. “I love you, Carmen, but I don’t think it’s healthy for me to be there.”
“It’s not healthy ?”
“No, Carm, it’s not healthy.”
“What part’s not healthy?”
“Like, most of it, I think.”
Carmy nods slowly, looking down at his feet. He’s wearing a pair of mismatched socks. He hugs himself, arms wrapped tightly around his belly. “Okay, but,” he begins, quietly, “I want you to stay. I’m asking you to stay.”
Richie tries not to react, but he can feel his face growing hot. Come on, Richie, you prepped for this. He thought about what he might say if Carmy asked him to stay, but he can’t even remember it now. He doesn’t think that Carmy is trying to play at his heartstrings, but those big blue eyes are making it hard to think straight.
“Look, Carm, I’ve thought about this,” Richie tells him, trying to stick to his guns. “I really think it’s the best thing for both of us.”
Carmy grimaces. “Oh, it's for both of us now. Okay, can I just say something, though? Please? Can I say something?”
“Yeah, yeah, obviously, this is a conversation.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Well, I do,” Richie argues, trying to stand firm.
Carmy tries a different approach. “Look, Richie. I’m sorry. I know I don’t say it enough, cousin, I know , but I’m sorry.”
Carmy is wringing his hands. As Richie opens his mouth to respond, Carmy interrupts him. “I know I fucked up. I know. I let you all down, and, and I said really shitty things to you. I’m not asking you to forgive me, and I wouldn’t forgive myself, that’s fine, but please… don’t do this now,” he finishes, his voice cracking.
Richie feels himself losing control of the situation; losing his grip on his purpose. There’s a part of him that desperately wants to give in. Yes, Carmy, of course, Carmy, I could never leave. I don’t know what I was thinking. We can work it out. I’ll be at work bright and early tomorrow morning. But he can’t say any of those things. Richie came to resign because something has to change. Something has to change.
“I appreciate your apology. Really. I’m sorry too, Carmen, I really am, but it’s more than what happened last night.”
A heavy silence settles around them as Richie grasps for the right words. “Okay, on second thought, can I come in?”
Carmy nods and steps back to hold the door open. The first thing that Richie notices is the lack of decor on the walls. Carmy’s taste in interior design hasn’t changed all that much. He still lives like he’s just passing through for the weekend.
Carmy gestures toward the living room and Richie is relieved at least the living room looks a little, well, lived in. It’s got a few of Carmy’s things lying around; his pile of books, an empty mug, and some hastily scrawled hand-written notes.
Richie wanders in but he doesn’t sit. Carmy follows him, saying nothing.
Richie picks up one of the notes from Carmy’s coffee table. It appears to be a scrapped menu item. Along the margins is a doodle of a slim girl with big eyes and dark hair. It must be Claire. Richie places the note carefully back on the table. If Carmy noticed or cared that Richie was snooping, he doesn’t mention it.
Richie breaks the silence first. “I’m not sure how to say this, cousin. But I do wanna say this.”
Carmy nods, somber. “Yeah, of course. Say what you gotta say.”
“When I said it’s not healthy, I meant, I don’t wanna keep doing the same shit over and over again. Yelling, screaming, saying nasty things to each other. I feel like, sometimes, like I’m… stuck in some kind of Groundhog Day loop in that place.”
“Groundhog Day?” Carmy repeats, blankly.
“Yeah, like, Sisyphus pushing the rock up the hill and having it roll back down every damn night. And every time it rolls down the hill, it hurts just as bad, if not worse. I’m tired of it.”
“Sisyphus…?”
“And you’re hurting, Carm, I can see that.” Richie presses on, forcing himself to look into Carmy’s face. “I know you’re fucking hurting inside, because I am too.”
“I mean, who the fuck isn’t?” Carmy laughs humorlessly.
Richie gives him that one. “I know, but I’m scared sometimes, man.”
“I don’t…” Carmy scoffs, shaking his head. “Scared of what?”
Richie falters. He isn’t sure if he should even bring it up. He didn’t really intend to. But he read in Psychology Today that suicide runs in families, and it’s been on his mind ever since.
“There’s part of me that worries—maybe it’s irrational—but I sometimes start thinking that you could go the same way as your brother.”
Carmy pulls a face. “What, like, the Oxy?”
Richie shakes his head. “No. No, like, the killing himself,” he mutters. As soon as he says it, he wishes he could reel it back in.
Carmy goes very still. “What the fuck, cousin?" He shakes his head, frowns, blinks rapidly. “I’m not… I don’t wanna do that.”
There’s a slight tremor in his voice, and Richie notices a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“I fucking don’t,” Carmy repeats, sharper this time. “I’m not… I’m not… I wouldn’t do that. Fuck, Richard. I wouldn’t do that to Nat.”
“I’m not saying you would,” Richie stammers, “but that’s what I’m saying, man, like, you wouldn’t fucking do it because it would hurt Nat, but like, do you even like living? Like, do you like being alive? Because I swear to god, Carmen, sometimes, the way you react to things, the way you hold onto shit… it just… it just reminds me of Michael.”
This time, Carmy stays silent.
“So, no, I’m not sure I can keep working at The Bear, because it makes me feel like shit more than it makes me feel good. What happened last night was just—” He was about to say ‘the nail in the coffin.’ It seems like an inappropriate metaphor.
Carmy starts to pace across the floor. His expression is dark. “So this is, what, my fault? Or is it Mikey’s fault?”
That stings. Richie has to remind himself not to swallow his hurt anymore. “I’m not trying to blame you, Carm. I’m just telling you. This is how I fucking feel. These are my feelings. I’m not trying to attack you.”
“But why ?” Carmy continues, his face reddening. “Why now? You’ve never said shit to me before—”
“Because I’m tired, Carmen,” Richie groans, digging the heel of his palm into his forehead. His head is swimming. Shitshow. Shitshow. “I’m tired. I love you. I mean that with all my heart. I wanna be part of your life, but the atmosphere in that kitchen is fucked, because it was fucked when it was The Beef, and to be completely honest, I think it’s fucked us up more than it’s helped us.”
“So you wanna go… do fucking what? Beg Cicero for another job? Go back to DeVry and get a certificate in remedial IT or some shit?” Carmy is wounded. He gets nasty when he’s wounded.
Richie doesn’t have the balls yet to admit that he’d consider working at another restaurant. If Chef Terry offered him a job, he’d be there yesterday. He lowers his head and shrugs his shoulders.
“What the fuck, cousin?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know, Carm.”
“So why can’t you just stay?” Carmy stammers, almost hopefully, as if he’s seen a crack in the lining of the walls that are closing in around him. He puts his hands together as if he’s praying, pleading. He looks so goddamn earnest. “Just stay, then. I’ll do better. I promise. I’ll go to therapy or some shit. Fuck, we can go together. Family therapy.”
“That’s not it…”
“I don’t wanna be shitty. I don’t. I wanna be better.”
Richie believes him. “I know, Carm. I know. Me too. That’s why I have to go.”
Carmy buries his face in his hands. “This is not happening. Fuck. Fuck,” he moans, his voice sticking in his throat. He grabs a fistful of blond hair as if trying to rip it out of his scalp.
“Carmen…” Richie feels like he’s sinking. This is not how he wanted this to go. Forget shitshow. This is the shit fucking factory. Richie tries to reach for him, but Carmy slaps his hand away.
“Don’t fucking touch me right now, cousin.”
Richie shuts his eyes. He can hear Carmy breathing heavily, stalking around the room like a wounded animal. Richie wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, but more than that, he wishes that he could put all that he’s been feeling into words. The problem is, he hardly knows how to explain it to himself.
“Look. I know I’m not doing a good job explaining myself, Carmy. I don’t really know how to talk about this shit. But I wanna show Eva that I can change. That I can walk away when I need to.”
Carmy’s body is shuddering. His face is flushed pink and his eyes are glassy with tears. His lip trembles as he wipes at his face with his sleeve. “Cousin. Richie. Please don’t fucking leave. Everybody fucking leaves.”
“I’m not leaving you, kid,” Richie promises, placing a hand over his own heart. He can feel it racing underneath his fingertips. A cold sweat sticks his shirt to his chest. “You can’t get rid of me that easy. Are you kiddin’? We’re family!”
Carmy sinks into himself, drops his head into his hands, and sobs.
Richie doesn’t think he’s ever seen Carmy cry before. Not grown-up Carmy. Back in the day—back when Mikey used to poke at him and wind him up until he exploded—Carmy cried all the time. And then, of course, it was Carmy who took the heat with Donna for causing a scene. Mikey would shrug as if to say, it is what it is. The natural order of things. But Richie could hear little Carmy wailing and punching the shit out of his bedroom wall all the way from downstairs.
And after that, little Carmy would still beg to come with them to the package store or The Beef or wherever they were going.
But this is different. When Carmy finally lifts his head, he looks absolutely devastated. “Am I a bad person?” he asks, wiping glossy tears and snot from his face.
Richie goes cold. “No,” he says, as firmly as he can.
“Are you sure?”
Richie reaches out again and manages to grab hold of Carmy’s wrist, yanking him closer. It strikes Richie just how young Carmy looks, with his hood pulled up over his loose curls. He doesn’t think Mikey ever looked so young, even when he was.
Richie tells him the truth and prays that he believes it. “Mikey was always saying that. ‘I’m not a bad person, I’m not a bad person.’ He never fucking was. You’re not a bad person, Carm. You’re not.”
“Can I tell you something?” Carmy asks, his voice low.
“Yeah, Carm, you don’t gotta ask.”
“I’ve thought about it. Like, maybe it’d be better if I wasn’t around anymore.”
Richie feels his grip tighten on Carmy’s wrist. “Okay,” Richie says, carefully. “When?”
“Is that crazy?” Carmy asks.
“I mean, I don’t know if it’s crazy, but it’s definitely not fucking true.”
Carmy is silent for a moment. “Do you think I can fix things with Claire?”
“I think so, Carm,” Richie lies, because he still has no idea what really happened. If only it were that simple. If he could, Richie would wave his wand like a fairy godmother and bring them back together. “But we can talk about it. We can have a beer and talk about it, ya know?”
“I don’t drink anymore,” Carmy reminds him.
Richie feels something breaking in his chest; something welling up and making his face hot. “No, of course you don’t. We’ll grab coffee.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, kid. You pick the spot. We’ll grab coffee and we’ll talk about it. We’ll put our fucking heads together. It can’t be that bad.”
Before he can think better of it, Richie leans in and pulls Carmy into his arms. Carmy doesn’t fight it. He just stands stone-still as Richie hugs him. Richie doesn’t want to let go. He’s afraid of what will happen if he lets go. But Carmy never liked hugs—not at Christmas, not at Easter, not ever. Over time, Richie had to learn to let go. So he does.