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Sydney almost leaves without saying goodbye to anyone after the friends and family dinner. Her mouth tastes like vomit and her back muscles are spasming in protest of the hours on her feet. Her phone is full of text messages from people telling her how great their food was, how good the restaurant looked, how proud they are of her. She can’t even look at them without wanting to scream.
Carmy promised she wouldn’t fall apart. Promised he wouldn’t let her. And yet when the tickets came in harder and faster and all she could think about was the day with the pre-orders, the day she quit, he wasn’t there. He was locked in a fucking fridge. He locked himself in the fucking fridge.
If she thinks about it too much, she’s going to throw up again.
But she doesn’t. She doesn’t throw up again, and she doesn’t leave. She straightens her back, puts on a smile, and marches back into her restaurant to tell her staff how good they are. Because she is a professional. One of them has to be.
***
Inside, things are a mess. Not just the normal post-service mess—in fact, she has to give the team credit, their workstations are pristine compared to how they used to look when she first got here—but a mess of emotions, for sure. People are starting to drink to their success, drink to cover up the tension, drink just to drink, and the buzz of the place is taking on a decidedly sloppy edge for a restaurant that’s supposed to be new and improved.
Carmy’s nowhere to be found, and no one asks about him. No one mentions that their owner, their leader, the man they were all doing this for, completely fell apart. Maybe it’s too awkward. Or maybe they all knew better than to hope for more. They’re the ones who grew up with Carmy, they’re the ones who know him.
Maybe it’s only Sydney who was stupid enough to believe that his genius meant he could do the rest of it.
It’s Richie, of all people, who starts to clap when he notices her. But once he starts, everyone else catches on, and suddenly they’re applauding, whooping. Someone shouts, “We did it!” and then arms are around her. Tina, she realizes, followed by Frak, big and warm, and Marcus, any awkwardness from earlier forgotten.
Sydney forces a smile. She hems and haws and does the it-was-all-you-guys song and dance. She tries so hard to enjoy the moment with this team she’s come to love more than she thought possible; hates Carmy just a little because she can’t. He stole that from her.
Or maybe she stole it from herself. Went too hard and too fast. Again.
(Same stupid mistakes. Over and over.)
***
She finds him outside, eventually, leaning against the fence out back, tugging on a cigarette. He looks up when she approaches, winces. He’s anticipating her fury, and that takes the wind out of her sails.
“What the fuck?” she asks, sharp but not a yell. Not nearly all her anger, but it’s all she can muster in the face of the way he curls in on himself, already defeated.
“I know. I know. I fucked up.”
“Ya think?”
“But you pulled it off.” He offers a tentative smile. “You killed it.”
She takes a deep breath. It still smells like dinner out here, the smoke and the fat and the flavors infusing the air. Or maybe that’s just their clothing, their skin, their hair; their art working its way into their every pore.
“I didn’t,” she admits. “I nearly panicked.”
Carmy shrugs. “‘Nearly’ isn’t panicking. Everyone got served. That was you.”
“That was Richie, actually.” She rolls her neck, barely wanting to say the next words out loud. “You were right about him.”
Carmy takes this in. Then he closes his eyes and leans against the wood behind him, letting out a deep sigh. “Fucking Richie. At least I did something right.”
“Fucking Richie,” Sydney agrees. The absurdity of it bubbles up, makes her want to laugh, long and hysterical. Fucking Richie. When she met him, the man couldn’t even handle a hardware store run without her help, and now he’s saving the day.
But she doesn’t laugh, because she’s still too mad. “So the thing is, we’re supposed to be partners here.”
“I know—”
“And you fucked that up tonight.”
“I know.”
“And I kind of want to kill you right now.”
“Syd…”
Sydney holds up her hand. She can’t handle an apology. “But I’m not going to kill you. Because, somehow, despite everything, we managed to pull off something amazing tonight. Murder charge might, you know, ruin that.”
Carmy huffs, amused, and looks at her, questioning: if not murder, then what? Putting the ball in her court. He probably means it to be a compliment, a gesture at true partnership, but she’s tired of carrying the ball. The whole problem is he hasn’t been around to catch it when she passes.
“I’m going home,” she declares. “Since you were no help tonight, like, at all, you can be my partner by covering clean up.”
“Yeah, fair. That’s fair.” He takes a long drag on his cigarette. “Go home, get some sleep. I’ve got this.”
“You better.”
“I will.” He spins the cigarette in his fingers. “I broke up with Claire, so you don’t need to worry about that distracting me anymore.”
The news hits Sydney in the gut, an unwelcome wave of relief and jealousy all at once. She hasn’t had time to examine why Carmy’s new relationship bothered her so much, and she doesn’t want to look too hard at why this revelation makes her feel lighter.
“You didn’t need to do that,” she says. “I never said you can’t have a life.”
“You didn’t have to.” Carmy twists his lips into something that would be a smile if it weren’t so pained. “I don’t think I can do both.”
Sydney swallows hard. She doesn’t want to tell him he’s right, but he probably is. He can’t do both. She can’t do both. All they have is each other and the people they hope to serve. And the food, of course. Always that.
“I need to be able to trust you,” she tells him instead.
He looks down as he nods, clearly ashamed. “Yeah, yeah.”
“I want to be able to trust you.”
He nods again, fast and urgent, the way he always does when he wants to convey how much he gets something. “I want that, too. I meant it when I said I wouldn’t even want to do this without you.”
It’s Sydney’s turn to duck her head, sucking in her lips. Hearing that from Carmy, from the chef who made the best food she’s ever had, from her partner—it lights things in her she didn’t have time to process when he told her earlier and doesn’t have the energy to process now.
“I had a panic attack today,” Carmy says after a stretch of silence. “This morning, I mean. Not in the fridge. Well…maybe in the fridge, too. But definitely this morning.”
Sydney doesn’t even know how to absorb that, on top of everything, so she just asks, noncommittally, “Oh?”
“Yeah. I was thinking about Claire, about my family, The Bear—all of it. Just completely losing it.”
“That sucks.” But why is he telling her?
“And then I thought about you,” Carmy barrels on, as if he didn’t hear her. “And that’s what got me out of it.” His eyes meet hers. “I trust you. I trust you more than anyone. And I’m going to keep working at this until you trust me again.”
He looks exhausted when he finishes, all the way down to the bone, but his gaze is as insistent as ever—impossible to look away from. He keeps her there, eyes locked, and brings his hand to his heart, curling it into a fist. He rubs in a circle, like he taught her: I’m sorry.
Sydney takes a deep breath and returns the gesture: I hear you. Her heart thuds against her chest, the rat-a-tat of too much emotion, too fast. Fury next to forgiveness next to a hope too tentative to look at.
“Will I see you in the morning?” Carmy asks as they drop their hands in unison. Asks like it’s a real question, like she might actually abandon everything they’ve built here. Asks like he’s begging her: Please. Please stay.
Maybe she should jump ship while she still can. Maybe this is all too hard, too fast, too reckless. Maybe the nausea still churning her stomach means they’re on the brink of disaster.
But no, fuck that. What they did in there tonight was a disaster, but it was also magic. It was, as her dad said, the thing. Kind of like Carmy, his mess of a life contrasted with the way he cooks.
“I’ll be here,” she declares, somewhere between a pledge and an admission of insanity. “But that kitchen better be fucking spotless.”
Carmy doesn’t drop eye contact as he whispers, “Promise.”
She believes him. She shouldn’t, but she does. Believes he’ll be there, really be there tomorrow. And the next day, and every day until they have their star.
“Good.” She nods, wanting him to know she means it. “Yeah, good. It’ll be nice to have you back.”
Oh, and there it is, the thing she’s been waiting for, the real reason she hasn’t gone home yet: the elation she always expected to feel on the opening night of her own restaurant. The unabashed joy.
She looks at the sky, breathes in the air that still smells like dinner, and smiles.