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At some point, Sydney Adamu starts to know Carmen Berzatto — or, at the very least, as much as he lets her.
She starts paying attention, noticing the little things. Chasing the little things. Committing them to memory. Holding them close.
He always double knots his apron. Always struggles to untie it after service. He prefers fruit to milk tea boba, much to her disgust. He’s not well-versed in pop culture, and surprisingly favors comedy over the action films she loves. He has a soft spot for romance, but would never seek it out. He always smiles when she puts one on.
Sydney knows he’s amusingly desperate for her father’s approval, and that he’d cross the ocean just to make a good impression. She knows that his efforts are mostly in vain, and knows she will never tell him as much.
She knows Carmy looks away when asked about his childhood room, the color of his walls, his favorite toy. He’ll laugh it off, claiming an unreliable memory. Carmy doesn't remember. Carmy’s own mind tended to antagonize him.
Sydney stopped asking, at some point. Eventually, everyone else does too. Carmy is present, here and now, and the past doesn’t seem to matter. Why pry open a locked door if there’s no point? Instead, she asks him about his favorite color today, and he laughs, saying it’s blue.
At some point, they start dating, and to everyone’s shock and surprise, it is not with each other. It begins casually, noncommittal and spontaneous. During a slow week, Nat, high on hormones and romance, sets Sydney up with a former coworker. It was completely without her approval, but there's no harm in a free dinner, so. She goes.
His name is Chris, or something like that, and he gives her flowers at the door. Sydney has never been given flowers before, so she agrees to a second date.
Carmy comes over later in the day, holding tupperware with a dish he claims she has to try. Insists, really, but Sydney didn’t mind. She was happy to have him.
As he helps her trim the stems, Carmy casually mentions a girl from high school and the possibility of a date with her. Sydney hums in response. They often mirror each other, so he hums back. Neither acknowledges the shift in the air.
It’s like a dam breaks, after that. Dates pile up, usually never lasting longer than a handful of outings. Sydney doesn’t remember most of their names, but an Alex is her longest relationship. Carmy’s only is a Claire. Sydney is fine with it.
One day, after service, they lie on her couch, a routine they’ve fallen into after particularly stressful days. Carmy claims her apartment is more calming than his own, claims the drive there is nice, and Sydney is inclined to agree. She scrolls through this app and that one while Carmy stares at the ceiling, both ignoring the cooking show they’ve seen a dozen times. Occasionally, she strains her arm to show him a funny post, and his smile makes it worth the effort. They often sit in comfortable silence like this. Today was off, though. Something feels different.
Whether it’s due to service or the cold or the way she can’t stop bouncing her leg, Carmy seems distant. Lost in thought. And Sydney tries hard to ignore it. She tries even harder to ignore how warm his body is beside hers.
“I broke up with Claire.”
The words come out in a jumble, and she barely has time to process them. He’s not looking at her when she turns her head. She can’t even imagine him doing that. Still, a response is owed. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, his hands clenched on the back of the couch. She wonders if she should reach for them.
“Are you okay?” Sydney’s not good at this, but she tries anyway. “You really liked her.”
He finally looks at her, his head turning to the side, curls falling over his eyes. He stares at her for a long moment, considering. “I’ll be alright.”
She decides to take his hand, and he twists it to hold hers properly.
“Do you want a hug, or…?”
He scoffs, lightly shoving her with one free arm while the other lands across her shoulders. Sydney leans into it, struggling to keep their hands interlocked. It’s worth the effort.
They’ve been doing this a lot lately, whatever this is. Sydney couldn’t put a name to it if she tried.
Instead, she offers, “You can talk about it, if you want.”
Carmy’s hand tightens around hers. He must be struggling at this angle too. “I know.”
“I’m serious. It’ll probably help.”
“I know.”
The conversation ends there. Neither of them mentions waking up wrapped in each other. Neither of them mentions how their dominant hands are now uncomfortably strained right before a booked Saturday dinner service. Neither of them regrets it in the slightest.
Sydney breaks up with Alex that weekend. Neither of them acknowledges the shift in the air. They order takeout on her couch instead.
At some point, Sydney realizes she loves him, though she wishes she could pinpoint the exact moment. It was a gradual thing, as these things often are—no single “aha” moment, no stuttering realization or world-shattering breakthrough.
The thought comes at dinner, if a shared bag of two-in-the-morning Doritos and pizza can be called that. It’s the week before Christmas, and she hasn’t touched her bed in over twenty-four hours. Carmy hasn’t touched his in god knows how much longer.
They eat like this every day. Together, that is. Even if it’s just to keep each other company in silence, it felt better than eating alone. Recently, Carmy diagnosed her as “depressing to look at”—his exact words—and decided she needed immediate treatment. He told her he’d be there after work, instructed her to keep her stomach empty, and all but threatened her into napping until he arrived.
She wakes up to the most painfully fragrant pizza she’s ever encountered. The idiot made her a pizza—a fresh, hot-out-of-the-oven pizza. Sydney is two breaths away from asking how the hell he pulled this off when Carmy pulls out two bottles of alcohol, and she screams.
“Shut the fuck up,” she’s already reaching for the display, clumsy from sleep.
He swats at her hand. “Hold on, I brought plates.”
“Carmy,” she tries again, only for her hand to be pushed away. “It’s pizza.”
“I know, but…I dunno. Feels more thoughtful plated.”
“Carmen,” she pleads, because she suddenly can’t remember the last time she ate.
“Mmh,” Carmy looks entirely too pleased with himself as he pulls out two disposable plates from a tote bag. He had started using those, recently. Sydney recognizes this as one she must have left forgotten at his own apartment.
Sydney resigns herself to letting the madman be mad. “You’re insane,” she tells him.
“Oh yes, completely deranged.” When he turns back to her, a plate in each hand, he’s beaming, slightly out of breath. “Might be manic. A bit.”
Something inside her twists, a familiar sensation by now. It’s that smile—the one she only ever sees when he’s with her—and the knowledge is crushing. “Join the club.”
He slides in beside her, placing a plate in her lap. “Okay.”
It’s unfair, frankly, the power he holds over her with such small, trivial things. His smile. His laugh. The way he can’t hide either from her. With her. Fuck.
She feels so unnervingly fond for the guy. The kind of fondness that makes you want to squeeze a kitten until it pops. The kind of fondness that makes you want to run your fingers through their hair just to feel it against your skin. The type of fondness that makes you want to eat your fucking legs off just to have something else to focus on.
When she opens her arms, a silent request, he looks visibly confused. Her insides twist again. There’s no pattern to the sensation, it seems.
He glances at her arms, then back at her. “Hey.”
Sydney loves him.
Her fingers wiggle as a smile forms. “Hi.”
They stay there, unmoving, for a moment and a half, his dumb smile meeting her dumber one. She fucking loves him.
“Come here, please.” He’s beside her almost immediately, plates abandoned somewhere unimportant. Carmy catches her easily when she falls into him, arms wrapping around his neck. He lets her slump against him, lets her hum into him. He’s stiff but solid, firm and warm. His hands circle her back, and he smells like cheap bar soap and ash. She doesn’t hate it, anymore.
“Hi,” he says, hesitant, confused. She loves him.
“Hey,” she says back. She wonders how long she has. “Thank you.”
His nose is in her hair. “I wanted to. Enjoyed it.”
“Mm.”
They stay there, neither counting the time. She considers falling asleep like this. He’d let her.
“I need that pizza in me, like, right now. Just so you know.”
His laugh nearly undoes her, and the squeeze he gives her before standing cements her agony. Sydney thinks she’s earned some melodrama. His arms are strong. Thick. Warm. Whatever.
The night is a blur of Netflix originals, expensive pizza, and cheap drinks. She wakes up draped across him, his arms secured around her. She doesn’t move right away. Sydney might’ve stayed for hours, but she’s not that self-destructive yet, so she rolls off of him.
By the time she’s out of the shower, Carmy is awake, and her apartment is cleared of any evidence from the night before. She doesn’t know how he found the trash room. She hopes he remembered to recycle.
He smiles at her, and she smiles back. It’s a Sunday, and he has nowhere to be. They stay inside all day. Sydney recites recipes, memories, trivia. He listens with genuine interest, even when she explains an entire chapter from her awful romance novel. He’s surprisingly engaged when she diverges into a detailed account of the NASCAR season. When she mentions her father’s obsession with the sport, he asks more questions. He follows along better than she expected.
They survive the Christmas rush. He bakes her another pizza.
At some point, it becomes unbearable. Sydney has known Carmy for years now, and she’s loved him for most of them. Becoming aware of the fact somehow worsened the effect.
He’s always been so private, so controlled, so unreadable, and she’s never pushed him. Tried not to, at least. They had an unspoken agreement—she wouldn’t push about his past, and he wouldn’t push about her future. They were a pair, afraid of what came before and terrified of what might come after. Partners.
She’s glad she hadn’t pushed, somehow, because she doesn’t know how she would’ve handled it. As selfish as it feels, she’s not sure she could have dealt with it. Sydney has never been good at this sort of thing. She’s always only had to take care of herself and her dad, and he was easy. He just wanted to care for her.
Maybe it’s the unknown that scares her more than the future. She knows so little, with her father being her only certainty. Carmy now too, if she was being generously honest. It’s terrifying to be surrounded by people who seem far more suited to your life than you are. The thought of being without them is even scarier. Somehow, all of Sydney’s options seem to end in heartache—because they always have.
She’s been here for him, always done the best she could, and now she’ll be here for him again. Sydney loves Carmy; she knows him, works with him, just as he does with her. He’s there just the same. They’ve gotten better. They are a package deal.
It had been a rough week, and Carmy’s car was in the shop. He’d offered her an Uber, but Sydney prefers the L. Carmy likes the L — “It’s nice, with you,” he had said — so he held her hand all the way to the station. It had been a bad week, so Sydney didn’t refuse. The train ride back was quiet, the kind of quiet where you feel like you should cry. Instead, she drank two tote-warmed sodas. He let her lean on his shoulder, and she let him lean back on her. They work. They are a package.
They took turns showering at his apartment, and she was nearly asleep by the time he crawled into bed next to her. He groans along with the bed, both worn and withered. Sydney laughed at his theatrics, cracking an eye open to find him already watching her.
“Hi,” he said softly.
“Hey,” she replied, equally soft. This time, he reached for her hand, and she easily took it. “You’ve got about two seconds before I pass out.”
He just squeezed her hand instead. They’d both be a mess in the morning. She had been uncharacteristically calm the last few days, but that stability was bound to crumble at any moment. Then it would be his turn to play mom while Sydney got to cry, bitch, and moan. He’s been doing that more lately—filling in her gaps when she needed him, just as she’s been doing for him. They both have calls to make, emails to send, menus to craft, people to face, clothes to wash—but all that could wait until tomorrow.
For now, Sydney closes her eyes, feeling his gaze still on her, and she breathes. His hand is warm in hers, his thumb tracing light patterns on her skin, and he smells like cheap bar soap. It was comforting somehow. She wanted to drown in it. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to love him. She wasn’t sure how to.
At some point, she falls asleep. Neither of them moved until morning. Neither of them will mention it tomorrow.