ONE: SEPTEMBER 2021

She doesn’t even know his name, is the thing. The guy’s a regular at the bar (never at the restaurant), comes in every single Sunday, and he’s quiet and contemplative enough that Sydney’s eyes might’ve skated right over him if he hadn’t stuck out like a sore thumb amongst every other patron the first time she’d seen him.

Turns out catering hadn’t been the right move for her in the end; too big, too fast, too much. Too un-fun when all was said and done and her debt was through the roof; it was like everything she’d loved about cooking—the flavor, the precision, the joy it brought to people—became a chore. But she just couldn’t stay away from food service, her great Achilles heel. Or her skills only afforded her a job in the service industry. Or something. Either way, Sydney had ended up back at a restaurant, only this time with the libations instead of with the food.

It’s an okay gig. It still allows her the creativity she’d enjoyed with cooking; she still gets to be a part of people’s nightlife experiences, too, but she just doesn’t care about alcohol like she does food. Maybe that’s for the best. Lower stakes. It works, at least for now. Better than driving for UPS and worse than her internship at a restaurant back in New York that hadn’t hired her on because she’d still had a semester left. It isn’t forever. It’s just until she gets her life together, gets out of her dad’s place. She misses cooking like an ache a little bit, but it’s whatever. She can’t go through what she did again.

For now, she’s at The Vine, nestled between Union Park and Route 90, serving all of the finance bros and their older businessmen-who-haven’t-left-the-80s counterparts on this side of the West Loop.

And him. The Sunday night regular.

The regular clearly does not work in the finance industry, or big tech or anything like that. Amongst the suits and ties of the older dudes and the Patagonia vests and checked shirts of the younger ones, he wears track pants and a different iteration of a shirt from The Original Beef of Chicagoland every single week. Sydney likes that about him. She likes reliability, for one thing, and she’d liked The Original Beef of Chicagoland. Liked being the operative word; she hasn’t been there since she’d hit middle school and the going-there-every-weekend tradition with her dad had kind of petered out. But she remembers the good parts of it like you did with any memory that you had just enough distance from: messy Italian beef sandwiches, Dad wiping pepperoncini juice off her chin and her batting his hand away but laughing, the guy behind the counter who treated everybody in the place like family and asked after Syd’s youth rec league soccer games. She wonders if that guy still works there, but not enough to approach the regular to ask. She wouldn’t even know how to describe him if she did.

Syd had inherited the regular from the bartender whom she’d replaced. Places like The Vine had staff that gave enough of a shit to stay on and train the new people before moving on to wherever they moved onto—a cocktail bar in Wicker Park, in Cece’s case—and she’d pointed him out on Syd’s third day. He comes on Sunday nights, give him a boilermaker. The rail rye and whatever pilsner is on tap, which is about the best they can do for him here when he would clearly prefer the kind of alcohol they carry at a dive. And no, Cece doesn’t know why he doesn’t frequent a dive instead of here because he tips really well and she doesn’t want to break the sacred silent understanding they have. Don’t bother him and he’ll tip you like he had a whole meal. It’s like he feels bad for just nursing a couple beers after the initial shot and then leaving.

She likes that too and so she leaves it alone and just studies him instead. You can tell a lot about a guy just by the powers of observation, she’s found. He’s a smoker: the guy taps his fingers on the fancy granite of the bar like he wishes it were still 2007 and he could smoke in here instead of having to get up every hour and a half with a grumble and a hand patting his back pocket for his cigarettes.

He’s probably a dad, because sometimes parts of him are covered in glitter and Sydney’s seen a school picture of a little blonde girl in his wallet when he opens it to slap bills down for her to take home. She’s seen his keys, too; he drives a Honda which endears him to her for some reason. He’s just got—he’s just got this real Chicago townie look to him which means he could be one of those guys who is real America-first and only drives domestic, but he isn’t.

It’s weird that he’s so quiet at the bar, because Sydney is fairly sure he’s a chatty guy. She’s always prided herself on her intuition; she knows these things, it’s why she does pretty good as a bartender despite not actually caring about bartending. The guy’s a chatty dude: he just has that sort of face. He should be the type of person to make friends with the staff and get himself well-liked enough that he gets free shots of Fernet at the end of the night. But maybe he’s picked up on the fact that The Vine isn’t the kind of spot that does those kinds of things. He’s gotta know he isn’t the regular sort of clientele at a sixty-dollar entree place. She’s not judging that, because she sure as shit isn’t either. And it isn’t about the money, even. It’s about the pretension, or lack thereof in their cases. Syd wouldn’t be here if the tips didn’t provide her enough money to save up for her own place and chip away at paying off her student loans with a little bit leftover for spending in the meantime.

But anyway, he’s got the face and the guy seems like a yapper when he answers his phone if he ever gets a call. He’ll pull his head out of his hands, a smile or a frown comes on his face after he squints at the caller ID, he picks up and starts talking as he strides outside so he doesn’t impolitely do it at the bar. It’s cute. And he’s tall, too, over six feet when he stands and he’s got a confident walk.

“You have a crush on Sunday,” Patrick says to Sydney one night, sidling up to her from where she’s focused at the POS, putting in an order for a woman who is obviously here on a business trip and has a per diem to burn, suitcase perched next to her barstool.

“Oh, fuck off,” snorts Sydney, waving her hand dismissively, “I do not.”

“No, you do, dude. I see the way you stare at him. It’s kinda creepy. I don’t know how he hasn’t noticed. I’d notice. Like for sure.”

“I do not stare, oh my god. And also, he’s married,” Syd tells Patrick pointedly. And that’s the other thing. He’s married. Wedding ring gleaming on the fourth finger of his left hand.

“So?” Patrick asks, like this should be obvious. “You’re not.”

“I have kind of a rule not to homewreck,” Sydney says. “It’s just not my thing, you know? I swore it off after I made a guy leave his ex-fiancée at the altar. I had kind of a wild past. Living in New York was a crazy time for me.”

“Are you serious?” asks Patrick, looking like he’s gained some sort of newfound respect for Sydney. She pulls a face.

“No, I’m not fucking serious,” she says, and slaps him with her order pad. “But I am off dating, and that’s serious. For real. There’s a new customer at one of your seats, by the way, so leave me alone. Thirty second greet or Seth is going to fire you.”

“He wouldn’t, I’m the best upseller here,” Patrick says breezily. “You should talk to Mister Sunday. Maybe he just wears the wedding ring for attention. You know, like in Just Go with It, that Adam Sandler-Jennifer Aniston movie?”

“I watch movies with substance,” Sydney says, flicking him on the shoulder with a laugh and ignoring his low no you don’t. “Go greet your customer and stop worrying about my love life. Besides, Sunday is like forty at least. I’m twenty-six, man.”

“So? You’re a grown woman. And older guys know what they’re doing,” Patrick says before turning on his heel and going to turn on the charm for the rich guy on his side of the bar. She glares after him, and mouths her mantra to herself so she remembers.

No flirting with customers. This job is temporary. And she’s off dating until she gets her life together and gets her own place.

TWO: DECEMBER 2021

Sydney finally talks to him a couple weeks before Christmas when he asks if they’ve got any TVs and if they do, where should he sit to see them, and can she put the Bears-Packers game on?

She answers the question with an undignified snort before she can stop herself because what is this, Jake Melnick’s? No, they do not have TVs and if they did, they would not be showing sports games. Maybe, like, a livestream of a Yule log. Something upscale and quote-unquote non-offensive, per Seth.

He looks at her and raises his eyebrow. Asks, so, is that a no?

“I’m sorry, sir,” she finally says. “But Output is about a twenty-minute walk away? You know, the sports bar? They’d be showing it.”

“Just about everywhere would be,” he says, “but I guess not a place so committed to gastronomical excellence like this.”

“Gastronomical excellence?” Sydney asks, raising her eyebrow in a mirror image of his and fully aware that if Seth heard her having this conversation, he’d kill her. “I’ve never even seen you eat here.”

“I got eyes,” he says. “And what I don’t have is sixty dollars for a fuckin’ steak I could get at that all-you-can-eat spot on Western for like eleven ninety-nine a pound. And it’d be just as good. Probably better.”

Sydney’s got no reason to defend a steak she didn’t make. Hers would be better, she knows, and elicit no complaints. She shrugs, and says, “Output’s got the best wings around. Ask anybody on Reddit. And also, you know. Televisions. Multiple.”

“First of all, I am a Generation X-er,” he starts, and Sydney kind of wants to hit the guy. In a fond way. A light tap. And she won’t, just. She knew he was a yapper. Now she’s got him started, and he’s yapping, and she should peel herself away, but she can’t stop looking at his mouth. Nothing to write home about, but his lips are a nice pink color and he’s got nicely trimmed facial hair around it. It looks—kind. Which is a stupid adjective. But it’s objectively better than kissable, which is the other word on the tip of her figurative tongue. “I don’t go on Reddit, Sydney, and I don’t pay fourteen dollars for wings, neither.”

She should roll her eyes. Instead, she says, startled, “How do you know my name?”

“You introduce yourself to every customer, and similar to the eyes, I got ears,” he says, picking up his cocktail napkin and pointing at her with it. “And Cece told me, anyway. New girl, Sydney, be good to her.”

“I didn’t think you talked to Cece. Or any of us, for that matter,” she follows up, looking over her shoulder for Seth, should he be lurking. Still in the back doing inventory, apparently, trusting Sydney and her coworker Marvin to act right out on the floor. The Vine doesn’t have a star; it’s a well-oiled machine but one that’s allowed to act human every now and then. A place like Nobu Fifty-Seven would never not have a manager on the floor. Still, Seth really wouldn’t like this conversation if he heard it. It’s not full of upselling or neutrality, like the weather or the Red Line being delayed again.

“Well, this is my quiet spot,” Sunday says. “I talk all day long, you know? Need somewhere to come and clear my head, and nobody bothers me here. Nobody I know comes here. Nobody I know would come here. Well— Yeah, nobody I know that lives here, anyway. Cece got that. You get that, or you got that. And I like that. Some bartenders don’t know when to shut the fuck up, you know? No, I don’t want to talk about my goddamned day. And I don’t need you playing pretend therapist with me, neither.”

Sydney isn’t the type of girl to frequent bars enough to have the bartender talk to her beyond asking what she wants, but even she’s aware that would sound deeply uncool coming out of her mouth.

“Yeah, sure,” she says, nodding her head. She glances down the bar; nobody looks in dire need of another round and nobody new has sat down. “Before I stop talking to you, though, can I get your name? It only seems fair, you know, since you have mine.”

“I dunno,” he says solemnly. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Oh yeah? You got license to kill, James Bond?”

The second she says it she feels like an idiot. It sounds way too much like flirting. Bad flirting, even. She grabs at a glass randomly, holding it for something to do, trying to think of something, anything to salvage what she just said, when he responds.

“Maybe so, sweetheart. Or maybe I’m the Bond girl. Or like, Q. I could be Q,” he says, eyes crinkling at the sides. He cracks a smile, and Sydney can tell by the lines that form on his cheeks that it’s a real one. Not the bullshit one she’s seen him give Patrick and Marvin and Tara. And just like that, embarrassment forgotten. Freaky. Annoying. And nice, all at the same time. “It’s Richie. Nice to meet you.”

He sticks out his hand, and she can’t help but let out a giggle over the gesture. If her other hand wasn’t occupied, she’d cover her mouth in embarrassment at the sound. Nobody’s ever shook her hand over the bar before. He’s got a firm grip. Somebody taught him the importance of a good handshake, she can tell, because he wraps his left hand around her right, and it totally dwarfs hers and makes her feel a weird zing through her body from her forehead to her feet, just for a second. When she looks back down, all she can see is the wedding ring on Richie’s finger, and she snaps out of it.

“Yeah, nice to meet you,” she says. “Another pilsner?”

He nods, putting his hand up in mock deference. “Don’t kill me.”

“I’ll do my best to withhold,” she says, and goes over to the taps. Fancy taps, not the kind Output would have with the tap handles that are sent over by the distributors. Just sleek silver and totally devoid of heart. Not that the corporate ones have heart either, but Syd kind of likes them anyway. They’re kitschy, like the little goose from Goose Island. Kind of taps a place like The Beef would have if they served alcohol. Maybe they do now, it’s been a long time.

She thinks about asking Richie but remembers the no talking rule, so instead she just fills up the glass on a Seth-approved angle to get just the right amount of foam at the head, slides it over to him, and turns to walk away.

A hand reaches out to snag the sleeve of her black dress shirt.

“Hey,” he says. “You can talk to me if you want, okay? It’s—it’s different.”

The words who says I want? sit heavy on her tongue, the easy sarcasm she’s been using as a defense mechanism since she hit the fourth grade and became aware of bullies. She has no reason to say it, not to Richie, whose name she just learned, who seems like kind of an asshole about the world but has been nice to her beyond the annoying sweetheart, which being front-of-house has trained her from bitching about, even if it annoys her.

“Different from what?” she asks instead.

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Just…I dunno. My job, you know, it’s customers and my coworkers and I see them fifty, sixty hours a week. How are you doing after everything? What do you want me to say? We’re all going through the same shit. Then I get home, maybe my daughter’s there, and that’s good, she’s the best, but she’s five, so the conversations are limited. Then my ex-wife calls to bitch at me. Or a date calls to say I’m good, no spark, don’t want to see you again. Here, it’s just, you know, here’s your fuckin’ boilermaker and it’s good, it’s good. But you’re not gonna talk to me about my ex-wife because you don’t know my problems, so it’s alright is what I’m trying to say. Okay?”

Jeez. If anybody ever needed bartender therapy. If anybody ever needed real therapy. She doesn’t comment on the wedding ring and ex-wife, and she doesn’t think about Patrick’s theory.

“Sure,” Sydney says. “Okay. Should I tell you about my problems instead?”

She doesn’t really know why she offers. It’s not the kind of thing she does; nobody here even knows she has a dead mom or that she doesn’t give a fuck about wine tasting notes or that she lives with her dad.

“Yeah,” Richie says. “Hit me.”

“Well,” she starts, “How about we start with I can’t find an apartment and I’m stuck in my dad’s place? And he’s fine, but like, I’m closer to thirty than I am twenty and I am suffering—”

“Rough,” Richie winces, but he gives her a grin after. “Tell me your Craigslist room searching woes, I’ve been there.”

So she does. And it feels good to do it, that’s the fucked up thing. He listens and asks follow-up questions, which is more than she can say for most of her petered-out Hinge dates. He asks her what her favorite drink to mix is, or if she’s ever invented a cocktail, and she tells him the truth. Every month, all the bartenders are required to get together and make something to put on their rotating menu. It could be fun, but base-modifier-flavoring-garnish just doesn’t have the same je ne sais quoi that salt-fat-acid-heat does. She tells him that. Her first love is cooking.

“Just like Carmy,” he says, to which Sydney makes a questioning noise. She looks around. Slow Sunday. Still nobody new, Marvin’s chatting with a pair of regulars down at the other end, and Seth is still killing time in the office. Restaurant’s mostly empty too, all the tourists saving their money for the holiday season.

“Who?”

“My best friend’s little brother,” he says, taking a ridiculously long sip from his beer as he does so. He’s closed off for an open book. “Yeah, he’s a chef at some big fancy spot in New York. Three star place. Loves cooking, has since he was a fuckin’ little kid.”

Three stars. Sydney lets out a low whistle. “You know the name of the place?”

He waves his hand. “Can’t remember it. But he was always doing that shit, you know, cooking and asking us to try; me and Mikey and Natalie. Sugar.”

“Natalie, that the aforementioned ex-wife?”

“No, no,” Richie says, scrunching his nose. “No. Nat’s Mikey and Carm’s sister. Might as well be mine, too. But yeah, Mikey, he runs the Beef, you know, so he cooks too, but not like Carmy does, with his fuckin’ James Beard and all.”

“Hoooooold up,” Sydney says, because hold up. Mikey, The Beef, brother, James Beard, three star. “Are you talking about Carmen Berzatto?”

“Fuckin’ God and Luke Appling above,” Richie says, flicking his eyes to the ceiling.

“Alright, Mister Dramatic,” she says, only her good front-of-house skills drilled into her by Seth stopping her from putting both elbows on the bar to stare Richie down. “Calm down. Did I touch a nerve?”

“No,” he says. “Yes. Everybody wants to talk about Carmy, Carmy, Carmy. Well, maybe Carmy should come home every once in a while and support his fucked up family instead of making me do it. Fuck. I need to smoke.”

“So go smoke,” Sydney says, filing that information away but not pressing. It’s nice to talk to someone beyond coworker gossip and her dad. Her list of friends has dwindled exponentially since leaving New York and starting Sheridan Road and not having time for anything but cooking, it’s kind of depressing. When she’d closed the business, she hadn’t exactly gotten back on her phone with a hey, got all this free time now, wanna get drinks? to any lingering high school friends or college friends in the area, of which she had three, maybe. She’d just spent most of the time kind of feeling like a piece of shit all over. Cosmic punishment for biting off more than you can chew, or something.

Richie seems really earnest, though. A dick, but only due to life circumstances. Good heart under that tobacco-tar coated exterior. “I have your credit card, I know you’re not leaving,” she says.

His expression smooths out as she says it. His pinched brow, his pursed lips—all of them disappear with her canned line. She’s said that a million times. They don’t get a ton of smokers here, but everybody’s gotta piss and shit, even guys who make six figures. But with Richie, it seems to make him forget all his problems. If he’s upset, it must be an old hurt. One that can be chased away with a joke and a smoke. Feels kind of good to know she was one-half of the equation.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he replies with a wink. She resists the urge to roll her eyes.

THREE: MARCH 2022

Richie doesn’t come in for most of February, and Sydney hadn’t been worried—she hadn’t been, really. The guy clearly has a life, and a daughter, and an ex-wife he’s still got some sort of feelings for if the ring is any indicator. And Sydney’s got her own life, too. She’s got recipes to fuck around with at home, something she feels like she can actually do now that it’s not her job. That’s the secret about chefs—they eat like shit outside of the workplace. Sixty, seventy hours a week putting together the perfect blend of flavors and all you want when you get home is Totino’s, or something similarly frozen and-slash-or reheatable.

She doesn’t have that issue anymore, so now she’s got a risotto recipe to perfect and take as long as she wants to to do it. And she’s got Tumblr to scroll, and True Blood to binge. And she’s got her phone to stare at and think about texting her friends and not doing that. And she goes out to the bars with her coworkers; she may be lonely but she is in the industry. Bar Siena is their usual spot and she can crush a couple beers with the best of them.

She’s barely thought about Richie, honestly. Maybe once on the night of the Super Bowl, which Sydney doesn’t give a fuck about, but she couldn’t help but think about Richie asking for a TV every time Marvin, an Ohio native, had furtively pulled out his phone to check the score.

But he shows up again in March, somehow managing to look worse for wear and attractive at the same time. Same old Beef shirt, but this time in a three-quarter sleeve baseball style, same track pants; navy, with a yellow stripe down the side. His beard looks a little overgrown, though, and his close-cropped hair is uncharacteristically greasy.

When she brings over his boilermaker, he asks her to bring an extra shot. She pours him one, and then pours herself one for good measure. Teresa’s on tonight instead of Seth, and she’s busy working the dining room and generally being fairly chill for an ops manager despite all of the stimulants in her system, and Seth isn’t here to bother her for messing up inventory by an ounce and a half.

“You good?” she asks, clinking her shot glass with him. “We cheersing to something?”

“Yeah,” Richie says, a heaviness in his voice that she hasn’t heard before, not even when he’s bitching about Eva’s shitty math teacher or Tiff bothering him for child support or like, Cubs fans. “My best friend. Mikey. Rest in fucking peace.”

Syd sends a thanks to whatever higher power exists that the rim of glass is already between her lips so that she doesn’t have to respond right away and can take a second to process. And also that she doesn’t spit-take.

“Um,” she says when the burn of whiskey is fresh in her throat and the evidence of her glass is cleared away in the bus tub. “So like, when you say rest in peace…?”

“I mean he’s dead,” Richie says. “He’s dead, Syd. He’s fucking gone.”

“I’m—” She starts, then cuts herself off. Tries to remember what she’d wanted to hear after her mom passed, but it was so long ago now, and she’d barely been old enough to remember anything but the confusion of the loss. “I’m sorry.” She decides that’s safe. She is sorry. “That sucks. Third shot on me?”

She’s not gonna do anything weird, like offer him a hug. She’s not really the hugging type. She’s the make somebody a meal type.

“Thanks,” he mutters. “Yeah, it’s fucking—too young. Too fucking young, you know? He was forty-six. And an idiot. And I love him. Loved him. And it sucks, and now I’m running the restaurant by myself, hence the Sundays I’ve been missing.”

“He left you the place?” Sydney asks, pouring the shot slowly so she doesn’t have to look into Richie’s eyes. They’re so blue, so light they’ve gotta hurt anytime he’s somewhere with less atmospheric lighting than The Vine, and like, endlessly deep. Romance-novel-love-interest type eyes.

“No,” Richie snorts. “Fuckin’ Carmen won’t come home, though. Didn’t even show for the funeral, selfish bastard. Your older brother, man. New York changed him. Too busy with his three star service sucking the asshole of a French tire exec to give a shit about anything else. That shit will steal your soul.”

“I used to want to do that,” Sydney says, and then immediately regrets it. What’s wrong with her, making this about her? She manages to not actually slap a hand over her mouth though, like some sort of archetypical nerd in a Judd Apatow movie. “Work at a place with a star.”

“Bartender extraordinaire, huh? Thought you said you didn’t love it that much.”

“No, I don’t.” Sydney laughs, can’t help it and strangely touched that he’d remembered. That’s the thing about regulars: you feel like you know them, and they know you, but it’s rare that conversations go deeper than the surface. Richie had opened himself up to her from the very jump, though, and he’s going through it, so she can repay him in kind. Something about him not actually being a friend is casually disarming. He’s not gonna judge her. He’s just gonna take it the way he does everything, with a raise of his beer and a thoughtful nod.

“Right, so…”

“Remember I told you I love to cook? Not just like, hobby level, or even run a blog level. I was good. I went to the CIA, you know? Not—” she starts, when she sees him open his mouth, “Not the Central Intelligence Agency, okay. Culinary Institute of America. On scholarship and everything.” She can feel herself blushing as she says it, wondering why she said it, and mutters hold on, before turning away to go chat with the one other person at the bar. Sunday is their least busy day by far, and when she nears the guy nursing an Old Fashioned a couple seats down, he raises his hand and indicates he’s fine.

“Really?” Richie asks when Syd nears him again, raising his eyebrows. “Full on, real deal Chef Syd, huh? How did you end up here, then? Like, bartending at a place like this specifically.”

She shrugs. Sheridan Road is typically a don’t-talk-about-it thing; she’s made it very clear to her dad that she has no interest in discussing it or trying to take on some catering gigs whenever he brings it up, and all her coworkers know is that she’d been in catering before this, presumably as a bartender. It’s fine, it’s whatever.

“The chef thing didn’t work out,” she says.

“Ah, no, come on,” Richie says. “Was it the pandemic? That shit killed everything. We only stayed open by a takeout window and sheer force of will.”

“It was just—I couldn’t handle it in the end, it’s whatever.” Syd waves her hand.

“It is not just whatever. Tell me what’s good. Abusive boss?”

“I was my own boss, so no.”

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t fuckin’ yourself over, though. Too many hours? Or…?”

“I was actually…” she starts off, unsure why she’s talking about this. But she’s already started. Might as well finish. She repeats her thought back to herself: he’s not gonna judge her. “I was actually really fucking good at it. Too good, maybe. It blew up. And I—I was doing it in my garage, like an idiot, but you can’t actually run a small business out of a garage, and you can’t actually make enough to pay off your credit card debt either, and now I’m here, like an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Richie says earnestly. She looks away.

“No, it was kind of stupid.”

“You know what’s kind of stupid?” Richie asks. “Stealing your neighbor’s cable.”

“Cable, like—like cable TV?”

“Yeah, like you’d splice in— Me and Mikey had this nerd friend, I don’t know, he handled it. We got caught by his neighbor before we even finished, lucky he didn’t turn us over to the cops, for real.”

“Oh my god,” she giggles. “Okay, first of all, I hope you realize that story makes you sound a hundred years old—”

“I’m forty-four!” he bursts out. “Oh my god, what the hell!?”

“Old,” she teases, sticking her tongue out. “Okay, I’ll concede. That’s stupid. Not as stupid as all the credit card debt.”

“Nah, that’s just the system fucking you, Syd. Stupidity comes with intention. It’s not your fault this world sets you up to fail. And look, you’re like, doing the damn thing. Workin’ and all. Being a good bartender.”

Her cheeks feel hot. “Yeah. Bartending’s alright.”

“But it’s not your passion,” Richie says, and she starts to open her mouth to hit him with a we’re not talking about this, not down that road. Not with Richie, who represents a weird normal constant in her life. But then he continues: “I see zero passion in those eyes, despite the smooth and beautiful enmeshment of the whiskey and beer that you pour. Expertly, might I mention.”

She can’t help it, she laughs. And he laughs too, eyes doing the crinkle thing, and he doesn’t look so sad anymore. Syd’s not ignorant enough to think that she can take away grief with one conversation, but a brief respite from the thoughts can feel like a million bucks at times like these.

“Only the best, Richie,” she says with a put-upon sigh.

“Aw come on, Syd. Keep talkin’ like that and one might think you like me.”

“You’re alright,” she says with a smile.

“Favorite regular you’ve ever had? Be so honest right now.”

“Sure,” she says, raising her eyebrows in bemusement.

“This time say it with conviction. Come on, I need this.”

“Richie, you’re the best there ever was. Drink taste unparalleled, commitment to never trying our food unparalleled, taste in cigarettes mediocre, but I’ll forgive you, I guess.”

“I know that’s right,” he says, raising his beer glass and taking a big gulp. When he lowers it, he looks maudlin again, and she feels an unreasonable urge to wipe it off his face. Just—just to make him have that smile that he’d had just a second ago, to keep on talking.

“It is right,” she says, and his lips twitch up, just a bit. She wants to keep the conversation going, to ask him—anything, really, but suddenly she feels at a loss, and she can’t get him another shot. She wants to say, so tell me about Carmy, why didn’t he come home? but she doesn’t want Richie to think that she like, cares about Carmy more than she does about him. Even though she’s got a copy of the magazine with Carmy’s interview sitting on her nightstand. Richie’s here, listening to her talk about Sheridan Road and not giving her the well you should get back to it, because I know better than you speech. She could kiss him on the mouth over it.

“I need a smoke,” he says, and she nods. Starts to say well, I’ve got your credit card, as you know. Instead, she makes a decision.

“Let me just tell Marvin.”

Richie’s eyebrows shoot so high his entire hairline moves. “You’re comin’ with me? You?”

“Me what?” Sydney asks, scoffing. “Am I not allowed to smoke now?”

“You just don’t seem the type, sweetheart,” Richie says. “No offense. But always in those little collared shirts—”

“—My uniform, you mean—”

“—Mixing up your fancy cocktails for the suits around here and shit—”

“—My job, you mean—”

“I just can’t picture it.”

“Richie, we are one and the same,” she says, very seriously. “Service industry to service industry. I, too, enjoy tobacco.”

For some reason, this makes him blush. The lighting is dark enough that she wouldn’t have even noticed, but he kind of turns away and puts his head down, and she’s got the same tell, so it’s obvious. And there’s an easy explanation for that—that it turns him on, or something—and she refuses to look into that. She lives with her dad. She doesn’t have her life together. He still wears his wedding ring. Doesn’t matter if he finds her attractive, he’s just—

She goes to find Marvin, meets Richie out back. It’s windy and raining, par for the course for Chicago in the late winter-early spring. She doesn’t have a lighter, and she has to lean close for him to cup his hand around the cigarette that he lets her bum, and as the flame lights up his face from below, like he’s a kid telling a ghost story at summer camp, she gets a good smell of his cologne. Drakkar Noir-type cologne, like he never moved on from the 90s, and it should put her off. Instead, she finds herself thinking he does not give a fuck what anybody thinks about him, and it’s really attractive. Stupid. Stupid. She should make her excuses and go inside.

But she shoots the shit for ten minutes longer than her allotted break, and tells herself she’s only hanging out with him because she feels bad for what he’s been going through and not at all because she also likes his company.

“Hey, Syd.” He reaches out with a touch to her wrist when she turns to go inside.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.” He nods, clearing his throat. “This—I really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” she says. Her wrists burns where his fingers linger.

FOUR: JUNE 2022

He’s early one Sunday in June, saunters in around four when the servers are outside swapping the patio over from daytime centerpieces to nighttime candles. It’s a nice night, a cool seventy degrees with the sun still high in the sky. Syd’s actively envying the servers in that section until Richie comes through the door and perches himself on his usual stool, and she finds herself pleasantly touched that he’s chosen to hang in here with her.

She’s still cutting lemons, over on the service bar where patron eyes are shielded from the less sexy parts of mixology, and when he raps his fist on the granite she looks over so fast that the knife slips and she slices straight through the skin on her thumb.

“Fuck me!” she hisses, and she sees Richie’s eyes widen in alarm.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Yeah, just, you know. Cut myself. Give me a second, I’m gonna go get a bandaid and a glove and then I’ll be back with your drink.”

“What?” Richie asks. “Don’t worry about my drink. Hey. Come here, nothing I haven’t seen before.”

“Gotta get a bandaid,” she repeats, holding her hand up uselessly. It’s nothing crazy, just some blood running down into the grooves of her knuckle, but she still feels like an idiot. “Gimme one sec.”

“Give me one sec,” he retorts, holding up his wallet. “I’ve got one, okay, come here. Let me take a look at it. I have a five year old, I’m pretty much an expert in this kind of thing.”

“Fine,” she sighs, even though she’s  like, extremely aware that she shouldn’t. Food safety for one thing. Being secretly touched at how soft that makes him seem and hoping to god that feeling isn’t playing out on her face for another. He’s a customer. “Do your thing. I could get in trouble for this, you know.”

“I’d go to bat for you,” he says. “Get Carmy in here. Tell him to defend you; what, is Seth gonna turn down the opinion of a three star chef?” The last bit comes out mocking, but despite that, Sydney can see the pride in his eyes. That’s been kind of a running constant since Carmy finally showed his face in Chicago a couple weeks ago. Anger one second, grief the next, then this big-brother I’d-never-say-this-to-him-but-hey-listen shine even as he’s ranting. It’s frustratingly endearing.

“Carmy doesn’t even know me,” she says bemusedly, letting Richie take her hand and pull it close.

“But he knows me, and I’m not above threats to his personhood.” He says it with a little laugh to himself, something he’s always doing, and Sydney can sense a story there. Richie never really talks about his own family, not the way he does the Berzattos. It’s always Mikey’s mom, Mikey and Carmy’s sister, our Christmas party, one time when we were all out—me and the Berzattos, I mean—

She gets it, she guesses, though with the kind of dysfunctionality he’s described she has to wonder why he isn’t choosing his own family over all that. Maybe they’re worse. Maybe he doesn’t have any left. It makes her feel a burst of gratitude for her dad. That he’s here, that he’s a good guy, and that even when he’s driving her up the wall taking too long in the bathroom in the morning, she’s like, actively able to live with him and not want to swan dive off the DuSable.

Richie’s nails are cut short and a little dirty, the hands of a guy in food service. It’s comforting when he pulls out his little band aids from the bill pocket of his wallet, printed with cartoon dogs and little catchphrases in bubble letters all over. Bluey, that’s right.

“No smoochy kiss for you?” Sydney reads out loud, her voice climbing in disbelief as she says it. Sure enough, that’s the phrase on the pink plastic. “What kind of phrase is that for a first aid item?”

“It’s a phrase from one of the episodes. Not a Bluey fan? You got no room to talk, come on, you like bad TV, like… The Vampire Diaries. And Riverdale.”

“And how would you know they’re bad? When you’re not watching kid’s shows, you watch, like, SVU.”

“An undisputable classic, don’t tell me you aren’t hanging onto every episode waiting for the balding guy and the hot MILF detective to do it—”

“Richie!” She resists the urge to throw a lemon at him. Besides, her hand is still in his, which is cool and totally normal. “I know damn well you know their names. You’re just trying to piss me off.”

“Is it working?” He smirks.

“No. I prefer Benson and Amaro, anyway.”

“What! No way, that’s like thinking Dean is Rory’s best boyfriend—”

“Whoa, hold the fuck on, I do not think that, I would never think that, and Amaro is nothing like Dean, also— Wait, you’ve watched Gilmore Girls?”

“Sugar was twelve when it came out. It was on. Constantly. Also, it was good. Who thinks Gilmore Girls isn’t good?”

“I don’t know,” Sydney says, laughing. “You’re right. Who doesn’t?”

“See? And everybody thinks Bluey is good, too.”

“Well, I’m twenty-six. Sans child. I don’t even have a cat. So, you know, it’s never conveniently on. My dad is pretty much always watching, like, those shows about wilderness survival, I don’t know.”

“Touche,” Richie says, carefully wrapping the bandaid around her thumb. His eyes are cast downward in a way that looks way too tender for the action at hand. She almost wants to jerk out of his grip, but that would be insane behavior. “Listen, I don’t design the merch. I just bandage the wounds, okay, where’s my thanks?”

“Thank you so much,” she says, hand over her heart in mock exaggeration. “How can I repay you?”

“Maybe whip me up a cocktail,” he says. “What the hell, right? Carmy’s trying to make sure I work at a fuckin’ French patisserie these days, might as well start drinking the fancy shit to go with it.”

That’s interesting, she thinks, turning around to busy herself with a glove and a lowball glass while making a mental note to follow up. Listening to Richie bitch about his problems always makes her feel slightly better about her own, but in listening she’s helping him, too, so tit for tat or something. Which is maybe fucked up.

“Any preferences?”

“Surprise me,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “I trust you. Whether you truly care about libations or not, I know you got talent.”

“Dangerous thing to assume you know,” she says, because yeah, coming up with drinks is demonstrably not her thing. She’s been here long enough that she knows how to kick flavors together and have them play off of each other and come out on the other side as something digestible, and there’s something about the way his eyebrows press together when he rants that makes her want to give him something he’ll down and say what the hell, Syd? This rules!

Richie likes whiskey, he likes to smoke, he’s a little bit of a weird dude. The stuff that comes out of his mouth sounds like it belongs in a snappy sitcom script, it’s genuinely endearing. He’d be a good bartender, honestly. Good with people.

So…scotch, maybe? Scotch with something that you wouldn’t think to put scotch with. Syd’s a champagne girl, she likes a French 75, and if champagne can go with that sharp juniper it can definitely complement the peaty smokiness of MacAllan 12. Angostura bitters feel obvious, but maybe a bit of ginger beer? The Vine makes their own, it’s got a spicy tinge to it that Sydney feels like Richie will either enjoy or have a white boy reaction to, and either way it’ll make her smile. And then, okay, a little bit of honey to smooth it out, and lemon juice because it’ll need an acid.

She mixes it together, drops a whiskey rock in the glass because this is the type of place to have those, and sucks up a taste with her thumb to a straw. Yeah, okay. That’s not half bad. Maybe she is capable of getting creative behind the bar.

Richie looks up with that mischievous gleam in his eyes when she slides it over to him, taking a big drink of it while not looking away from Syd for one second. It makes her squirm a little bit, like whether or not he likes it is a value judgement of her moral character or something.

“That is…different,” he finally says.

Her heart sinks, fucking ridiculous, all that warmth she’s been riding on from the bandaid situation out the window. “Yeah, I don’t know, it was stupid, so, I don’t know. Nevermind. Let me get your usual.”

She reaches out for the glass, but he stops her, his hand over hers. Totally covering it again. She’s never been so grateful for condensation before this.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it, Sydney.” Sydney, he says, in a tone like they’re pulling each others’ pigtails on the playground.

“Different is not a compliment.”

“Sure it is. Happy Feet was different for George Miller, and everybody fucking loves that movie.”

“Everybody does not love Happy Feet.”

“Yes they do. Let me ask you this: who the fuck doesn’t like a dancing penguin, huh? I would have sworn nobody could hold a candle to Earth, Wind, and Fire, but it turns out that Gloria the penguin can. Pretty fuckin’ tight. Also, different. And good.”

“Okay,” Sydney says, a real laugh stifled behind her hand. “What the fuck? I will concede.”

Another customer comes in at that point, and she wanders off to go help him, alone as the swing until Tara shows up at five. Guy’s easy, though, wants an extra dry gin martini and that’s a standard, mindless thing to make. There’s a part of her that is conscious of the fact that she shouldn’t drift back to Richie, because whatever is going on there is not the standard bartender-regular relationship.

But also, if she doesn’t drift back to Richie, it’ll be obvious that she’s being weird. And that would be worse, probably.

“So,” she says. “Tell me what’s good with the French patisserie thing. At The Beef, really? From what I remember it’s like, a sandwich line and some really fucking good fries. Homemade bread, actually, that’s what I remember. And you had this retro game—”

“Ballbreaker, yeah. Fuckin’ loved that game.”

“You don’t have it anymore?”

“No,” Richie snorts. “Fuckin’—we’re almost out of money, and Carmy decided we should have a tournament, and it got so fuckin’ crowded and just. We ended up selling it, I dunno. And it doesn’t fit this new thing he’s trying to do, it’s all bad. We had a system, and it was working, and it was how Mikey did things, and we have loyal fucking customers, right?”

“Right.”

“And he hired this new guy. Tucker. Who the fuck is named Tucker, right?”

“Tucker Nielson,” Sydney says without thinking.

“Who the fuck is Tucker Nielson?”

“Guy I went to highschool with. Ignore me. Sorry, go on.”

Richie lets out a snort. “Okay, well, Tucker Piotrwosky, who is our new sous— because we have those, now, by the way—is annoying as fuck and a little fucking suckup. Type of guy to tell the teacher we had homework when she forgets to check it. And Carmy, he’s just. I dunno, Syd, I love him but he’s a fuckin’ asshole. And we had this system —”

“You mentioned.”

“And now he wants to do this French artillery thing—”

“Brigade de cuisine,” Sydney breaks in, can’t help herself.

“Yeah, that.” Richie nods. “That’s not…” He trails off, then clears his throat, winding himself back up: “Why the fuck would you run a sandwich shop like fucking…Prime & Provisions — and yes, I am aware of the starred restaurants in our fair city, by the way, I’ve worked in the industry my whole life—it’s totally losing any of the fucking charm we had.”

Any of the charm Mikey had, he means. It’s obvious. And a little heartbreaking. Still, she can’t help but reality check him.

“But it works, Richie. A kitchen brigade is like…standard. And besides, sandwiches or no sandwiches, you still run a restaurant.”

“I’m a counter guy. I’m on the line.”

“No, you’re not, I mean. You are, but that’s like, the most important part of all of it. You have the charm. And you’re— You’re the chef de partie. And that’s important.”

“I’m not a chef de—de fuckin’ party, or whatever. And I don’t need to be.”

“But doesn’t that make you, like, feel good?”

“No. It makes me feel disrespected. And—and why the fuck are you siding with him, anyway? Man, if you were working there, would you be defending this shit?”

“I’m not—” She breaks off, frustrated. “I’m not siding with him, I’m reframing the issue. And besides, order can actually contribute to improvement, like—” And this isn’t a conversation she should be having with a customer of all things, anyway. “Do you want another drink, or anything?”

“I want you to mind your business. You chose to stay away from that side of the kitchen door. What the hell is this, Syd, like, you know how he’s just—” He breaks off. She does know, she does know how Carmy had shown up and thrown Richie for a loop and how Tiff is dating some teen heartthrob type, and how he can barely afford his child support payments. She also knows that he’s got a heart about ten sizes too big for his chest under all that bristly armor, and that he can’t see that Mikey’s spirit isn’t going to leave if they change the place. It can’t leave—Richie’s still there! She doesn’t know how to say that, though. Instead, she just gapes at him, fucking useless.

“Richie—”

“I need a smoke,” he says, and gets off his stool.

It’s only the years in the service industry that keep her from yelling fine! after him. Even she’s not that self-sabotaging, nevermind the way her face feels hot and her eyes are kind of blurry, or whatever. It’s fine. The other guy at the bar is sipping his martini and hunched over an iPad and Teresa is in the office, and Sydney needs—some ice. They need some ice up here, it’s a very convenient time to grab the bucket and go refill that. Maybe stick her head in the walk-in while she’s back there. Maybe that will jerk her back to reality, the one where she’s supposed to be getting her life together and not caring this much about what some regular thinks about her. And not caring so much about what she thinks about a regular, either.

FIVE: JULY 2022

Richie doesn’t come in next Sunday. And it’s fine, because it’s Eva’s dance recital, and maybe he wants to take her out for dinner or something, after. Dads do that sort of thing. It’s sweet, even. And Not a Big Deal, capital N-B-D.

He doesn’t come in the following Sunday either, though, and at that point Sydney decides well, that’s it! Fucked it. She totally fucked it and ruined everything forever. She’ll never see him again, and that fucking sucks, because it stopped before it ever even started, but hey. That’s life—she’s off dating, anyway.

Nothing wrong with throwing a little pity-party for yourself, though. She waves everybody going to Bar Siena off and instead trudges to the bus stop, thanking whatever god is up there that an 8 bus actually comes when her app says it’s going to. And that the Jewel-Osco is open till midnight even on Sundays. And that it has a Redbox, and is near home.

Syd’s dad is like, anti-streaming services. Nevermind that she shells out $9.99 a month for Hulu, and occasionally springs for Netflix when it’s actually got something worth watching on it. Emmanuel Adamu had been one of Blockbuster’s last loyal patrons when the store on Division shut its doors for good. He says he prefers the physicality of DVDs. Sydney kind of gets it.

It’s not too different from taking the time to score meat, or to make a mirepoix with your hands instead of sticking all the vegetables in a chopper. Something about the philosophy steers her feet toward the little area in the front of the store with its big eponymous red box. She’s got tomorrow off and nothing to lose by staying up till 2am and taking an edible and then another whenever she feels like falling asleep. And she wants to watch something fucked up, and angry like—like Se7en. Okay, no, that’s dramatic. And she feels a little queasy at the thought of it. Maybe, like… Fight Club. No— too film bro. She needs something bloody but ridiculous, the intersection of camp and gore. Something like… Scream 4. Yeah. That’ll work. A Scream movie is the kind of bloody you want to ride a high to. Fight Club, not so much.

She’s waiting in line behind an old man who shouldn’t be at the grocery store at eleven at night, plastic bag weighed down with a pint of mint chocolate chip over her forearm, tapping her foot in annoyance and deeply wanting to be out of her work pants and into her pajama shorts, which are actually breathable in this July heat. The smooth whir of the register belts behind her are kind of soothing and the animation on the home screen of the Coinstar kiosk is mesmerizing under the fluorescents. Sighing, she puts down the ice cream to throw her braids on top of her head and twists one that falls out of the bun around her fingers, pulling on it like she always used to do as a kid while waiting for the braider to finish up the other side of her head.

Of course, because whatever god’s up there giveth and also taketh away, she hears, “Sydney?” when she’s on her fourth twirl-untwirl rotation.

She turns around against her better judgement. It’s like her body moves without her brain actually giving it permission. Otherwise she’d be doing something logical, like staying facing forward and pretending she’s not named Sydney nor does she know anybody named Sydney. She could be anybody.

Instead, she locks eyes with Richie and says, stupidly, “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a grocery store,” Richie says, lifting his eyebrows and also gesturing with his hands like the old Italian uncles who loiter on the steps on the Near West Side. “Food, you buy it and consume it. Shouldn’t you know that?”

“Smartass,” she says, wanting to feel angry but instead just feeling tired. “Let me rephrase: what are you doing here at the Redbox?”

“Renting a movie. Which is pretty much the Redbox’s only function.”

Okay, she kind of walked right into that one.

“You’re being pedantic.”

“Yeah, well, you’re asking dumb questions.”

“Are you gonna go?” asks a woman from behind Richie, and Sydney turns back around to see that the old dude has actually managed to complete his transaction. She flushes deeply and mouths calm your tits under her breath. Scream 4. Right. Sidney and her defibrillator. Gale generally being hot. Etcetera.

Syd does her thing, steadfastly ignoring Richie’s gaze, which is boring into her back. It feels like burning. But she stays strong, tucks the DVD into her bag, and makes for the door and a triumphant escape. And then this can all be over and she can melt into a haze of marijuana and slasher flicks or whatever. She’s probably the only bartender on Earth who has managed to be so socially incompetent that she’s actually managed to be the reason a bar stops having a regular. Jesus.

Syd’s life is a joke. And as if to confirm that thought, a hand reaches out and snags her sleeve.

“Hold up,” Richie says. “Runnin’ out on me. Just hold up.”

“I’m kinda in a hurry.”

“You’re not. Just give me two minutes. Maybe less.”

“Richie—”

“Will you please go?” interrupts the woman from behind Richie. “Christ.”

He’s got no couth, so he does turn around and say, “Calm your tits.” Turning back to Syd, he says, “Fuck. Can you just hold on? I’ve got something I need to say. For serious.”

She should go. She should leave Richie to his movie rental. Probably something extremely straight dude with a whiff of bisexual on the wind, like Fast Five or something. Or maybe an animated movie for Eva, like… Frozen? Syd’s pretty sure kids love Frozen. And she’s pretty sure she should stop analyzing and tell Richie that no, she’d like to go home and change now, please.

But he looks so determined. A little pleading sadness behind his baby blues, a bite of the lip that was ridiculously vulnerable. Fuck, but she’d actually missed him. A guy she spends 0.01% of her week with, and she misses him.

“Fine. Get your movie,” she says, gesturing forward with a tight press of her lips and herding him with her eyebrows. He acquiesces.

A minute or later—not that she’s counting—he’s by her side with Tangled (she was so close) and Ocean’s 11 (she was so close) tucked under his arm. He cocks his head and she takes it to mean Let’s go outside? The bench? and she must be right because he follows out the door calmly, not all panicked like he thinks she’s leaving. Or maybe he wouldn’t act that way, maybe she’s the only insane one here. She takes a seat and looks at him expectantly; he’s the one insisting on talking. She may have fucked it, but she was perfectly content to let it lie forever and he seems to want to drag this out, so. Maybe she wasn’t perfectly content, but not dealing is easier than dealing. The therapist she’d seen for a little bit when she’d had her dad’s health insurance would probably have something to say about that. Unfortunately, she’d turned twenty-six a couple months ago.

Richie lights a cigarette and holds it out to Syd without her asking, which feels like a peace offering. The modern day olive branch. She takes it, takes a drag deep enough to burn her throat, and hands it back, stifling a cough in the crook of her elbow.

“Sydney—” he starts, and she opens her mouth like a big ol’ idiot. Total panic response.

“So, Eva a big Danny Ocean fan?” she asks, which is maybe the lamest thing she could have possibly said. Richie laughs, though, which spreads a warm feeling through her chest for about fifteen seconds before she remembers they’re kind of fighting.

“Will you please be serious?” he asks, and her stomach drops for one second until he follows up with, “She’s a Rusty Ryan kind of gal. A woman of taste.”

“Oh, of course,” Sydney says. “My mistake.”

“It’s okay. I’ll forgive you,” he says, effortlessly fucking charming, which is the whole problem in the first place.

“Will you?” she asks, mouth working without her asking it too, much like her body just five minutes before. Downright traitorous. “I mean, come on. You’re the one who’s been avoiding me.”

He at least has the good sense to look sheepish. It looks cute on him, too, which is annoying. He really does an actual grimace, like the emoji, his teeth—which she isn’t used to seeing, he’s always doing a little closed-mouth smile—are cute, even. It’s a ridiculous thing to think, but it’s true.

“I swear it wasn’t intentional.”

“Yeah?” asks Syd, the look on his face making her feel weirdly bold all of a sudden. Something about the expression—he’s taking fault for what happened, and so she doesn’t have to—and now she’s pissed. “Well, you’re the one who yelled at me when I was just trying to give you helpful advice, because I care about you and your happiness, by the way, and you flipped on me. And then you just. You just didn’t come back, so.”

Richie sighs. Long, kind of sad and slow, but not put-upon, so she lets it slide without saying anything.

“I had Eva’s recital.”

“That was last Sunday.”

“You remembered,” he says with a grin. “You remembered! Also, can we go back to the part where you care about me and my happiness?”

“Richie,” she snaps, and hopes her voice comes out hard enough that he doesn’t swell too deeply on how that all sounded. Like a dumb teenage girl with a crush, yeah. He’s a grown man. She’s his younger—what? Bartender? She needs to get a fucking grip.

“No, I—” He rubs a hand over his eyes. “I’m like seriously fuckin’ touched, or whatever. I had Eva’s recital. And tonight I had unexpected Eva duty, because Frank got tickets to The Devil Wears Prada play or whatever at the CIBC. Tiff loves live theatre, I could never afford to take her, so. You know, she leapt at the chance. Anyway, can’t drag the kid to a bar. Not The Vine, anyway. Classy place.”

Sydney snorts despite her best effort. “It’s not classy.”

“You’re literally just trying to be contrary. It is classy, you just know whatever sort of shitting where you eat situation is going on behind the scenes. In fact, it’s a testament to the fact that it’s a classy place that that shit stays between the employees and doesn’t spill onto the floor.”

“Whatever. So, is Eva, like, at home alone right now?”

“Jesus fuck, Syd, what kind of parent do you take me for? This,” he holds up Tangled, “is preemptive for Wednesday. And this,” he holds up Ocean’s, “is for me and a six-pack and drowning my sorrows. Tiff and Frank came and got Eva an hour or so ago. The show was great, so charming, by the way.”

“And Frank can go fuck himself, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard you say.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever,” she says again. “Drown your sorrows, really? You’re still that hung up on Tiff?”

Richie actually barks out a laugh at that one, and Sydney flushes.

“Don’t laugh at me. You still wear your fucking wedding ring.”

He holds up his hand, and his fingers are completely empty.

“Not anymore. I decided two weeks ago. Time to fuckin’ move on. See, there’s this chick, Sydney? And she kinda—I mean—”

Suddenly, she feels very cold despite the undeniably pressing humidity and the sweat beneath the polyester of her work pants.

“No,” she says, the word coming out of her mouth like somebody else is speaking it. Because—because no. Because her life isn’t together, and this is ridiculous, Richie is just some regular at a bar who constantly wears track pants and has a short temper, and—and sure, he also is a good dad and has a big heart and always is willing to listen to Syd rant about her problems, but. But she can’t.

“I haven’t even finished saying what I was going to say.”

“I know what you were going to say.”

“That I’m sorry for being an ass last week? There it is. I’m sorry. That was uncalled for, all of it. Just—I’m fuckin’ stressed, alright? It’s been shit at the restaurant. It’s a mess, we have no money, no spirit, Carmy’s gonna crash and fuckin’ burn, Mikey’s dead, and I’m kinda—I gotta be honest, sweetheart, Sunday’s were kind of saving me. Because I got to see you. And I haven’t, for two weeks, and I was a dick, so. There you go.”

“Richie,” she says dumbly. Thanks, is what a normal person would say, but Sydney’s never been normal. A little socially awkward, a cooking hobby that normally belonged to douchebags with TV specials or Martha Stewart-types, minus the felony, a penchant for shitty TV shows and a lack of willingness to talk in-depth about them with anybody. Anybody but Richie, really.

“Yeah?”

No. She’d just said it out loud. She shouldn’t ask. She shouldn’t. But she says, “What did you mean about your wedding ring?” and is proud of the way her voice barely shakes. His cigarette is still tucked between her thumb and forefinger, and she squeezes it so hard it probably isn’t smokeable anymore.

“That I thought it was time to give it up. That it’s time to move on, you know? Fuck, Syd, you’re making me talk like a romcom protagonist.”

“This isn’t funny. There’s no com.”

“No,” he says, moving closer. “Jury’s still out on the romance, though, isn’t it?”

She knows what’s going to happen right before it does. Time seems to stand still, here on this bench in front of the Jewel-Osco, smelling of tobacco and covered in old gum and scratched-in graffiti on this humid July night. His lips meet hers and against her better judgment, she kisses back.

Richie’s a good kisser. She knew he would be: he’s a formerly married man, he’s got experience, but more than anything he just has some weird, soft streak of confidence under that false-bravado insecurity like he knows he’s good at something and that something is treating his partners right.

And he does. He cups one hand around the back of Syd’s head, all gentle, and the other brushes her cheek, cocooning her close. She has to tilt her neck all the way up and it should be uncomfortable but she’s too busy being kissed in a way that feels so good to give a shit. Just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of tongue, just enough intuition to sense that Syd likes a little bit of her partner taking charge and so he does it, pressing the edge of a tooth into her bottom lip and making her squirm a little bit with the heat that rushes straight between her legs. Pathetic.

It’s that that jerks her back to reality, the reality where she’s here, getting I-should-fuck-him levels of turned on by Richie, her regular, and she’s gotta—she’s gotta go.

“I can’t,” she says, pushing him away. “I can’t. I gotta go. I’m—I gotta—I’ll see you.”

And she turns on her heel, running down South Canal till she reaches her front door, the bag of ice cream fully forgotten behind with Richie’s gaping expression.

PLUS ONE: AUGUST 2022

She almost gets away with it until Patrick calls her out.

“You do something to scare Sunday off?” he asks one shift while she’s staring forlornly at Richie’s empty barstool and pretending she isn’t.

“No,” she says, a beat too quick to be casual. Patrick, fucking busybody that he is, raises his eyebrows until his bangs cover them.

“Did you fuck him?” he asks.

“No!”

“Holy shit,” he says, covering his mouth as he leans against the service bar. She looks away, determinedly restocking the syrups with far more precision that she’d normally lend to the task.

“I did not fuck him. Jesus.”

“But you want to. Or you got close. Did you hook up with him?”

“We did not hook up. We didn’t do anything. He probably found another bar. It’s whatever. We’re not exactly the kind of place that has regulars, leave that to the dives.”

“So…by didn’t do anything you mean you had some sort of will-they-won’t-they and he did something to piss you off. Yeah?”

“Why do you assume he pissed me off?” she asks, forgetting to deny his assumption about their little will-they-won’t-they thing, which is stupid because Patrick loves gossip and will latch onto that like a fucking leech.

“So he did! And you have been flirting! Oh my god, dude, a possibly-married older man! You little slut.”

She sighs, feeling it deep in her lungs like that first cigarette with Richie. Might feel good to get it off of her chest. And to get some advice. Because it feels like shit to not see him, actually. She misses him, misses the banter and the bitching and moaning and the way his lips would quirk up and his eyes would crinkle whenever he made her laugh. The way he’d listen to her problems thoughtfully and not act like they were a burden, the way he’d trusted her with his own issues, the way he’d make obscure pop culture references and tease her for not getting them like she’s the weird one. Fuck, she even misses his track pants.

“We kissed. It was—”

“It was bad? Damn. He seemed like the kind of guy who’d be good at it.”

“No, it wasn’t—it wasn’t bad. We got in a fight, like, small potatoes, but a fight, you know? And we ran into each other at the Jewel-Osco. He gave me this apology and we just kinda, like, kissed, and I just—”

“Oh, fuck. Do not tell me you ran away. Oh my god. Sydney. Sydney Adamu. Did you—”

“Well I can’t fuck my regular! I told you, I’m off dating, and that includes casual sex—”

“Casual sex with feelings, because you’re obvious—” Patrick breaks in, and she bowls on like she didn’t hear him, choosing to ignore that.

“Because my life is a mess!”

“Okay. Syd, dude,” Patrick says, taking her by the shoulders. He turns his head, and the bar is straight up empty. It’s early, anyway. He steers her to the back by the lockers, which is good; at least she can be mortified in semi-private.

“Do you have something to say?” she asks, rolling her eyes to try and distract Patrick from the fact that she wants to melt into the ground.

“Yeah, I do. You’re a masochist, is what I have to say. How exactly is your life a mess?”

“I don’t know! I live with my dad—”

“Rising rent prices.”

“And I don’t like my job—”

“Join the rest of the country.”

“And I don’t know! I just don’t have it together.”

“Alright, let me stop you. Who the hell has it together? Nobody has it together. You’re fucking twenty-six, and none of those are reasons to not date, what the hell? Life’s about—about taking risks, and shit. You’re not gonna move forward if you never move forward. Or whatever. You said he’s not actually married, right?”

“No,” she mumbles. “He said he stopped wearing his wedding ring for me.”

“Ohhhhh my god,” he says, dragging it out and running a hand down his face in exasperation. “Syd, man. You’re an idiot.”

“Hey!”

“Don’t hey me, go get your fucking man!”

“But I ran away after we kissed. Who does that, right? He probably wants nothing to do with me now.”

“Okay, dramatic. He got over his ex-wife for you. I’m telling Seth you’re yarfing in the bathroom. Go. Please get out of here. I’m actually in pain over how pathetic this whole situation is, and when I see you on Tuesday I want to see I-just-had-sex glow. Please.”

The whole situation feels ridiculous, not pathetic, actually. Shit like this doesn’t happen to Sydney, it happens to girls like Meg Ryan and Julia Roberts in nineties romcoms. But here’s Patrick, literally pushing her out the employee entrance in the back, and like her feet are carrying her with no input from her brain, she’s complying.

Just like it had been the last time she’d run into Richie, it’s hot and she feels kind of seriously uncool in her work uniform, but she’s almost too dazed from the situation as a whole to really register that. She lets her feet keep on moving of their own accord and they take her right to Morgan. When the Green Line rumbles into the station, she steps onto a car without even really thinking about it. She hasn’t even looked at Google Maps. She knows The Beef is in River North, vaguely, but actually looking up directions makes her want to puke a little bit.

Of course, like a fucking beacon, because this whole night is out of a movie, apparently, there it is. Right out of the station and a turn to the left. A little white building tucked between apartments on one side and the street corner on the other and boasting the sign that’s so proudly on all of Richie’s shirts. And a closed sign in the window, neon and red and ending Syd’s little movie fantasy right there.

She stares at it dumbly, like she’s a little high and the neon is late night Comedy Central or something. Maybe it’s a sign from the universe. Maybe she should drag herself back to work and tell Seth that she’s miraculously better. The world’s shortest bout of Norovirus.

“Sydney?” comes a voice from behind her, along with a moment of déjà vu. Same little breath hitch and question he’d asked at the Redbox, but this time his voice is soft, not shocked. Tentative, almost, as is the tapping on her shoulder.

“Yeah.” She sighs as she turns around, stares right up at Richie. She looks at his shirt so she doesn’t have to look at him, a misprint that boasts The Original BERF of Chicagoland on the chest. It feels like she should make a joke and simultaneously feels like the wrong moment to say anything. Maybe Patrick wasn’t lying. She might actually puke.

“Are you here just to—are you just, like, here? Or?”

“No,” she manages to get out. And then they keep coming, unbidden: “I came to find you. My coworker made me come find you.”

“Your coworker knows about us?”

“What us?” Sydney asks without thinking, totally counterintuitive to what she’s supposed to be doing here.

“Okay. Sure, Syd. What us? Because I know you feel this fuckin’ thing between us too, but no, apparently nothing can happen because you ran away from cooking, you ran away from me, you—will you let yourself have something? Fuckin’ anything? Give me one reason why this can’t work.”

“Because! I’m a fuck up! You said it, I ran away from cooking because I failed at it, I ran away from you because you don’t want me! Why would you want me?”

“You did not fail, Jesus Christ."

"How would you know? You've never eaten anything of mine!"

"You've never offered! And maybe if we ever saw each other outside of The Vine, I fuckin'— Whatever. Why would I want you? Oh my god. You can be really fuckin’ obtuse sometimes, you know that?”

“Obtuse?”

“Like a triangle. Let’s see. You're smart, you're funny, you're really goddamn earnest about liking horrible TV, and you love to bitch and moan as much as I do. You're fuckin' gorgeous also, and also also you’ve got this passion underneath the ‘I can’t try in case I fail' attitude—”

“How can you call me out for that?” Sydney asks, blurting it out and steadfastly ignoring everything else he'd said. Her face feels like it's on fire. “You? Mr. Stick-Me-On-a-Line forever? I hear the way you talk, I listen to that witty shit come out of your mouth, like you wouldn’t be an incredible maître d’, or—or anything you put your mind to, because you've just got this—this awesome presence and you're really sweet even when you're trying to come off like you're a dick to, I dunno, put people off before they can get to know you, but you’re so happy to be stagnant and not let any change happen—”

He plants one on her which, Sydney guesses in the dim recesses of her mind that are fully overtaken right now, is an effective way to shut her up.

It’s as good as it was the first time. Of course it is, Richie’s got the passion he accuses her of. The kiss is soft and sweet but hungry and intense, and she can’t help but throw her arms around his neck to really complete the picture. His hand is on her waist this time, pulling her close as he eases her tongue between her lips. She can feel him against her thigh, just a little bit. It’s pretty flattering.

“Richie,” she mutters, and she can tell that her breath is hot on his face. He’s kind of sweaty, but she smells like work and she can’t find herself in it to care. "Richie."

“If you say we shouldn’t, Syd, I swear to fuck—”

“I wasn’t. I wasn’t. I was gonna say,” she takes a deep breath, “maybe we should both get our heads out of our asses for a change. Yeah?”

Richie steps back, and she wants to protest because that means he’s not pressed up against her and his lips aren’t on hers, but he looks thoughtful, so she lets him say what he has to say.

“Yeah,” he says. “That might be a nice change.”

“Can we get started on it tomorrow, though?” Sydney asks, feeling bold. “Tonight I kind of have some place I’d rather be.”

“Oh,” Richie says, looking defeated for one moment until he catches sight of the expectant look on her face and perks up like a little dog. “Oh! You mean—” He clears his throat. “Hold on, let me be a gentleman. Sydney Adamu, would you do me the great favor of accompanying me to the Red Line and then my humble abode?”

Nobody has it together, she hears. You’re not gonna move forward unless you move forward.

"What the hell?" she says. "You got any food in that abode of yours? I might even whip something up if you're a good enough host."

She can't help but grin at the resulting cackle that comes out of his mouth. "If I'm a good enough host," he scoffs. "Didn't you hear? I'm the chef de partie. You can come by The Original Beef of Chicagoland and see."

"Wait, are you for real?" Sydney asks, jaw falling slack. "I thought—I don't know what I thought. I thought The Beef was sacred."

"So what if it is?" Richie asks, lips turning down into a frown. She wants that expression to go away, so she leans up, feeling brave, and plants one, just a little bit right in the corner of his mouth. Watches as he smiles again. "I want Syd there. That's sacred to me."

He squeezes her hand, and leads the way to the L.