Chapter Text
They really need to stop meeting like this.
And he doesn’t mean that in the charming way, the: ‘I like meeting like this’ way. Carmy doesn’t consider himself charming, at all. He means it in the: ‘oh crap, how do I get out of this?’ way. He’s starting to think that it might be reasonable to just get a stupid Hello Fresh subscription and avoid the grocery store all together.
But he hasn’t done that yet, so here he is.
“Long time, no see,” Claire smiles at him without looking him straight in the eye, which he’s thankful for. He really can’t handle people making eye contact with him right now.
“Y-yeah.” He nods. “Been a minute.”
“Um, how’ve you been?” She tries. He can see the effort in the way she wrinkles her brow. Carmy notices her fingers drumming on the handles of her shopping basket.
“Uh- you know…” Carmy trails off with a shrug. “Fine. Just normal crap. How about you?”
“I’ve been good!” Claire nods eagerly.
“Good,” he echoes.
He’s waiting for her to leave. He’s actually standing here for a reason; there’s something he’s supposed to grab from the refrigerator isle and she’s standing right in front of the door he needs to open. He just doesn’t know how to say that without sounding dismissive and like, an asshole, so he waits.
“So, are you going?” Claire asks him after an awkward silence.
Carmy frowns. Huh? “Going to what?”
“The wedding?” She asks.
“Wedding?” He’s very confused now. “Whose wedding?”
Claire goes so far as to sigh, which makes Carmy think ‘oh I’ve missed something’ because he’s always fucking missing something. Sometimes he wishes the world came with a fucking instruction manual, that way he’d know how to handle shit like this. Maybe he’d find himself in less self-loathing spirals.
“Ted Fak’s?” Claire makes this like, nudging eye contact? As if she’s trying to lead a stubborn mule to pasture or whatever. Carmy’s not a fucking rancher, who knows. “And Kelly, you remember Kelly?”
“Who the fuck is Kelly?” Carmen’s frown of confusion deepens.
“My best friend.” Claire deadpans.
Carmy looks away to stare at the ceiling tiles, searching his memory like it’s a bunch of flash cards. “Curly hair?”
“Curly hair.” Claire nods.
“Oh yeah, I remember.” Carmy nods. “She’s nice. Out of Ted’s league for sure.”
“Yeah, it’s crazy,” Claire says.
“Uh huh.” Carmy nods again. This time he’s sure that the awkwardness is blatant. “Anyway—”
“Yeah! I guess I’ll see you at the wedding?” Claire looks at him for a response, finally taking the initiative and stepping away from the fridge. “Ted sounded pretty psyched.”
“I bet.”
“It’s your first time in a wedding party, right?” Claire asks.
“Oh um...” Carmy does not know what the fuck is going on. But at least he has the burrata, thank fuck. Syd would have killed him. “What?”
“Ted made you one of his best men.” Claire looks at him like he’s the slow kid struggling to tie his shoes. She picks up a bag of Cheetos from the nearby chip display. “Kelly’s been complaining about the guy’s RSVPs. You should get on yours, it’s kind of rude to make them wait too long.”
Moving right past getting chastised by his fucking ex girlfriend in the middle of the grocery store at 11:45 p.m. on a fucking Tuesday, Carmy asks: “What? I wasn’t invited.”
“Yes, you were.” Claire tells him like he’s dense.
“No. I wasn’t.” What the fuck? He’s the one walking around living his life, he’d fucking know.
“Carmy, yes you fucking were. I helped Kelly with the invites. We mailed it to The Bear.” She makes a face at him. “Have you been checking your paperwork? Your mail? I know you’re kind of shit at that.”
Carmy’s mouth briefly open, ’cause, where’s the fucking audacity coming from? He shakes his head. “I mean…” well, shit, he doesn’t remember the last time he checked the mail. “No?”
Claire sighs clearly exasperated. “Check your fucking mail, please? This is my best friends wedding, dude.”
“Yeah, sure.” Carmy finally puts the burrata where it belongs. In his basket. Take that Syd. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“For real?”
“Yeah, for fucking real!” He’s getting defensive now. “I’ll get it done. See you around, Claire.”
“Yeah, see ya.” She replies just as unenthusiastically.
“—so because it tastes like nothing, like actually fucking water, we add a balsamic reduction, make it nice, make it fancy. People always think balsamic is like super fancy and Italian or whatever, but, to make it, like, legit, we make it our own. Maybe throw in something with peach or like, I don’t know, what’s that fruit you like? The one that’s like peach?”
“Nectarines,” Carmy answers distractedly, his foot tapping insistently against the office floor.
“Yes, then it’s like fresh and young and cool, because summer, but it’s also sorta a classic?” Sydney scribbles madly in her little notebook. “And then, obviously, we set the whole place on fire.”
“What?”
Syd smiles at him, eyes dancing with mirth. “Just checking. Didn’t look like you were listening.”
“I’m always listening,” Carmy rolls his eyes. Sydney cocks her head to watch him; her clipboard and notebook hugged to her chest. “Your voice is like a fucking emergency siren.”
“That’s rude.”
“It’s true,” he smirks, fingers twirling the fancy invitation in his hands.
“And you sound like you have a giant fucking nose.” She counters.
“Point taken,” he nods solemnly. “Yo, are you busy in like, two weeks?”
Sydney makes a face. “I don’t know. Kind of depends on if this restaurant we both work at, like, explodes or not.”
He tosses his head back with a groan, “stop joking about our restaurant getting destroyed.”
“Nah, it really does it for me.” She smirks right back, although a little awkwardly because now both their minds have to go straight to the gutter. Obviously. “What’s in two weeks?”
“A wedding.” He says, leaning back on his chair. “Ted Fak’s wedding.”
Sydney sits herself on the desk in front of him. “Oh shit! Kelly’s marrying Ted!”
Carmy looks up from the invite. “You knew?”
Syd frowns at him like he’s a lost little puppy trying to break into her house and sniff all her stuff. “Well, I mean, I knew they were dating. Didn’t everyone?”
“I guess,” Carmy rolls his eyes. “Are you going?”
Syd’s face scrunches up with uncertainty. “I don’t really know the Fak’s like that.”
“Right,” Carmy nods along, chewing on his lip for a moment. “So, you don’t wanna go?”
“To the wedding?”
“Yeah,” he keeps nodding.
“I mean… no? Are you asking me to go with you or something?” She stares at him with those giant fucking eyes.
Carmy presses his fingers hard into the edges of the crisp invitation, shrugging in an attempt at nonchalance. “Would you?”
Sydney kicks her legs into a playful little swing, one of her feet nudging his knee until he’ll look at her.
“Ask me properly,” she insists.
Carmy sighs, his heart beating way too fast for someone who hasn’t even stood up in a half hour. “Would you be my plus one for the wedding?”
“Hm… I don’t know,” Sydney taps her finger to her chin.
“Syd,” he complains. “Please?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m there.” She meets his eyes. It’s not great for the structural integrity of his spine, but he’ll manage. “When are you picking me up?”
“I don’t know, six? Do you wanna eat before? In case the food is shit?” He asks.
“Obviously,” she says. “Six is fine. So… pasta course?”
“No raviolo.” He answers her unasked question.
She nods, scribbling in her notebook. “Agreed, chef.”
He’s cursing and running around his kitchen, trying his best to stop the fire alarm from screaming while chasing out the black smoke emanating from his beat-up frying pan. There goes Sugar’s pity chicken.
“I’m just worried about you, Bear.” She had pouted, her old lady looking pyrex gripped between her palms. “Just take the food.”
“Sug, I’m a fucking chef.” He had tried to sound annoyed, but he was secretly relieved. All he had was peanut butter.
“Exactly. You don’t cook!” His sister had rolled her eyes at him, all exasperated, like she was sixteen and he was begging to play with her CD’s again. “Don’t break my dish.”
“Heard.”
“Shit!” He drops the hot pan in the sink when he burns himself on the handle, he wasn’t gonna risk harming the pyrex, thank you very much. That was safely washed and dried, awaiting transport to the motherland. Unable to handle the noise anymore, he snatches his phone off the counter in irritation. “What?”
“Yo chill dude, it’s just me.” Sydney replies. “You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, sorry my bad.” He relaxes exponentially from the exposure to her voice. “I just burned Nat’s food.”
“Fell asleep?” She sounds concerned. “Are you sleeping enough?”
“I am laying in bed at night with my eyes closed.” He corrects. “Sleep might or might not occur.”
Sydney sighs. “Oh, Carm.”
“What’s up? You called for something?” He redirects, running cold water over the cremated hunk of chicken breast in his frying pan.
“Oh yeah,” she says, as if she had forgotten. He presses the phone against his ear with his shoulder, listening to the sound of her moving around wherever she is. He can picture her clearly: sitting on her bed, surrounded by cardboard boxes she refuses to unpack. “How formal do you think this thing’s gonna be?”
“I don’t know, regular?” He grimaces, his free hand scraping the frying pan violently. It’s still hot as hell. He really fucking burned it. “It’s not Hollywood, but like, there’s gonna be a shit ton of expensive cologne.”
“Italian fancy,” Sydney says knowingly. “I think I can make that work.”
“Yeah?” He asks distractedly. “‘Cause Sug probably has some clothes you can borrow.”
“Nah, I’m good.” Carmy nods along to the sound of her voice even though she can’t see him. “When are you coming over?”
“Uhh,” he trails off, staring at the digital clock face on the stove. “I don’t know. Wanna go eat something? I’m starving.”
Sydney is staring at him like he’s grown a second head.
“Mmph! —wait a second.” He holds up his index finger to her face, which Sydney goes cross-eyed to stare at. “I’m gonna forget if I don’t say it.”
“Get your hand out of my face,” she shoves his wrist away with a roll of her eyes, gingerly pulling back the wrapper from her shawarma. “Swallow before you speak to me.”
“Give me a sec!” He takes another giant bite out of his food. He’s fucking starving okay? Christ. “It’s important!”
“Eat your food like a human being!” Sydney yells back, causing a pair of nearby teenagers to turn around and stare at them. “Oh, my fucking God!”
“I’m onto something!” he insists, finally swallowing the mass of food in his mouth. Sydney looks a little faint. “What if—”
“No,” she shakes her head, taking off down the sidewalk as if they aren’t having an excellent fucking conversation. “Whatever you’re gonna say right now? Insane.”
“Handhelds,” he kicks off a new rant, holding up his half-eaten wrap like evidence while he jogs to keep up with her. “What if—”
“No, dumbass.” Sydney finally takes a bite of her own food. “You’re just on a food high; we’re not becoming a freaking shawarma house because you’re hungry.”
“It would be elevated!” he finally catches up to her, falling into step with her long strides. “We put fucking micro-greens on that shit.”
“No,” she laughs, ducking her head so he doesn’t catch her snorting, but it’s obvious. “You idiot.”
“I think it’d be good.” He shrugs. “But whatever, it’s your restaurant or whatever.”
“Hm,” she shakes her head. “Say it again, employee.”
He sticks his tongue out at her.