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She decides to visit her mom in December, right before Christmas. Before her and her dad's traditional Christmas Eve dinner together. Before he could even invite her back to his place with a “Merry Christmas!” Sparkle gif attachment.
She loved December. Sure, it's cold and miserable, but something about snow. That did it for her. It really did. And at the end of the year, the rebirth of the plants and the sleeping of the animals made her feel something. Something so fresh about the snow and cold settled in her bones every year. Even if Christmas was hard without Mom, even if it was a little lonely, since every cousin of hers already had plans with their own family. She loved December.
Christmas is hard for him, she knows because he told her late November. He explained the story of his mother crashing the car into the house. Of his brother starting fights. Of his sister being screamed at.
She rubs her hands together in the gloves her dad gave her, staying quiet, letting him be. He needs a second. Or minute. Minutes.
“Do you want a minute alone?” She asks him, watching the way his fingers go between digging against his cuticles and pressing into his palms, the cold only making the self injuries redder against his pale skin. Skin that is prickled in reds and pinks and purples from the cold, like how a cut up wagyu slice would look before cooked.
He doesn't respond, and she hates it. Hates seeing his eyes glazing over, staring at the gravestone with the carved name and cherub and date she's familiar with but still disconnected from. She doesn't know Mikey. She never met him. But for some reason she knows him. Senses him in the way Carmen braces himself when she stretches her arms out to hug him. Feels the weight of him when she holds Carmen's scarred hand and rubs it with her thumb. Knows his preferences, somehow, when Carmen avoids certain clothes at the store. She's never mentioned Mikey, because why would she hurt her partner like that? Bringing up his dead brother. Talking about the pain of a loss. He doesn't bring up her mom and she doesn't bring up his brother. There's an unspoken rule there.
And now, standing at the gravestone, feet in her boots chilly from the snow beneath her, the rule has to change. Because they're here at his brother's grave, the person she never mentioned and he never brought up, and she had to say something now. Bring him back from whatever memory he's stuck in.
They're supposed to be visiting her mom. Somehow, though, when he pulled up to the cemetery, he looked like he’d seen something he shouldn’t have. She blinked at him, sat forward in the passenger seat of the car, “What’s wrong?”
“I, um,” he swallowed, rubbed his hands roughly against his face and then in his hair, “this is the cemetery where um…Mikey’s here, like, buried.”
Sydney bit her lip, looked out the window and back to him, “Here?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, I’m…I’m sorry, I had no idea, really–”
He just sighed, but she knew he wasn’t upset with her, he had that look on his face, “No, no don’t. I just…didn't realize they're in the same place.”
She barely moved, eyebrows furrowed, “We can see him first? Get it out of the way so you don't have to think about it?” She offered, not touching him.
And that's why they're both standing in front of his brother's grave now. Her hands are freezing, even with the gloves on. “Carm. I can give you a second alone if you want.” She watches his face, watches him blink hard. His eyebrows creased, like he's in physical pain just being there.
Sydney doesn't know what to even do. What does one do with this? This is her boyfriend, practically her fiancé, and she doesn't even know how to comfort him. It isn't fair that both their lives have been surrounded by grief. It isn't fair that she has to watch his hands tremble in fists at his sides, angry and red.
“Carmen.”
She swallows, watching him there. He's just standing there and it's like he's sleepwalking again. His eyes water, and she knows it isn’t because of the breeze. Slowly, carefully, she takes off her gloves, putting them in the big pockets of her coat. She reaches her hand out and laces her fingers around his tight fist. She works her thumb between them, uncoiling them, feeling the sweat between his fingers despite the cold. He doesn't react again, even as she pulls his hand towards her, tugging him into her side. She feels his trembling all over, his breathing shallow, like if he breathes too hard everyone will see his chest moving. Her fingers massage his, feeling up the rough skin on his fingertips to the webby stretch between his thumb and pointer finger. He’s a man and he’s delicate and he’s hers and he’s hurting.
“Jus’ wanted him t’ like me.” Carmen says quietly, the wind louder than his own voice. Sydney can’t bring herself to respond, looking at him again, watching his eyes search the gravestone for an answer, “I couldn’t be good enough? ‘S that it? That-...that why he didn’t let me work a-at the restaurant?”
He’s one of the best chefs in the country and he doesn’t even believe it. It’s got to be a nightmare, feeling like that. At least her dad acknowledges how good she is at what she does. She’s determined and passionate about cooking. She puts her everything into everything she does and everything she has; part of that being him and the other part being her dad. She’s speechless again, because what are you supposed to say? No one said anything good enough to her when her mother died beyond “I’m sorry for your loss” and “She’s in a better place now”.
“‘ didn’t even know he was taking pills,” he breathes shakily, “wha-what, what kind of brother doesn’t even know that? He probably fuckin’ hated me he, that–, he killed ‘imself because I- I didn’t fuckin’ help him–”
“Hey, no no, don’t say that–”
His eyes search her face, avoiding her own, like he can't bear to meet them, “He must’ve! I’m just– I’m so fuckin’ stupid! I should’ve known this shit, how the fuck didn’t I notice anything!”
She grabs at his forearms, pulling his hands close to her chest, “Carm– hey hey, wait, just breathe.” She starts, inhaling loudly through her nose.
“I-I-I can't-”
“You can,” she plasters his palm onto her sternum, breathing again, “in with your nose, c'mon babe.”
He takes two unsure, shaking inhales before letting out a sob, chin wobbling, teeth digging into his bottom lip, “I've–” he chokes on a gasp, stuttering, “I've never been g-good…”
Sydney's eyes burn, angry. Not angry, but something else. Something in her throat or in her stomach like a burning coal. He's letting it all loose now, so unlike his usual, tucked in and hidden self. And she can't help but feel upset rather than proud. She remembered him describing his latest therapy session, how Dr. March had said he was making progress. And he was, clearly, to be this open with her. But it doesn't make her feel good to see it all pour out, so strong he trembles on his feet.
“Would you tell me I'm bad…?” She mutters quietly, bringing up the idea.
She watches his face, seeing his eyes bounce along her face, “Because my mom died and I didn't know she was dying. She kept it from me. Would you say–”
“No!” He swallows, sniffling, rubbing his hands against his face, “But I could've…” he looks back up again.
“You couldn't have.” Sydney frowns, taking his hands again, her voice stern, “Carm. You couldn’t have done anything if he set his mind to it already.”
And they stand there and she's clenching his hand close to her as he starts to fully sob again. She reaches out, wrapping her arms around him, pulling him close, pressing her chin to the top of his head. His chest heaves as he hiccups in a way she's never heard him do before. His arms stay at his sides, not even attempting to reach around her. Like if he moves, he'll be thrown into another nightmare.
She swallows, looking out at the grave again, her throat tightening under her scarf. Fuck his brother for that. For leaving Carmen. Fuck Michael Berzatto.
They stay like that for… she doesn't know how long. She says nothing, letting him grieve, holding him up. Snow starts to flurry around them, the wind cutting at her face, making her eyes water. He's warm in his wool coat, his back radiating heat into her hands. She doesn't let go yet. She doesn't even think to let go.
When he pulls away, his voice croaks, “‘go to your mom's.” He mumbles, shuffling his feet, glancing at his brother's grave again before walking away.
They say nothing as they walk to her mother's grave, the snow starting to pour down harder now. She feels it against her cheeks as she brings her hands up to wipe at the wet, melted snowflakes. She notices his hands, stuck in his pockets, fidgeting as they get to the headstone, marked with her mother's name. Sydney can't help but smile, crouching in front of it, “Hi Mommy.”
She lifts her hand, running her fingers across the top of the rock back and forth, as if soothing it, before pulling away. The letters sit with brown in them, and Sydney reaches over into the snow, grabbing a handful before bringing it over to the gravestone, using the water to clean the letters. She continues until the last letter before wiping her hands against her pants and standing up.
Carmen stands behind her, she can still hear his sniffles from his congested nose. Now's the best time, right? When will she get another opportunity? She thinks about her mother's opinions on men, but decides she didn't know her well enough to know her opinion anyways. No point trying to meet a quota she wasn't aware of. No. Lucille Danica Adamu would love whoever her daughter chose if it made Sydney happy.
“This is Carmen,” she says, and the wind squeals around them, cutting into the leaves of the trees behind them. She takes his hand, rubbing her thumb into his cuticles, “He's my boyfriend. Um. He's my favorite person. He's my partner at our restaurant. He's…” she finds herself empty of words to say without her throat itching and burning, “he's my best friend.”
Turning to him, she notices his wet eyes again, “Hi.” He nodded, looking away from her. She doesn't push.
Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth as she fidgets with his fingers, “I put your cola short ribs on our menu,” she croaks, eyes tracing the letters of her mother's name, “and everyone loves it. It got in the newspaper. People order it all the time. You did that, you–”
Sydney stops to clear her throat, “I don't know what you would want for me. Dad says you always wanted the best for me but what…what's the best in your eyes? Am I even the best? Sheridan failed. I ran out of money. I took out loans. And.. I got a shitty apartment and shitty insurance and shitty stomach problems. I've failed so many times, Mommy. And I don't know if you'd be proud or not, I– I'm not exactly proud.” She squeezes Carmen's fingers, tight and rigid.
A dog barks somewhere in the street as she stands there, biting her lip. She didn't think she had anything negative to talk about until it all escaped her like funnelling smoke up a chimney. She couldn't grasp it all before it got out. And maybe that wasn't good for a dead body. Like how plants die if you insult them too much. Or maybe being six feet under the ground means it doesn't matter what a person says. Maybe her mom can't even hear her. Would she be proud of her? Would she have wanted her daughter in a kitchen day in and out?
“She saved me.”
Sydney turns her head to him, eyes following the slope of his cheek down to his mouth, “You don't have to–”
“I didn't ask her to but she walked into my family's restaurant and knew exactly how to save me from it,” Carmen interrupts, turning to look at her, his Adams Apple bobbing in his throat, “and I'm indebted forever to her for that. She pulled me out of a-a-a freakin’ nightmare. She woke me up, multiple times. And I just kept f- messing up and-and using her, hurting her cause I was okay with hurting myself.”
She doesn't know what to say.
“We have cannoli on the menu. It's Sicilian, but my mom would say it's Italian,” the wind pushes against his gold eyelashes covered in snowflakes, his hair getting messy, but he doesn't bother to fix it, “it's called The Michael, for my brother. And I-I’ve been working on The Lucille, since she told me your name.”
Sydney's mouth falls open, “You didn't tell me that. Why didn't you tell me that?” Her face falls, chin wobbling.
“It wasn't ready yet, chef,” He explains, squeezing her hand back like she did before, smiling faintly, “I asked your dad. About dessert you guys ate together. The Lucille is um… puff-puff. You used to eat it on Sunday's. So I uh, learned to make it. It's served with coconut mango compote.”
Sydney can't hold back a laugh, pulling away from him, holding her head in her hands, “You change the fucking menu again and my mom finds out before me? My dead mom? Wow.”
He chuckles, his cheeks and ears growing red, “It was a surprise. Your dad was in on it too.”
“Yeah okay, Carm, fuck you for that.” She wipes her eyes of moisture, not tears, “Fuck you.”
“You're cursing in front of your mom.” he motions to the grave, rocking on his heels.
“So did you.”
He holds his hands up, surrendering, “No, I said ‘freaking’.”
“So now you're a good boy, or whatever.” She rolls her eyes, shoving him with her shoulder.
He smirks, “Something like that.” pushing into her shoulder too.
“My dad tells you a family recipe before me? This is gentrification at its finest.”
“Syd, come on…”