Archive of Our Own

4:00 AM – Carmy

It was like clockwork—the slight nervous sensation Carmy felt before seeing Sydney. Replaying older conversations in his head, stringing together words ahead of time for the conversations to come. Sometimes to the point of exhaustion. Which would all be pointless anyway, because despite the long spells of overthinking, talking to Sydney didn’t require much thinking—he didn’t have to think much at all around her; conversations flowing and time passing so fast and so naturally that he’d forget he was anxious in the first place. Which he knew on a practical level, but didn’t offer much help as he waited for her in his car at the bottom of her apartment.

A few minutes had passed, he figured he should call her. He dialed her number and the call was picked up immediately. “Yo,” he said, and waited for a response. He spotted Sydney from the car window—in a red baby tee, hair tied back with a scrunchie, baseball cap in hand, and a travel bag—staring at her phone, which was held away from her face. He debated rolling down the windows and calling out to her but saw her finally turn to the van. She hung up the call and started walking towards him. The door was already unlocked. She threw her bag towards the back seat, then, in the passenger seat, slumped back and closed her eyes.

“Morning,” Carmy greeted.

“Did you get everything?” she asked, with her eyes still closed.

“Yeah—I saw your message. Forgot to reply, sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she said plainly, then lowered her head onto the glove compartment, arms folded in front of her like a cushion. He called her name. No response. Called it again. She started to speak, something unintelligible, then stopped midway. Carmy panicked, out of worry that she was upset, then realized—watching the slow rise and fall of her shoulders—that she was sleeping. He wondered if she had slept at all. He figured not, remembering the list of reminders she had texted him a few hours ago (Fill up on gas so we save time. Did you pack those special plates? Don't forget to remind Richie to meet the purveyor on Monday…), which he'd left on read—telling himself he'd reply in the morning (he had not).

With an impulsive longing, he wished she wasn’t sleeping. He found himself unreasonably annoyed. He had been looking forward to talking to her, hearing her voice, but she hadn’t even as much as put on her seatbelt; Carmy, had to carefully lift her head with one hand and lean across to grab her seatbelt with the other, buckling it in place. She stirred for a few seconds, then went still again.

It occurred to him that maybe she was mad at him for some reason, being purposely cold. The thought made him feel terrible, an ugly stirring of guilt at the pit of his stomach. He gently put his hand on her back and whispered, “Sorry.”

She raised her head and rubbed her eyes with the base of her palms, “For what?”

“I…I don’t know. Not replying?”

“Oh,” she replied, looking genuinely confused. She blinked a few times, as if she was trying to figure out where she was, evidently very tired. “How far are we?”

“I haven’t started the car…”

“Oh. Shit.”

“We can make space in the back if you wanna sleep.”

“Nah,” she mumbled, then lowered her head again.

He watched her sleep for a few minutes. An ache rippled through his heart—a familiar ache. His heart always ached when he looked at her for too long. In those few moments, the clock of life turned, multiple years sped by in seconds. Was it normal, seeing himself grow old with someone he had been with for two weeks? Was there a point in attempting to compress his relationship into the box of ‘normal,’ when nothing in his life had been?

He forced himself to look away and started the car.

The sun was still down so it looked like it was night, roads lit up by streetlights and glowing road lines, skies lit up by Chicago’s architectural marvels; a streak of light—the L—racing time well before rush hour.

There was a blurred boundary some distance around the center of Chicago, where its edges began to flatten out. A city in the shape of a mound, with its peak at Willis Tower, descending into signature skyscrapers, downtown district high-rises, loft rental apartments, bridges, townhouses, industrial flats, underpasses; flattening into towns that contain more land without infrastructure than with, and only a percentage of the population. Entering the suburbs, so sparsely filled that one person took up the space of fifty Chicagoans. Multiple-storey houses. Beautiful lawns with tamed grass and horse-filled stables. Thick fields of agriculture.

Then finally, the state borders. Out of Illinois, into Indiana.

7:00 AM – Sydney

“Did we finally get out of the parking lot?” Sydney asked, her head still resting on the dashboard. The van had stopped moving, Sydney could feel it. Carmy laughed, a contagious laugh, and she found herself smiling under her folded arms.

She raised her head—the sun was loud and invasive—and she was filled with instant regret. The part of her head that had been resting against the dashboard felt flattened out, like a drum roller had been moving back and forth over it again and again. The headache she'd had from earlier hadn't died down either—the dull throbbing working its way from her forehead around the sides of her head like a too-tight headband. She didn't feel like throwing up, at least not as much as she had in the morning; all she had to do was make sure she didn't think too deeply about New York, Per Se, and the very real possibility of messing up in front of multiple industry legends and permanently staining The Bear's reputation. The slow pain in her lower abdomen was still there, she had her arm pressed against it and didn't realize until Carmy pointed it out:

“Everything good? D'you feel sick?”

“Just my period. I'll be fine.”

“Sure? I can bring food here if you want.”

“No, the van’s making me feel claustrophobic. I feel like I need to get out like, now.”

“Yeah, me too.” He looked at her with a worried expression, then touched the back of his hand to her face, as if to check for her temperature. She wished he would keep it there; he removed it almost immediately afterward. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah. Didn't even notice the drive.”

“I meant at night.”

She laughed, “I didn't sleep. I have a headache and it's killing me.”

“Want Tylenol?”

“Yes, please. Where is it?” She opened the glove compartment, “Here?”

“Yeah, just in there.” Before she could, he reached his hand and took the bottle out for her, then handed her two pills and his water bottle. She swallowed the pills and thought about kissing him. She tried to work out how she would do this in a way that felt natural, but realized she had spent too much time thinking—Carmy was already getting out of the car. She wondered how other couples went about these things, treating displays of affection with such a casualness. Everything about their relationship felt too intense; smallest things held so much weight in the best and worst ways possible. Did Carmy feel the same or was it only her feeling too much for too little?

She felt unstable as she stepped out of the car, slightly dizzy and overwhelmed by the realness of everything. The air was cool, the way morning air was. It felt nice and energizing. She tried to focus on that feeling. They were in a small parking lot, without guiding lines, just a patch of gravel surrounded by thick grass. In front was a building, flat looking and beige with red roofs and plastic cursive lettering at the entrance. “Why are we here?” she asked, absent-mindedly following Carmy.

“You’re not hungry?”

“Sure,” she replied. The thought hadn’t occurred to her, but upon mention, she realized she probably was hungry.

The inside was a classic 1950s-style diner setup. Faded brown checkered floors, booth seating, flickering pendant lamps, spinning ceiling fans instead of proper air conditioning. The atmosphere reminded her of growing up in the south, through a vague recollection of her childhood. Round-faced children with a sort of sunny quality that kids in the cities seemed to lack. Fussy parents. The old diners they’d visit, serving gumbo and grits and collard greens. Blips, memories—hiking to see the Mongolia blossoms, sitting on her mom's lap in the front seat of a Jeep—fading into restless Chicago, filling the gap her mother's death had left behind.

They sat down and ordered and while they waited for the food, the events of the near future dawned on her. She started to see images in the back of her head, a slideshow of every possible failure that had happened and could happen and her headache started to return. What she needed to do was talk. Rant. Verbally list her worries so they exited her mind one by one, and it's probably what she would’ve done if Carmy had shown any sign of wanting to talk last night.

It was apparent that he wasn’t in a talkative mood even now, simply looking lost in his own thoughts. When they got their meals, he sat in front of her staring at his food, poking his fork into the overly done sunny-side eggs, a bright puddle of yolk pooling around the toasted slice of bread.

“Do you think we’re fucked for tomorrow?” Sydney tried.

“No,” Carmy replied, half-heartedly, eyes focused on his plate.

“I feel like I'm the only one that cares,” Sydney muttered.

He raised his head, expression melting from apathetic to hurt. “I care,” he said quietly. He turned his head to the side and leaned back against his seat. “Sorry, I'm a little out of it right now.”

“It’s fine.”

“Are you really that worried?” He asked. Sydney shrugged. She could feel her patience was a lot shorter than usual. She was tired. Extremely tired (as a result of the all-nighter probably), so she restrained herself from talking. Carmy gave her a small, weak smile, “Don't. We're prepared.”

She let out a hum of acceptance, then studied the salt shaker in her hand, running her finger along its edge. Carmy looked around the room; more people flowing in, the seats slowly filling up. Like that, the discussion was over.

If they were at The Bear, Sydney would have pushed further, driving her point right into his skull. Carmy would have resisted more; defensive at first, then, just as apologetic. They would have ‘gotten it out of their system’ as Tina liked to say.

Because they poured so much of their emotions into arguing about the restaurant, they barely fought when it came to their personal lives. In the kitchen they were brutally honest with each other, maintaining diplomacy, but never holding back when they had something to say. Outside of the kitchen, they were much more careful, and by extension, much more silent. Letting personal grievances pile inwards like a stack of fragile teacups—a kind of caution they both practiced out of fear of what would happen if they didn't.

This trip was a line right between that; personal and business. Only the two of them, but nonetheless, representing the restaurant. Sydney didn't know what the right way to act was, and she figured neither did he.

Carmy was still looking around the room, watching guests enter and leave, his food still untouched besides the many little fork holes.

“Do you… think there’s anything else we should discuss?” Sydney asked, because sitting alone with her thoughts kept growing more intolerable.

“This isn't working,” Carmy said. Sydney felt sick. Were they still talking business? Did he mean the menu? Their plan for tomorrow? Them—their level of communication? Their entire relationship?

“What?” She asked, throat dry.

He put one hand over his ear, casually, so it looked like he was resting on it. “This place. You mind if we eat outside? It's pretty loud here.”

She looked at him, almost laughing with relief. “‘Course, yeah.”

8:00 AM – Carmy

At the edge of the parking lot there was the beginning of a hill rolling into an algae-covered lake and patch of trees. They sat on that edge, just before the hill sloped downwards—cross-legged, their knees touching. Head tilted upwards, challenging the sun. Blades of grass peeking through fingers. A distant buzzing. morning birds chirping. The warmth from the sun bleeding onto their faces.

Her fingers wove through his, very loosely. Hands held together in a subconscious way—because that subtle contact felt more normal than none at all.

“So, Keller just called the restaurant?” Sydney asked, “And you picked up?”

“No, Marcus picked up. You should’ve seen his face.”

“Man, I wish I was there to see it.”

“It was a lot of scheduling stuff after that. He asked about you.”

She turned her head sharply, “Fuck. What did you say?”

“Terrible things. All bad.” 

She laughed. He glanced at her lips, briefly, without even realizing he was doing so. Until he saw the slow smile forming on her face. After some time, she said, still facing the horizon, “If you wanna kiss me, go ahead.” The way she said it sounded playful, like a joke, and Carmy wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh or take it seriously.

He said nothing but held her hand tighter, aware that she could feel the increased rate of his pulse. He traced his thumb along the creases of her palm—a route as familiar as Sheridan Road. Shortcuts and detours; a healed knife cut across the lower half, blisters identical to his own; the hands of a chef, in its scars and roughness.

The thoughts ‘What does she want’ and 'What would make her happy?’ occurred more often than he could keep track of. It was barely a thought anymore, more like a faint voice at the back of his head that appeared every time he was with her. Knowing what he wanted was a struggle but knowing what another person wanted was something else. And then there were times when he felt like he knew exactly what she wanted. The real challenge was distinguishing between these two ideas; knowing when to push forward and when to hold back. Did she know how much of an emotional mess she left him in? A mess that he didn't really mind, almost enjoyed. He wished he could tell her that. Outright say: ‘I'm insane about you.’

He often wondered what the trigger was that made him shift from feeling empty to feeling too strongly. Two emotional states that he often seemed to switch back and forth between. He normally categorized the ‘feeling too strongly’ state as a bad thing, a weakness that had always led him to some kind of disaster.

But then he remembered when he and Sydney watched The Taste of Things together in Sydney's apartment. She fell asleep on his lap after that and he still remembered how calm she had looked. Carmy had felt, with such a strong level of conviction, that no one was living a better life than he was. It was the first time it had truly sunk in that this—their relationship—was real, and he was so overwhelmed with emotion he almost cried.

9: 00 AM – Sydney

All the heat seemed to have concentrated within the confinement of the van; the steering wheel felt like burning coal. The radio buried the sounds of the road, reporting some storm far away. Hearing it described, its intensity and effects, the idea of wind and rain ripping through neighborhoods with no remorse, made Sydney feel unsettled anyway. 

“Carm, turn that off.”

Carmy turned off the radio, “Everything good?”

She nodded. She tried to focus on the endless path of asphalt, on the heat emitting from the steering wheel, on the rain drops hitting the windshield. In her mind, something had already gone wrong. She had already failed.

She felt her chest tighten, her lungs being compressed into nothing. Her mind felt like static. Cars felt like passing thoughts: indistinct, racing right by her. Her grip on the wheel was tight—so tight she was aware of all its little indents. She didn’t realize how fast she was going—

“Sydney!”

Sydney stepped on the break. With a jerk, her back collided against her car seat. She was breathing heavy, her chest hurt. Her hands were still gripping onto the wheel, leaving her palms numb. The car in front was close enough to see right through its back window.

“S-Sorry,” she gasped.

“You good?”

“Yeah.”

“Syd?”

“I’m fine!” She replied, a little too loudly. Carmy didn’t push further. She drove for a few more minutes, at a much slower pace, slower than the surrounding traffic, until the highway cleared up and there were almost no cars on the roads.

“You wanna talk about it?” Carmy asked.

“No,” she replied, her voice firm, to stop it from trembling.

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Pull over for a minute.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Syd. Pull over.” There was no point in being stubborn. She pulled over to the side of the highway, parked the van, and then lowered her head onto the steering wheel—embarrassed, her face wet with tears of frustration. Carmy put his hand on her back, “Let’s get out for a bit, alright?” She nodded and wiped her face.

It had stopped raining. The empty stretch of road was still stained dark with moisture. When she opened the car door and stepped outside, the air felt damp and heavy and carried a rich earthy smell. She walked to Carmy's side of the car as he opened his door, and leaned against the metal, a few persistent water droplets seeping through the back of her shirt. Carmy closed his door and settled into the space beside her; they stood in the middle of nowhere, midwestern farmland territory.

Sydney folded her arms in front of her chest to hide how much her hands were shaking. Carmy caught on. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. Her eyes burned and she blinked hard to prevent herself from crying.

Luca had once told her, “I feel like nothing phases you.” He called her an ‘unshakable force,’ with such a deep level of admiration that it made her wish it was true. She knew it wasn't.

In reality, she felt too strongly about nearly everything, and wasted too much energy trying to counteract that with her outward appearance so that no one else could sense her anxieties besides herself. It was an instinctual tendency; she couldn't pinpoint when she had picked it up, just that not existing this way felt wrong. When someone did sense this in her, usually her dad but progressively more and more often, Carmy, she felt frustrated at the lack of control she had over herself.

“Sydney.”

“Stop.”

“Look at me.” He said this in a tone that made her want to listen. She looked at him. His voice was like an audio direction for a recipe, soft but clear and confident. She didn’t have to think too deeply, just listen and do what he told her to do, with the reassurance that she would be okay. “Breathe,” he said.

She almost laughed at how basic the advice was. She looked at him and followed his breathing, then when she felt like she could breathe on her own, she looked away and looked up at the sky. “This is ridiculous.”

“It's not ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous, I’m freaking the fuck out and over what!?”

“A pop-up at Per Se is something to freak out about Syd.”

“We should have turned it down.”

“I thought you were the one who wanted to do it?”

She looked at him, “You really think we deserve it?”

He nodded, “Yeah, I do.” She closed her eyes, replaying his words. “Syd, does this still happen often?”

Sydney laughed. “What do you consider often?” Carmy nodded, as if that was enough for him to form a conclusion. “I don’t know. I think I'm just naturally an anxious person,” she continued.

“I used to be a lot more anxious,” he began slowly, “Back in New York, and then here—up until somewhat recent.”

“Yeah?” He had told her about New York but she let him carry on speaking because it comforted her—the fact that he could talk about it. The fact that he could talk about it with her, multiple times.

“Yeah.”

She turned to look at the corn field—endless rows of green stalks, leaves rusting at the edges—while Carmy continued to look at her. “What’d you do about it? How’d you ground yourself; get through the day?” She asked. He didn't respond. Was the question too personal? Was he annoyed? She met his gaze again, and he held it; to her relief, he wore no expression of annoyance or even discomfort. He brushed his hand cautiously along the side of his hair, then down to his neck. His breathing was slow and controlled, and his eyes held a level of tenderness. She looked away, feeling like she was interrupting something intimate. “Maybe we should start driving again,” she suggested.

“Yeah,” Carmy agreed, sounding breathless.

“I think I’ll continue driving if you're okay with that.”

He hesitated, then said, “If you’re sure.”

She opened the driver's seat and got inside, Carmy stood, leaning his back against the van for a few more seconds, then followed.

10:00 AM – Carmy

Sydney was humming along to whatever song she had playing on the speaker. Carmy had the window on his side open halfway, warm air blowing his hair in all directions. The view outside was repetitive and plain, same fields and farmlands, occasionally roaming cows and roadside farmer’s markets with painted wooden signs hammered into dirt. Sydney and Carmy had dipped in and out of various conversation topics and in between those Carmy spent his time thinking or trying to avoid thinking. Thinking about one thing so he didn't have to think about the other.

Bored, Carmy studied the handful of objects in the car door storage box, all of which were Sydney's. A little collection of Sydney's things that had been piling up since before they started seeing each other. Two bobbypins, a red scrunchie, an earring that he'd picked up from the restaurant back alley, an almost empty lipgloss container. He'd meant to give them back to her at some point, but always ended up forgetting, so the collection hadn't stopped growing.

He had asked her about the earrings once, about how many she had—she always wore different ones or wore them in different arrangements; a curation of silver hoops and chains and studs. She answered with some large amount. He compared her to a raven collecting shiny things and she had laughed. He then asked if she had more earrings than scarves. She had responded with “no idea.”

In the compartment at his foot was a collection of novels: a copy of Elena Ferrante's ‘My Brilliant Friend’ and some Natalia Ginzburg novellas—Richie's that he'd probably soon ask for back upon realization that he'd left them here.

He picked up the Elena Ferrante book, opened to a random page and started reading it. There was a paragraph about the narrator not liking her mother, being repulsed by her image, and then the words started floating around the pages, meaningless with a will of their own. And Carmy started thinking about other things. He found himself looking at Sydney—her braids tied back and out of her face, the gentle curve of her nose, the softness of her profile, her half open eyes—and wondered how long it would take for her to realize her mistake.

He started to make a mental list of all the reasons Sydney had to leave him. Then found himself overwhelmed and depressed as the list started to grow too long. The list ranging from reasons like, ‘The Berzatto family is a fucking circus sometimes,’ to ‘I suck at commitment and cancel plans too often,’ to ‘Are my arms weirdly proportioned?’ All of these in his mind very valid and acceptable reasons to leave. He knew she wouldn't, and that somehow made him feel just as bad. The idea that she was with him out of an obligation, or that he was somehow holding her back.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice cutting through his thoughts.

“Yeah, why?”

“Zoning out?”

“A little. Tired of driving yet? We can switch if you want.”

“Nope, I'm good.”

He crossed his arms and tried to imagine drawing her; the tip of his pencil following the curve of her nose; coloring her eyebrows; triangles of shadows underneath her lips and cheekbones; using the eraser of his pencil for the light reflected in her eyes.

“Carm? Are you staring at me?”

“You have a nice face.”

She smiled, shamelessly, “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.” His smile mirrored hers.

11:00 AM – Sydney

Sydney would have missed the gas station if Carmy hadn’t pointed it out. It was through a small narrow exit and the sign for it had fallen over.

The gas station was mostly empty. There were no other cars, two motorcycles, and a convenience store. Sydney agreed to fill the gas while Carmy went inside the store to buy a few snacks and a new pack of gum.

When he came out, he wasn't alone. On either side of him were two men, a few years older and much taller than him. Family members maybe? Or old friends? Had Carmy or Nat mentioned them—even if they had, she mostly knew names, but not faces associated with those names. They were both talking to each other, then to Carmy, asking him questions, and him nodding or talking back. Half way to the van, they stopped to continue talking, at a distance Sydney could hear them.

Sydney stood with her back against the van, making a show of looking through the windows of the convenience store, sneaking quick glances at Carmy when she could. The two men spoke in loud and fast Italian, occasionally stopping to look at each other and laugh. Carmy spoke back with a much slower, what she figured, more clumsy Italian. Pauses between sentences, as if he was thinking of the right words to use, translating one phrase at a time. She tried to make out pieces of their conversation—what she could with her almost non-existent knowledge of the language. She heard the words ‘parente’ and ‘pranzo’ and at some point ‘Michael.’

It was instances like these that made Sydney think of Claire. It wasn't jealousy (even if it was, she would never admit that to herself). It was deeper than that. A kind of loss. Like she'd entered a movie when it was halfway done and had to make out the rest, hoping she got it right. She often thought about what would have happened if they had met earlier. By some coincidence in New York, or even before that.

She’d never dare mention this to Carmy, because she already knew his reaction. He'd feel guilty knowing she felt this way, and then somehow twist it into all being his own fault, which might throw him into some self-hating spell, which would make her feel guilty for mentioning it at all. This would all bubble deep in their bones, them both feeling terrible but refusing to admit to the other how they felt—a complicated mess of emotions that she'd rather not touch.

Carmy, from the distance, pointed towards Sydney and their eyes met. He had probably been talking about her. He smiled at her, then resumed talking. The taller of the two men rubbed Carmy’s head in an affectionate manner. Then they bid each other farewell.

“Family?” Sydney asked, as she and Carmy got back into the van.

Carmy shook his head, “Nah, people Michael used to do business with. Gino and Antonio. They came for dinner one Christmas.”

“So, do all Italian people know each other or something?”

Carmy laughed. “Not gonna lie, sometimes I think we just draw towards each other, somehow.”

“Teach me something in Italian.”

“I'm not good. Trust me.”

“I don't care.”

“Okay. Capire.”

“Capire. What does that mean?”

“To understand.”

1:00 PM – Carmy

The van broke down. It didn’t happen abruptly; for some distance, it had been stopping and moving and then stopping again. Sydney told Carmy to pull over to the side of the road. They spent some time examining the vehicle, lifting the hood, taking turns looking at the engine, until they realized they had no idea what they were doing.

Sydney, with the better judgment, called the nearest mechanic. The van was towed, the repair was supposed to take a day, the mechanic shop wasn’t far from where the car had broken down—in some unpopulated part of Ohio. Surrounded by flat land, and conveniently, a sandwich shop, which was owned by the same person who owned the mechanic shop.

Carmy stayed in the shop, answering questions about the history, miles, and whatever other questions he was asked. Sydney meanwhile, sorted out business in New York. They had been smart with their decision to leave Chicago a day early. The only problem was that they wouldn’t get time to check out the restaurant beforehand. The entire process took over an hour, and by the end they were both exhausted, Carmy from talking and bargaining with the mechanic and Sydney from standing in the heat.

At the sandwich shop, they sat beside each other on the bar seats, with lunch and a shared drink between them.

“You know who’d be really useful to have right now?” Sydney asked, and Carmy smiled, because he already knew.

“Your mom?”

Sydney nodded, “My mom.” He had been vaguely thinking of her during their failed repair attempts. Particularly the story Sydney had told him about her parents on a date back when they were young. He didn’t know it was possible to think this much about someone he’d never met and would never meet. Someone so detached from his life, yet, in a way, it's beating heart. He found himself thinking about Sydney’s family a lot, about how they shaped her, and then about his own family, how they shaped him, comparing the two.

Before eating, Sydney called her dad. Not for advice or any specific reason, just to give him a general update, which she liked doing even if there was no point in doing so.

“How’s your dad?” Carmy asked, when she hung up.

Sydney took a bite out of her sandwich, then shrugged. “Same as usual. He’s fine.”

“Is he annoyed I’m here with you?”

Sydney looked at him, then laughed. “No? Why would he be?”

“I don’t know, I feel like he doesn’t like me. He didn’t ask to talk to me just now.”

Sydney continued looking at him, amused, “Seriously Carm, how old are you?”

“I’m right though, no?”

“Carm, he’s met you once. Relax.”

“Okay, but when we did meet, what did he say about me?” The thought had been sitting at the back of his mind for a long time, its presence still just as bold. He found himself wishing to redo the day, even though it hadn’t been a bad day or a bad first meet. He found himself plotting ways to make Emmanuel really like him, have him delighted that he was the person his daughter was with.

Sydney shrugged, “Nothing that stood out. Just his usual, ‘If you're happy I’m happy.’”

“Yeah,” Carmy replied, dully, as if to say ‘you see?’ He crumpled the sad empty sandwich wrapper in his hands.

“Carm.”

“What?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I don’t know. I just do. I mean is it crazy for me to want the person who raised you to like me?” Sydney seemed touched by this; she lowered her head onto his shoulder. “Is the hotel stuff sorted out?”

“Kind of. They said they’d refund the night, I had to argue for a bit. And then for today, there’s one that’s a bit of a drive from here. We’d need to get a ride somehow.” She lifted her head off his shoulder, then leaned forward to rest her hand on her cheek, “Unless you wanna walk. Which would be an hour and a half.”

“It’s not that bad.”

Sydney agreed. “We should get used to walking anyway, I don’t want us to spend hours finding parking in New York.”

“We can, I mean how bad are your cramps?” Carmy asked.

“I’m fine, walking actually helps—honestly any kind of movement or exercise does.”

“Yeah? Nat says it makes hers worse.”

Sydney brightened at the mention of her, “How is Nat?”

“She misses you. So does Pete, he was asking if you're still down to go bowling with him.”

3:00 PM – Sydney

The road was flat and open, gravel shuffling beneath their footsteps, no trees at the side of the road offering shadows of refuge from the sun. 95 degrees and it felt like it.

Matching slow heavy breaths, minute-long water breaks, because neither of them would admit they were tired, so it became this unspoken competition of endurance.

Carmy’s hair underneath his baseball cap stuck to the back of his neck in golden coils. Sydney quickened her pace to catch up to him, and when they were close enough to be walking side by side, he looked at her and smiled. He offered her his hand and she thought fuck you because he looked more alive now than he had this entire trip, like he could walk 20 miles more without pause. He took off his cap to wipe his forehead, then ran his fingers through his hair. The sun reflected off the surface of his irises, glassy and prism-like, hypnotizingly blue. A bead of sweat made its way down his nose, and his entire face was as flushed as a ripe peach. His t-shirt clung to his body, almost translucent. “Need a break?” He asked, and Sydney realized they had stopped moving, or rather she had stopped moving, and Carmy was simply waiting for her to be done with staring at him.

She shook her head and carried on walking, moving fast enough so that she was in front of him, making it so that he had to put an effort into catching up with her. She didn't look back but she knew he was smiling, that boyish, pleased smile he sometimes had after he'd won her over on something.

“You’re in a good mood,” Sydney said to him, as he caught up to her and took her hand again.

“It's kinda nice isn't it?” He asked, giving their hands a playful swing.

“Your hand is sweaty.”

“So is yours.”

“It is nice,” she moved towards him, giving him a little push. “It'd be nicer if it was a little cooler.”

5:00 PM – Sydney

“One bed or two?”

“One,” Carmy said, at the same time Sydney said “Two.”

“Sorry, one,” Sydney corrected.

The woman at the counter of the hotel looked at them. Irritated. As if there were lines of people behind them instead of a barren lounge. She typed something, then impatiently said, “We only have single beds. You want one room, two beds, or two rooms, one bed?”

“Two beds are fine then.”

She gave them their cards and they walked to their room, 107A. It was a small room, no TV, one armchair, two single beds accompanied by side tables on either ends. A window that opened up to the brick wall of the building next to it. A single yellowish light at the center. A coffee machine.

Sydney went to the bathroom to wash her face, damp with sweat. She ran cool water over her forehead and studied her reflection. Readjusted an earring that had almost come loose. Took off her scrunchie and pocketed it. When she came out Carmy had changed into a new shirt and was studying the room. “We can probably push the beds together,” he suggested. So they each held onto the side of a bed and pushed—the legs left dents on the carpet but otherwise the beds moved easily enough.

“I should probably recheck if our budget is good,” Carmy said, and Sydney agreed, too tired to do it herself.

“Do you mind if I borrow a shirt? Mine are all in the suitcase.”

“Don’t even ask." Carmy settled onto the bed and turned on his laptop. She saw him pull out a lighter. He flicked it on and off, his thumb moving back and forth. Sydney thought the habit was weird but he claimed it helped; the sound somehow gratified the part of him that craved the tobacco.

“Just don’t set anything on fire,” she said jokingly. Carmy gave her a very serious nod.

Sydney took off her t-shirt in one quick motion and rolled it into a ball. She then looked through the suitcase and put on one of Carmy’s shirts. She didn't turn to check if he was staring at her, but she suspected he probably was, and the thought of it made her entire body burn. She liked that he was watching her; that he always seemed to be doing so.

She moved to sit down beside him and he put the lighter back in his pocket. His gaze was fixated on his laptop, propped up on his lap, the white glow of the screen highlighting parts of his face.

She thought about asking Carmy to get rid of the lighter but didn’t want to come off as forceful. It wasn’t like she could know or assume what was better for him. Not that he wouldn’t listen, because he would probably do what she told her to.

“This is making my eyes hurt,” Sydney said, looking at the rows of numbers and ranges and list of contingencies—a spreadsheet that she had made and spent so much time looking at, she was sick of it.

“Then don’t look at it. You should sleep a little more.” She nodded but had no intention of doing so.

She put her arm under his free one, then joined their hands together. Carmy's eyes stayed on the laptop screen but from the corner of her view, she saw a hint of a smile. She lifted their joined hands to her knees, which were folded up in front of her. Then pressed her lips onto his knuckles. They were rough and smelled like the lemon-scented hotel hand soap. She loved the way his hands looked and felt in hers.

She saw that he was blushing, red spilling onto his face like he had been standing in the rain for hours. She loved that he couldn't hide this part of himself and that she could feel his nervous energy sometimes, because it matched hers. She thought about how powerful it was that they could make each other feel that way, with such minimal gestures, in such a small fraction of time. It scared her sometimes.

She cared about him in what she acknowledged, a selfish way. This was her person. And the idea of offering that spot to someone else made her uncomfortable. Not that anyone did try to steal it—other people only fueled her belief that what they had was special, occasionally addressing them together, asking about the other’s whereabouts, which had been a thing even back when they weren't together.

She was sensitive about other people’s opinions of him, probably more than he was. People's misunderstandings felt like her own, and she wondered sometimes what level of pride and confidence had led her to believe that she was the sole person who understood him best. Especially when there were times when she didn't understand him at all. She thought of all the other people who did; his family, the people he had grown up with, and in a strange way felt envious.

Her dad had commented once that she maybe liked Carmy too much. This was before they were together, and when she asked him about it now, he claimed he meant it in a platonic way. It had only then occurred to her how much she talked about him. And thought about him. Emmanuel hadn't meant anything by it. He laughed it off, claiming it was a good thing that she had someone she genuinely felt close to. Still, it unsettled her.

Sydney growing up, liked to think of herself as a logical person. She was smart in the academic sense, quick-witted, resourceful. It would only make sense for all her decisions and actions to be calculated, based on reason. She eventually had to accept that she was someone in full submission to her emotions. She became a chef because she loved it. She pursued an expensive culinary education because she loved it. Started catering because, at that moment, she loved it. So much of her life was guided by love which meant so much of her life's failures and regrets were also guided by love.

She felt like her heart had always wanted too much, whether it was ambition, creative drive, love, and the rest of her struggled to keep up, which always left her hoping for more. She still felt that way with Carmy. She was under the constant fear of being too clingy, too enthusiastic, as if that would somehow intimidate him and scare him away.

Either way, it wasn’t her choice or under her control, how she felt. If her heart felt like bursting at their every conversation and every contact, there was nothing she could do but hope for the best.

7:00 PM – Sydney

Sydney was sitting on the bed (or beds) cross-legged, while Carmy was lying at his side. He set the stack of cards in his hand down to say something.

“I can see your cards.”

Carmy put his arm over them, “Well, stop looking.” He continued, “You and Michelle would hit it off.”

“The cousin you stayed with?”

“Yeah. We should stay a few days longer. At their place.” Carmy turned to lie on his back, forgetting about the cards, which scattered disorderly over the bed.

“You think they have space?”

“They can probably make space.”

“And then we could go up north, to Hyde Park. And I can give you a campus tour.”

“I've seen the campus.”

“But have you really seen it? There's a hike we can do.”

Carmy smiled, “You sound like you enjoyed school.”

“It was like, the most hopeful time in my life. I was broke as hell though so I dunno where that hope came from.”

“Did you have a favorite spot? To eat?”

“Yeah. Not a restaurant, a spot at the front of Roth Hall that sells apple pies.”

“There's a restaurant in Greenwich Village, Via Carota, they have really good grilled artichoke. I used to eat there all the time.” He picked up his phone to search the location and show her a picture.

“What about the tacos at Los Mariscos.”

“The pastries at La Cabra.”

“We need a list,” Sydney said, pulling out her phone and starting to type one up.

“We should do this more often. Go on trips.”

“Yeah, without the looming presence of running a pop-up.”

Sydney found it hard to look away from Carmy at that moment. He looked relaxed, with his hair in waves falling onto the bed. His shirt riding up a little. Smiling, looking up at her with half-open eyes. She leaned down to touch her lips to his. He smiled, then laughed, which in return made her laugh. She pulled back and felt her face heat up.

Carmy grabbed her hand, “Sorry, I didn't mean to laugh. I just didn't expect that.”

“You saw me leaning in.”

“Sorry,” he said again. He circled his hand around her arm and pulled her towards him. Sydney felt like she would pass out just from the way he was looking at her.

12:00 AM – Carmy

The last text Carmy had sent Mikey had been a simple ‘Hey.’ Before that, a picture of a dish he'd plated at Eleven Madison Park. Before that, another picture, one of the entrance to Eleven Madison Park; Mikey had replied with a picture of The Beef's entrance.

Sometime before that, a real exchange:

Mikey: what does your chef master say about adding sprite to pasta for acidity?

Carmy: lol

Carmy: try it and let me know

Mikey: it sucks ass (followed by a picture of Nat holding a fork into a plate of spaghetti in front of her)

Carmy: fucked up dude

And before that, more conversations. A lot of questions. Inside jokes. Plans. No texts that were long or wordy, just short casual exchanges. Texts that Carmy didn't even remember sending, probably because of how insignificant they had been. And yet, for the past few weeks, he insisted on revising them every single night. Possibly in an attempt to remember—although that implied he would forget otherwise. Possibly a form of punishment for the things he'd taken for granted.

There was a time after Mikey's death when Carmy struggled to catch a full grasp of reality. The edges of his life felt blurred and faded. Somehow Mikey's absence was louder than his presence. He expected things to change with time, and they did change; that absence became quieter. Then louder. It wasn't one change but rather many continuous changes that continued to morph into a new form each day.

“Who are you texting?” Sydney asked. Carmy could feel the warmth of her breath on the back of his ear, and his heart sped up. Because of her closeness or the morbidity of the subject matter, he didn't know.

Unable to say his name, he let her see the messages over his shoulder. Then passed her the phone. “You can look through it.” She laid on her back and scrolled through the texts. She looked through a few of them, pausing, taking the time to read and reread, then wordlessly handed the phone back to Carmy.

“Does it make you feel better? To read them?” She asked.

“You think it should?”

“I'm asking you.”

“Maybe. Or maybe It makes it worse.” Carmy turned around and set his phone on the side table. He felt Sydney hug him from behind and he closed his eyes. “It felt like I stopped living. Like every day after that, life has been a kind of trance.” Yet, guiltily, he felt more alive now than he had ever. With her arm around his waist, the cold of her hand against the skin underneath his shirt.

She fell asleep after that, and he selfishly wished she hadn't. He replayed the sound of her voice in his head until the weight in his chest got lighter.

3:00 AM – Carmy

Sydney was usually a light sleeper. The times Carmy would wake up in the middle of the night, in cold sweat from stowed anxiety, Sydney would always be awake first. He knew, as he got up, that her closed eyes were a facade. The way she clenched her hand in front of her face implied a level of restlessness. Her eyes would probably flick open the minute he let the door behind him close. Despite this, he couldn’t bring himself to ask her to come. Join him in wandering the halls in his insomniac spell.

The lights in the pool room were closed, Carmy used the flashlight of his phone to navigate past the plastic lawn chairs and plastic palm trees, light reflecting off the edge of the stagnant pool water. He found the switch beside what looked like the door to a storage room, flicked it open, shut his eyes—a recoil from the sudden switch. Then shut it off again, settling for the dark. He took a seat at the edge of the pool farthest from the door, leaning back, hands against the glass tiles. Inhaling the sharp sting of chlorine that seemed to make its way up his nose, infiltrating the corners of his mind.

Every good thing came with its price. Carmy was still trying to figure out how much he owed this past month. Where the loan sharks were hiding and when they planned to make their appearance, demand something that was slightly more than he could offer without losing himself. He thought about breaking up with Sydney again. The various possible ways it could happen. The tiniest thing, which would lead to a bigger thing, and then an even bigger thing.

He took out the lighter and flicked it on and off and on and off. He pressed his thumb on the metal; it was warm, but not warm enough to hurt in any way. He wondered how long this feeling of hopelessness, of unworthiness would follow him. He imagined being old; alone and miserable; then his mind filled with the image of Donna. She was fine when he talked to her. She was happy at some points. She was unmistakably lonely. She lived with the weight of her mistakes, and Mikey was one of them, and Carmy lived with that weight as well. Did that mean Mikey was, in some part, his mistake? He felt like he understood Mikey as a dead man better than an alive one—his choices made perfect sense to Carmy sometimes.

He knew the rhythm of Sydney's footsteps; he didn’t have to turn around to know it was her. Navigating with her phone flashlight, she sat beside him quietly. She set down her phone between them, flashlight still on. The glow of it outlining her features. She lowered her head onto his arm, leaning against him. Her silk scarf felt cool against his skin.

“Carm. What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep. What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Her hand found his, “Is something wrong? Something bothering you?”

“Do you think there’s something wrong with us?”

“Individually? Probably,” she laughed. “Do you mean us together?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think there’s something wrong?”

“No, I—I can’t imagine myself being with anyone that isn’t you. Just…the idea of it… it sounds ridiculous right?”

Sydney turned her head to kiss his arm. “Yeah. It does. I think you’re the only person capable of understanding me. And even if that isn’t true—I don’t want to be understood by anyone the way I want to be understood by you.”

“Syd, am I fucking up?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If you ever think I might be fucking up, can you make sure I don’t?”

“If you promise to do the same for me.”

He looked at her, “You're not gonna fuck up.”

“I might.”

“You won't.”

“Are you challenging me?’

Carmy laughed, “So there is something wrong us.”

Sydney laughed, “Definitely.” She lowered her head onto the tiled surface, lying down with her arms folded in front of her. Carmy did the same. She rolled over to her side, turning her body towards him. Carmy did the same.

“Do you actually like being with me?” he whispered.

“What does it look like?” The sound of her voice melted in his ears, low and gentle. Her eyes were soft and endless, and even with the limited flashlight he could see how warm her expression was. He was loved. And acknowledging that was as terrifying as it was thrilling. Carmy let her words sink in, fill the silence between them. He felt like his heart might stop beating.

Sydney sat upright, then bent down to glide her hand along the pool water, “Wish I bought swim gear.” She leaned back against her arms and looked down at him, “You’re staying here?”

“Are you?”

“I’ll go back when you go back.”

“Do you want to go back?” Carmy asked.

“Do you?” Sydney asked.

“If you do.”

“Carm. You’re making this difficult. I feel like in your head, you think we can read each other’s mind. We can’t. I mean I can’t. You—you think you can but trust me you can't.”

“Yeah? What am I thinking now?”

“Were you listening? I said we can't read each other's mind. How would I know?”

“Guess you're right.”

“Okay…?”

“Okay.”

She nudged him with her foot, “What were you thinking?”

“Dunno.”

“Tell me what you were thinking?”

Carmy pushed himself upright and, without much thought, kissed her.

She kissed him back almost immediately, with more force. Her hand clinging onto the fabric of his shirt and the rest of her body leaning into him. A long slow surrender. Everything around him faded into mist. His senses lost their ability to perform any function that didn’t have to do with him kissing Sydney; the feeling of her hand on his neck, the smell of her scented lotion, the taste of her lips. He had never felt more aware of himself and of another person.

“Seriously?” She laughed, when they finally pulled away. “Are you crying?”

He touched his hand to his face, but hers was already there first.

10:00 AM – Sydney

Sydney folded her legs and made enough room for Carmy on the bed, in the spot across from her. In a matter of minutes, they devoured the stale blueberry muffins they had gotten from the breakfast bar, leaving nothing but crumbs on the Styrofoam plate.

“You want me to drive the rest of the way?” Carmy asked.

“I don’t mind.”

“But do you want me to?”

She ran her fingers through his dampened curls, “You took a shower?”

“Yeah. I can wait if you want to.”

Sydney pressed her lips to his, for a brief few seconds. Then got off the bed. “I feel gross. I probably should,” she sighed. She opened his bag to pull out another of his shirts. “I’m borrowing this. I wasn’t prepared for the extra day.”

In the shower, she ran through her plans for the day, and the days to follow, and then plans for the future a few years ahead. She got dressed, then ran over the plan for the day with Carmy and he nodded repeating it back to her.

As they started to leave Carmy laced his fingers through hers. He stepped closer to her, then kissed the back of her left shoulder, barrier of cotton separating his lips and her skin.

In a low voice, he said, “You make me feel real. You make me feel like a person.”

Battling between the need to break the tension, and her lack of ability to conjure up a proper sentence, she responded with, “Uh, okay.”

“Okay?” Carmy asked.

“I don't know, what do I say to that?” she replied, voice abnormally high, face burning.

Carmy laughed, hand on her back, guiding her out of the room, “Not that.”

“The feeling’s mutual. Obviously,” Sydney muttered. We’ll be okay, she thought.