Chapter Text
"Teddy! What's up, fuckwad?"
Richie's words coming out of her mouth made Steph cringe down at the half-drunk beer in her left hand—her third and likely not final. However, its golden contents swimming contentedly around in her stomach, soothed some of the disconcertment at realizing she'd taken on one too many of her brother's undesirable mannerisms.
"Sup, pimp?"
The worn-out folding chair she was splayed across groaned dangerously as she shifted to peer up at the eccentric, but not strangest Fak. God knew who the chair originally belonged to and how much longer it would hold before one of the legs gave out and her ass tumbled down to meet pavement.
"Not much, dog. You got one I can burn? I think I ran out a while ago."
"Sure, Sweetsy. You good?" He asked with a cautious glance before pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offering them to her.
Even as she withdrew one long stick and lit it, she could only focus on the hate she felt, understanding that he'd only asked because he knew. The smoke pulling into her lungs didn't quell the annoyance at everyone being privy to her reason for drinking, for being out at some stupid block party when the whole thing was ages past being her scene.
"Do I not look good?"
She probably didn't—half drunk and perpetually bored. The permanent bags under her eyes weren't doing any favors, and she'd run her hand through her hair enough times in discomfort that the roots were turning greasy. She hadn't bothered with dressing up either; her sweatpants and worn t-shirt weren't meant to attract anyone anyway.
"Alrighty then. You're just sending out some vibes but whatev," he conceded, backing down at the unspoken challenge behind her words. "Whatcha been up to?"
Absolutely nothing was the honest answer. Sulking was probably the truest, but she wasn't going to admit to such a thing when he'd go and blab the first chance given.
So, instead, she settled on something more neutral. "Working. Livin'."
A lie. She'd been calling out to her job so much that she wouldn't be surprised if they'd just fire her and cut their losses. She wouldn't blame them; it'd be her own fault at the end of the day.
Steph was spiraling, and rock bottom wasn't rising to meet her fast enough.
"That it?"
He didn't seem to believe her, his brows pulled to the middle of his forehead with incredulity. Steph wasn't going to bring it up, not before he did, and that seemed only a matter of time–a clock rapidly winding down till it struck at midnight.
"Not sure what else there would be, Theodore."
"You talked to Carmy yet?"
There it was, arriving in record time.
He already held the answer to that intrusive question. She wasn't deluded enough to think it wasn't an endless topic of conversation in one of their side group chats that she was intentionally excluded from.
"Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you," she warned with a pointed glare, finishing off what was left of her drink before grabbing another from the ice chest just within reach.
She needed new friends, fresh relationships that weren't tarnished with too much knowledge of the past. But, how did one meet new people in their mid-twenties? It was a mystery she still hadn't solved.
"Nah, he ain't playin'," a familiar voice inserted itself into the discussion. "Everybody knows the Faks are touched in the head."
"Chi Chi," Steph beamed up at the rough-edged, denim collector who'd made his way over and into their conversation. "Is it true Jan-Carlo called me a tight ass?"
Carmy's scar on his arm, the one he'd gotten jumping in to support Neil while defending her honor. She didn't want to think about it, about him at all, but nostalgia was an unfortunate side effect of most encounters these days.
"Sounds about right," he agreed without shame or remorse, just an indifferent shrug of confirmation. "You're no fun."
"What? I'm loads of fun, you bitch."
"I can tell."
She let the insult lie with nothing more than a complacent huff because it was true. Her shitty mood was putting a damper on most interactions recently—a rain cloud atop her head promising to drench everyone and everything around her.
"So," Ted drew out the vowel while bouncing on the balls of his feet, grasping for some vain attempt to break the growing tension. "Francie is gonna make a resy at The Bear. She's psyched!"
"Oh god. Could we not?" Steph loudly complained, praying they could talk about something, anything else, but was completely ignored.
"Fuck that. When are they gonna get that beef window open? That's the real question. Regulars are talkin' shit."
Both looked at her expectantly, but only received an indignant eye roll for all their anticipation.
"I don't know jackshit about fuck all, so stop staring at me."
"Whatever," Chi Chi tsked with a brief shoulder raise." All I keep hearing is fuck this fancy fuck. I want my shit."
The two kept talking, but Steph's thoughts droned them out—busy ripping the label off her new bottle in irritation.
She was the loser, the biggest flop of the century as far as she was concerned—the Chicago Cubs' 16-game losing streak from 1996-1997 had nothing on her.
Carmy had won the breakup hands down, no doubt about it. He'd made it out with the restaurant, their friends, and her family, and what was she left with? Endless fucking questions.
Even if everyone sided with her in reasoning, they were all still Carmy's goddam employees, and no vow of solidarity towards her was gonna trump a paycheck. No one was putting in time consoling her, not when the quest for an illustrious star was so fucking all-consuming.
She could respect the game, but it didn't mean she had to like failing at it. Especially when going anywhere or talking to anyone felt like hearing the click of a landmine she should've known was under her feet.
"I need to get the fuck out of here," she grumbled before standing on shaky feet—and she didn't just mean away from the party, which she had every intention of bailing from with Ted's stolen cigarettes in pocket.
It might've tickled Steph to know she wasn't the only one receiving the fifth degree from all ends, provided some conciliation, no matter how small.
Carmy was getting waylaid from all sides with no reprieve in sight either. He was like the last player left in dodgeball, taking hit after hit, straight balls to the face, with no other target in sight.
He shouldn't have wasted the breath for all the good his apology on Richie's voicemail had done. They had resorted to speaking through Syd, who was feeling more than a bit of contempt towards their antics.
Neither was really going to apologize, though—not with any sincerity, anyway. Talking it out would be too simple, too mature, and neither had ever been accidentally accused of either thing.
"Oh, I got one. You're gonna like this," Richie pointed at Carmy, a sneer on his face promising nothing good was about to spew from his lips. "How about we add 'don't break my sister's heart' to your list of fucking non-negotiables."
A gasp of shock ran through the group as all eyes snapped to watch Carmy's reaction—which was decidedly not good.
He took a step back, almost like the insult packed the power of a physical punch, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.
"Hey, wait. Let's not–"
Syd didn't get to say whatever would hope to mediate this travesty of a meeting because everything exploded at once.
"Fuck you!"
"I'd say 'fuck you,' but you've already fucked youself, Cousin," Richie shouted with a manacle laugh.
"I take it back, I'm not sorry! You happy now?"
"Do I look happy? You piece of fucking—"
"I saw Sweets." Ted's innocent words broke through the fighting, voice lit with excitement at being able to contribute to the discussion.
"What? Where?" Carmy asked, voice softer but desperate.
"Um, at a friend's."
"Ted, why?" Sydney drew out the question because she couldn't fathom anything promising coming from the answer.
"Hey, Ted," Carmy soothed, trying to keep the Fak's shoddy focus on him.
"Because it slipped out. I was uncomfortable. You guys are yelling—"
"Hey, Ted. Go."
"It's all good. All good."
"It's all good? How—how—how could it possibly be all good?"
"I think it just—it just seems a little impossible for it to be, like, all good," Syd voiced doubtfully.
"Impossible," Richie echoed.
"Richie, shut up. Ted speak."
"This little cul-de-sac," he gestured to the right, including everyone gathered around the table but not Carmy to the left. "We're all good with her. But you're—you're not good with her, Carm. That's not it right now. You're dusted. Like sweep his ass up, you're dusted."
And that's what Carmy felt like, grime, dirt that needed to be whisked away. Ashes being all that remained of the structure and stability he'd burned through because he couldn't just handle his shit.
She'd probably never speak to him again, and what hurt the most was that he couldn’t fault her for it. He'd decimated all her goodwill, torched the final olive branch of forgiveness she'd offered because he hated himself more than he could love anyone—especially not her, not in the way she deserved.