The kitchen was too quiet, too still--the kind of silence that didn't settle so much as hover, like it was waiting for her to do something, say something, break something.
Carina Marie Delvecchio sat at her mother's scratched-up kitchen table, legs sprawled, tank top loose, jaw tight. One acrylic nail clicked restlessly against the side of her iced coffee, half-melted and watery. Outside, the South Philly heat pressed in like a body, thick and close. Inside, it was just her and that fucking silence.
Twenty-four, working shifts at CVS she could do in her sleep, waking up hungover more often than not, and making rent by sheer force of attitude. She still lived two blocks from where she was born. Same sidewalks, same stoops, same corner where she smoked her first cigarette and kissed her first girl--Adelina.
Adelina fucking Graziano.
God. That name still cracked something open in her chest if she thought about it too long.
She hadn't said it out loud in months. Maybe longer. What was the point? Nobody wanted to talk about Adelina. Not since the trial. Not since the sentencing. Not since her own fucking mother--Angie DeLuca, queen of passive-aggressive guilt and lasagna made with store-brand mozzarella--called the cops on her daughter's girlfriend and testified without even looking Carrie in the eye.
Adelina. Heat and hunger and screaming matches that turned into make-outs in alleyways. Someone actually getting her, knowing how to cut her open and hold the messy parts. It ended in handcuffs. Literally.
Carrie didn't cry when they took her away. Didn't scream. Didn't say a word. She just sat on the curb outside the courthouse, shaking, eyeliner smudged to hell, lighting cigarette after cigarette until her throat burned.
She hadn't gone to see her. Not once. Not even when she got the postcard. Handwritten. Careful. "I don't blame you." Yeah, well, Carrie did. She blamed everyone. Her mom. The system. Herself. Most of all, herself.
And now what? Over a year since Bridgette ghosted. A woman who'd smiled too sweet and touched too soft, like maybe Carrie could be somebody you kept. She'd let herself hope. Just a little. Just enough to hurt when it all went quiet.
No warning. No fight. Just gone.
Carrie had checked the socials, of course. Bridgette was still alive, still posting, still hot. Just... not interested. And that was almost worse. It wasn't like she had died. She'd just decided Carrie wasn't worth sticking around for.
Another notch. Another story. Another unfinished ending.
So here she was. Mid-July 2022. Sweat on her back, CVS name tag still sitting in her purse like it owned her, and the house dead quiet with Gianna and Angie off shopping for shit they didn't need.
This moment belonged to the girl in the kitchen with the chipped red nails and the phantom taste of bad love still stuck to her tongue.
The Carrie who didn't know where the fuck she was headed. Who hadn't met Zach yet--sweet, weird, surprisingly submissive, exhausted Zach with his thrifted hoodies and tired hands. Or Anna, that slow-burn woman who could read her like a book and leave her speechless.
No, this version of Carrie was raw. Untethered. All teeth and eyeliner and the ache of too many almosts.
She kicked her foot up on the opposite chair, stretching, lazy and tense at the same time. Her phone buzzed somewhere in the other room. She didn't get up.
What was the point? Another text from a number she wouldn't save, or worse, nothing at all. She wasn't sure which was more humiliating these days--being wanted or being ignored.
The A/C sputtered to life and she startled like she'd forgotten the world could move. Her shoulder ached from sleeping weird. Her hips were sore from fucking some guy she barely remembered last night--what was his name, Brandon? Benny? He'd wanted her to ride him like she meant it. She had. She always did.
But she hadn't cum. Not really. Not in any way that mattered.
Carrie rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. She hadn't done her nails in two weeks. Too tired. Too busy. Too done. The red was chipped down to ragged edges. She looked like she'd been clawing her way out of something. Maybe she had.
She lit a cigarette out the back door and blew smoke toward the alley. The neighborhood was alive with the usual summer shit--kids screaming, someone blasting reggaeton too loud, the sizzle of a grill someone probably shouldn't be using this close to the building.
Normal. Familiar. And still, she felt like a ghost inside it.
Maybe that's what 2022 was for her. A ghost year. A liminal space. That strange breath between loves. Between disasters. Between knowing who you are and figuring it out all over again. The ache before the next fuck-up. The quiet before the next bang.
She wasn't happy. Not really. But she wasn't broken either. Not all the way.
She still laughed too loud. Still made guys blush when she leaned in too close at the register. Still stole lip gloss and Advil when the manager wasn't looking. Still fucked like she had something to prove, which maybe she did. Still came home to Angie's cooking, to Gianna's noise, to the comfort and suffocation of familiarity.
And she still remembered Adelina's mouth. The way she said "Carina" when she was close. The way her voice dropped when she was about to lie. The way she never begged--except for Carrie.
Carrie closed her eyes and tipped her head back, letting the smoke burn its way out of her. She didn't know what came next. She didn't know how to move forward.
But she would.
Because she was Carrie fucking Delvecchio.
And nobody survives Philly without knowing how to claw your way back from hell.
Carrie fucking Delvecchio didn't wake up so much as she revived, like something jostled loose in the night and she crawled back into herself around 10:43 a.m., smelling like menthols, hair wild, last night's mascara fanned out beneath her eyes like wings. She reached for her phone, cursed at the sunlight slicing through her blinds, and swiped through nothing--no new texts, no calls, just a DM request from a guy with two first names and no dignity.
She rolled out of bed in a tank top and lace panties, padded barefoot to the bathroom, pissed with the door open, and rinsed her mouth with tequila because she was out of mouthwash. CVS wouldn't miss her if she was late. Manager Dave was too scared to say shit, and Assistant Manager Gina knew Carrie was worth ten of the other clowns combined.
By 11:12 a.m., she was half-dressed--tight jeans, no bra, CVS polo knotted at the waist like a fuck-you to the dress code. She scraped her hair up into a messy ponytail, looped her gold nameplate necklace over her neck (Carrie, bitch), slapped on a little eyeliner with the steadiness of a sniper, and left the apartment like a storm cloud in hoop earrings.
1:03 p.m. -- CVS, the Seventh Circle of Corporate Hell
Dave was at the front, fiddling with the printer, his combover damp with sweat like he'd just run a marathon instead of shuffled in from his Buick. He gave Carrie that smile--the one with too much gum and not enough spine.
"Heyyy Carrie. Clocked in late again, huh?"
She didn't break stride. Just popped her gum and tossed her purse behind the counter.
"You wanna dock my pay or my patience?"
Dave stammered something about teamwork and schedules and she was already walking away, hips swaying like a metronome set to fuck you.
Brenda was on register, chewing gum in sync with Carrie like they shared a wavelength. Eighteen, bubble-pink gloss, eyes wide with admiration Carrie didn't ask for but didn't mind soaking in. Brenda still thought this job meant something. Still wore her lanyard like it was holy. Cute.
"You smell like sin," Brenda muttered with a grin.
"Good," Carrie muttered back. "I hate it when I smell like work."
Gina came striding out from the back like the real boss of the place--which she was. Thirty-nine, nails sharp, eyes sharper, mouth set in a line that meant she wasn't here for games. She clocked Carrie instantly.
"Delvecchio."
"Boss lady."
"You in a fuckin' mood today, or just naturally unbearable?"
"Yes."
Gina shook her head, half smiling, half ready to murder her. Their mutual respect was forged in fire and passive-aggressive breakroom notes. Carrie loved her like a pissed-off aunt who'd hit you with her purse and then feed you soup.
3:17 p.m. -- Hell Hour
Todd showed up for his shift late, stoned, and acting like he invented charisma. Twenty-three, white boy, faux-deep, one of those guys who says "females" unironically. Carrie hated him immediately and daily.
