Chapter 19: The Dozen Lasagnas
Rachel burst through the door at 2:17 PM on December 15th, mascara running down her face in dark streaks.
"I hate men!" she announced to the entire coffeehouse. "All men. Every single one of them!"
The gang was already at the orange couch—they'd been there since lunch—and they immediately mobilized.
"What happened?" Monica asked, standing up.
"Paolo! That's what happened!" Rachel collapsed onto the couch between Monica and Phoebe. "He—he made a move on Phoebe!"
The entire table erupted in chaos. Chandler's jaw dropped. Joey looked confused. Ross's expression did something complicated between outrage and barely-concealed hope.
Phoebe raised her hand. "In my defense, I told him no. Very firmly. With a knee to a sensitive area."
"You kneed him?" Joey sounded impressed.
"He touched me inappropriately during a massage. My body responded instinctively."
Rachel was crying harder now. "Three months! I dated him for three months and he was just—he's a creep! A sleazy, grabby creep!"
I was making drinks behind the counter, watching the drama unfold with detached interest.
Canon Gunther would have been thrilled. Rachel single again? Opportunity renewed? Ten years of pining justified?
But I felt... nothing.
No surge of joy. No secret relief. No hope that maybe this time I'd have a chance.
Just mild sympathy for someone going through a breakup. The same feeling I'd have for any customer dealing with relationship drama.
Huh, I thought. When did that happen?
I made Rachel her usual drink—decaf latte—and added pink light for warmth and emotional support. Brought it to the table without comment.
"Thanks, Gunther," she said through tears, not really looking at me.
"You're welcome."
I went back to the counter and continued my shift while the gang comforted Rachel with their specific brands of support.
Monica went into practical mode: "You're better off without him. He was always too handsy anyway."
Ross tried empathy: "You deserve someone who respects you. Paolo clearly didn't."
Chandler attempted humor: "At least you found out now instead of after marrying him and having Italian babies with wandering hands."
Joey offered violence: "Want me to rough him up? I know a guy who knows a guy."
Phoebe just hugged her and let her cry.
It was effective in its chaos. Rachel's sobs gradually subsided into sniffles, then watery laughter at something Chandler said.
And I served other customers, restocked napkins, cleaned the espresso machine.
Just another day at Central Perk.
Rachel - 3:47 PM
Rachel Green sat on Monica's couch that evening, surrounded by her friends, and tried to process what had happened.
Paolo had been a mistake. She'd known it on some level—the language barrier, the obvious player vibes, the way he looked at other women even when they were together.
But he'd made her feel attractive. Desired. Like someone worth pursuing instead of just Monica's high school friend who'd screwed up her life.
And now he'd ruined even that by hitting on Phoebe.
"I'm an idiot," she said to the ceiling.
"You're not an idiot," Monica insisted. "You just made a bad choice. Everyone makes bad choices."
"You don't."
"I dated Alan and let everyone else's opinions ruin it. That was a terrible choice."
Ross was hovering nearby, clearly wanting to say something comforting but not knowing what. Chandler had made three inappropriate jokes and then fled to Joey's apartment. Phoebe was making tea that probably contained weird herbs.
"The barista was nice today," Rachel said after a moment. "Gunther. He didn't say anything, just... gave me coffee and let me fall apart."
Monica looked up from her magazine. "Gunther's good like that. He pays attention without being weird about it."
"Does he have a last name?"
"Probably? I've never asked."
Rachel thought about that. She'd been working at Central Perk for months and had never learned the barista's full name. Never really thought about him as a complete person with a life outside making coffee.
That's kind of terrible, she realized.
She made a mental note to actually acknowledge Gunther next time. Learn his story. Be less self-absorbed.
Small steps toward being better.
By closing time, the coffeehouse was empty except for me and the cleaning supplies.
I wiped down the orange couch—Rachel had cried on it enough to leave tearstains—and thought about my complete lack of feelings regarding her newly single status.
Three and a half months ago, I'd woken up in Gunther's body expecting to carry his obsession with Rachel. Had braced myself for ten years of pining and rejection.
Instead, I'd just... moved on. Immediately. Completely.
She was attractive, sure. Nice person going through difficult life changes. But that's all she was. Another customer. Another member of the gang. Not the object of desperate, unrequited love.
Canon Gunther had wasted ten years on someone who barely knew his name.
I'd spent three months building an actual life.
The relief was enormous. Like someone had lifted a weight I'd been carrying without realizing it.
I was free. Free to pursue real relationships with people who actually saw me. Free to build a future that didn't revolve around someone else's storyline.
Thank God, I thought, locking the front door. I'm actually over it.
The walk home felt lighter. Manhattan's December cold didn't bite as hard. Even my shitty studio apartment looked better when I entered it.
I'd escaped the defining tragedy of canon Gunther's life without even trying. Just by living forward instead of watching from the sidelines.
Progress came in unexpected forms.
December 18th brought Monica to Central Perk at 11 AM carrying six foil-wrapped pans.
"I need help," she announced, setting them on the counter.
"With what?" I asked, eyeing the pans.
"Lasagna. I made twelve for a party that got canceled and now I have way too much food and nowhere to store it and if I bring it all home my freezer won't fit anything else."
"You made twelve lasagnas?"
"The recipe was for one. I scaled up. It seemed like a good idea at the time."
She looked genuinely distressed, so I didn't laugh. "What do you want me to do about it?"
"Take one? Please? They're really good. Ricotta, three cheeses, homemade sauce. I spent eight hours making these."
"Monica—"
"Please? As thanks for putting up with us taking over your coffeehouse every single day for three months?"
That stopped me. "You don't have to thank me for that."
"Yes I do. We're loud and messy and we basically treat Central Perk like our living room. Terry must hate us."
"Terry doesn't hate you. You buy a lot of coffee."
"But do you hate us?"
I looked at her—really looked. Monica Geller, stressed and cooking-obsessed and desperate for approval. Offering me lasagna like it was a peace treaty.
"You guys aren't that bad," I said honestly.
She laughed, surprised. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said about us today."
"The day just started."
"True." She pushed one of the pans toward me. "Seriously, take one. You'll regret it if you don't. This is my best recipe."
I accepted the lasagna, still warm through the foil. "Thanks."
"No, thank you. For being patient. And for making good coffee. And for just... being there."
She gathered the other pans and left before I could respond, distributing lasagna to the gang as they arrived.
I put my pan in the break room fridge and went back to work, thinking about Monica's words.
For being there.
That's what I'd become to them. Not invisible anymore, but present. Reliable. Part of the background that made their lives work.
It wasn't friendship yet. But it was something.
Monica - 7:23 PM
Monica Geller sat in her apartment that evening, exhausted from cooking and distribution, and thought about the barista.
Gunther had seemed surprised by the lasagna. Like he wasn't used to people giving him things or thanking him for anything.
Which was sad, because he was genuinely helpful. Always had coffee ready at the right time. Called cabs during emergencies. Kept Marcel from destroying the espresso machine. Never complained about the gang's constant presence.
He deserved acknowledgment for that. They all took him for granted.
I should learn more about him, Monica thought. Actually ask him questions. Include him in things.
But that felt weird. He was the barista. They were the customers. There was a natural boundary there.
Except Phoebe had invited him to sit with them during the blackout, and he'd fit in fine. Hadn't seemed uncomfortable or out of place. Just... adjacent to the group in a comfortable way.
Maybe the boundary was imaginary. Maybe she could just be friendly to the guy who made her coffee every day.
Monica added it to her mental list of things to improve about herself: be better to service workers, stop being so controlling about everything, call Dad more often.
Small steps toward being better.
That night, I reheated Monica's lasagna in my tiny microwave and ate it standing at the window.
It was incredible. Perfectly seasoned, ideal cheese ratio, sauce that probably took hours to develop. The kind of cooking that came from genuine skill and practice.
I'd been living on frozen dinners and takeout since arriving in this world. Having actual homemade food felt like luxury.
More than that, it felt like acknowledgment. Monica had thought about me enough to bring me lasagna. To thank me for existing in their orbit.
First gift from the gang. Small gesture, but meaningful.
I finished the lasagna and washed the pan carefully, planning to return it tomorrow.
Three and a half months in this world. I'd gone from completely invisible to someone who got thanked with homemade food.
Canon Gunther never got this. Never got acknowledged, never got included, never got seen as anything but the pathetic guy pining for Rachel.
I'd escaped that fate. Was building something different.
And Rachel being newly single barely registered as relevant to my life.
Freedom, I thought, setting the clean pan aside. This is what freedom feels like.
I went to bed that night thinking about progress and lasagna and the slow accumulation of small victories.
December was almost over. 1995 was approaching. The first arc of my new life was taking shape.
And for once, I was actually looking forward to what came next.
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