Chapter 21: The New Year's Eve
The December 31st morning shift was chaos.
Everyone in Manhattan seemed to be preparing for evening celebrations—buying last-minute coffee, meeting friends for pre-party planning, rushing through errands before the city shut down for the night.
Central Perk was packed from open to close. I made drinks on autopilot while the gang held court at the orange couch, discussing their evening plans.
"So we're all still committed to the pact?" Monica was asking. "No dates. Just us."
"I'm in," Ross confirmed. "Who would I even date? Marcel doesn't count."
"I'm bringing David," Phoebe said. "But he's leaving for Minsk in three days, so it's not really a date. More like a goodbye hang."
"That's definitely a date," Chandler pointed out.
"It's a science goodbye."
Monica sighed. "Fine. Phoebe gets her scientist. Everyone else—no dates."
Rachel nodded. "I'm done with men anyway. Paolo proved that."
Joey looked uncomfortable. "What if someone... hypothetically... had already said yes to a date?"
"Joey!"
"I didn't know about the pact when I asked her!"
The argument spiraled into familiar chaos. I served other customers and let their drama wash over me like background noise.
At 5:30 PM, they gathered their things to head upstairs to Monica's apartment. The party would start around 7, according to their conversation. They'd ordered pizza, had sparkling cider (except Phoebe who insisted on champagne), and planned to watch the ball drop on TV.
"Have a good night, Gunther," Monica called as they headed out.
"You too. Happy New Year."
They left in their usual cluster, voices echoing up the stairs.
Terry emerged from the office. "You can close up early if you want. It's dead in here."
I looked around. He was right—the evening rush had ended. Everyone was already wherever they planned to be.
"Thanks. I'll clean up and lock up by six."
"Sounds good. Happy New Year, kid."
"You too."
He left through the back door, and I had Central Perk to myself.
I finished the closing routine by 6:15 PM—wiped down surfaces, counted the register, restocked for tomorrow's reopening. Everything clean and ready.
The walk home was quiet. Manhattan had that pre-celebration energy where the streets were emptying out, everyone settling into their chosen venues.
My studio apartment felt smaller than usual. I made dinner—leftover lasagna Monica had given me, still incredible reheated—and sat at the window watching the city prepare for midnight.
At 9 PM, I pulled out Sarah's business card and dialed her number.
She answered on the third ring. "Hello?"
"Sarah? It's Gunther. From Central Perk."
"Gunther! Hi! I was hoping you'd call." I heard voices in the background—her family, probably. "Hold on, let me go somewhere quieter."
Rustling sounds, a door closing, then her voice clearer: "Okay, sorry. Family dinner is chaotic."
"No problem. I just wanted to wish you a happy New Year."
"You too. How's your evening?"
"Quiet. You?"
"Loud. My parents are hosting like twenty people and everyone keeps asking about my love life, so I'm hiding in my old bedroom."
I laughed. "Sounds painful."
"It's torture. But kind of sweet? They worry." She paused. "So... are we still on for January 2nd?"
"Absolutely. You mentioned Italian food?"
"There's a place in the Village called Carmelo's. Tiny, family-owned, incredible pasta. Eight PM?"
"Perfect."
We talked for another forty-five minutes about everything and nothing. Her family's traditions, my quiet evening, the absurdity of New Year's resolutions, favorite foods, childhood memories.
The conversation flowed like we'd known each other for years instead of one coffee shop interaction. The Fateful Encounter power working exactly as designed—ensuring compatibility, creating natural connection.
When we finally hung up at 9:47 PM, I felt genuinely excited about the date.
Not nervous. Not desperate. Just... happy. Looking forward to seeing her again.
Sarah - 10:02 PM (Sarah's family home, Connecticut)
Sarah Martinez sat on her childhood bed, phone still in hand, smiling like an idiot.
Gunther. The barista from Central Perk. She'd walked in for coffee and walked out with a date, which hadn't been the plan but felt right anyway.
He was different from the guys she usually dated. Quieter. More grounded. He listened when she talked instead of just waiting for his turn to speak.
And his voice was nice. Warm but not performatively smooth. Genuine.
I like him, she thought. Actually like him, not just attracted-to-him.
That was rare. Good rare.
Her mother's voice called from downstairs: "Sarah! It's almost time!"
"Coming!"
She went back to the party, the countdown, the champagne toast at midnight. Kissed her parents and smiled at relatives and made small talk with family friends.
But part of her mind was already on January 2nd. Carmelo's at 8 PM. First date with the Dutch barista who made incredible coffee and actually listened.
She was looking forward to it.
At 11:45 PM, I stood at my window with a glass of cheap champagne I'd bought earlier.
The city sparkled with lights and early fireworks. Manhattan preparing for the turn of the year—1994 becoming 1995, one arc ending and another beginning.
Somewhere above me, the gang was celebrating their no-date pact that would inevitably fall apart. Janice would show up for Chandler. David would leave Phoebe heartbroken when he went to Minsk. Paolo would probably make a final appearance for maximum drama.
Their storylines continuing exactly as scripted.
But I wasn't part of that tonight. I had my own life now. My own plans. My own person to look forward to seeing.
Canon Gunther had spent every New Year's Eve alone, pining for Rachel, watching the gang celebrate through the coffeehouse window or from his apartment.
This Gunther had a date scheduled. A network of business contacts. Powers under control. Savings growing steadily. And the complete freedom from obsession that came with actually living instead of watching.
At midnight, fireworks exploded over the skyline. The city erupted in noise and celebration.
I raised my glass to the window and the night.
"To not being invisible anymore," I said quietly.
The champagne was terrible—too sweet, too cheap—but I drank it anyway.
1995 had arrived.
I'd spent three and a half months building foundations. Now came the hard part—actually constructing something meaningful on them.
But I was ready. For Sarah, for the gang, for whatever came next.
The invisible barista was becoming someone who mattered. Slowly. Patiently. One small victory at a time.
I finished my champagne and went to bed thinking about Italian restaurants and first dates and the strange miracle of getting a second chance.
Tomorrow was January 1st, 1995. Day off. Rest day. Time to prepare for what came next.
And the day after that—January 2nd, 8 PM, Carmelo's—my first real date in two lifetimes.
Not bad for someone who'd started out as background furniture in a sitcom.
Not bad at all.
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