Chapter 9: The Sonogram Week - Part 2
Ross walked into Central Perk at 2:47 PM looking like he was heading to his own execution.
The sonogram appointment was at 4 PM. He had an hour and thirteen minutes to spiral into anxiety, and from the look on his face, he planned to use every second.
I was wiping down the counter when he entered. The afternoon shift was slow—just me and a couple of college students studying in the corner. Terry wouldn't arrive until 5 PM.
Ross sat at his usual table without ordering.
I gave him two minutes. Watched him stare at his hands, then the wall, then out the window at nothing in particular.
Then I made him a coffee—blue light, heavy concentration on you can do this, you're strong enough—and brought it to his table.
"On the house," I said, setting it down.
Ross looked up, surprised. "I didn't order yet."
"You looked like you needed it."
He stared at the cup like I'd just handed him a puzzle. "Thanks. That's... thanks."
"You okay?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it. Too personal. Too direct. The kind of thing background Gunther wouldn't ask.
But Ross didn't seem to notice the breach in invisible-barista protocol.
"Carol's sonogram is in an hour," he said. "First ultrasound. We're going to see the baby."
"That's good, right?"
"Yeah. It's good. It's just..." He wrapped both hands around the cup. "My ex-wife is pregnant with her lesbian partner's baby, and I'm going to stand there watching them be a family while I'm just... the sperm donor who gets weekend visitation."
The words came out bitter. Raw. Like he'd been holding them in for days.
I pulled out the chair across from him and sat down.
That was definitely breaking protocol. Baristas didn't sit with customers. Didn't offer unsolicited advice. Didn't insert themselves into personal drama.
But I wasn't canon Gunther anymore.
"You're not just the sperm donor," I said. "You're the dad. That's your kid in there. Nobody can take that from you."
Ross looked at me—really looked—and I saw the fear and hope and desperate need to believe that was true.
"Thanks, man." His voice cracked slightly. "I'm sorry, I don't think I know your name."
"Gunther."
"Ross." He held out his hand and I shook it. "Thanks for the coffee, Gunther."
First name exchange. First real conversation. First time Ross Geller saw me as an actual person instead of the guy who made drinks.
I stood up. "Good luck at the appointment."
"Yeah. Thanks."
I went back behind the counter and watched him drink the coffee slowly, his shoulders gradually relaxing.
The blue light was working. The vision I'd had days ago was coming true—he'd see his son today, be scared and amazed and overwhelmed all at once.
And now he knew my name.
Ross - 3:15 PM
Ross Geller left Central Perk at 3:15 PM feeling marginally less like he was about to vomit.
The barista—Gunther—had been weirdly kind. The coffee had been perfect. And the words had helped more than they should have.
You're not just the sperm donor. You're the dad.
Simple statement. Obvious, really. But Ross had needed to hear it from someone who wasn't emotionally invested in the situation.
He walked toward the hospital where Carol's OB-GYN worked, trying to calm his racing heart.
In forty-five minutes, he'd see his child for the first time. Carol would be there. Susan would be there. They'd all stand in a small room looking at a grainy ultrasound image and pretending this was normal.
It wasn't normal. Nothing about this was normal.
But Gunther was right. That was his kid. His son. And whatever else happened, that mattered.
Ross took a deep breath and kept walking.
The gang arrived at 5:30 PM—later than usual.
Monica came in first, followed by Rachel. Then Chandler and Joey together, arguing about something sports-related. Phoebe showed up ten minutes later carrying her guitar and what looked like a small cactus.
No Ross yet.
They ordered their usual drinks. I made them efficiently, no powers, just solid work.
Monica was stressed about something at the restaurant—I caught fragments of her venting to Rachel about a chef who couldn't follow basic instructions.
Chandler was making jokes about his boss. Joey was reading a casting call newspaper, marking auditions with a pen. Phoebe was repotting the cactus in a coffee cup she'd apparently brought from home.
Normal chaos. Comfortable chaos.
Then the door opened and Ross walked in at 7:47 PM.
His expression had transformed. Still nervous, still processing, but underneath it all—wonder. Pure, unfiltered amazement.
"It's a boy," he said to the table.
The gang erupted. Monica hugged him. Joey clapped him on the back. Chandler made a joke about future child support payments that somehow landed as supportive. Phoebe announced that boys were excellent for the universe's energy balance.
I watched from behind the counter as they celebrated, teased, offered support in their specific ways.
This was the episode I'd watched a dozen times. The sonogram revelation. Ross beginning to accept his new reality. The gang being there for him.
Except this time, I'd actually talked to him before the appointment. Had given him coffee and a small moment of encouragement.
Had that changed anything? Probably not. The outcome was the same. But maybe the journey there had been slightly less awful.
Monica approached the counter around 8 PM.
"Can I get a decaf cappuccino? And whatever Ross wants—his treat, apparently."
"Regular coffee for Ross," I said, already starting the espresso pull.
"You remember everyone's orders, don't you?"
"Part of the job."
She smiled. "Well, you're good at it. This place wouldn't run half as smoothly without you."
It was a throwaway compliment. She probably didn't even think about it after she said it.
But I filed it away in my mental collection of moments when they saw me as more than furniture.
Monica - 8:23 PM
Monica Geller watched her brother glow with new-father excitement and felt complicated things.
She was happy for him. Of course she was happy for him. Ross was going to be a dad. That was wonderful.
But watching him get celebrated for something he'd basically done by accident while she worked herself to exhaustion every day just to keep her head above water felt... unfair.
Her mother had called earlier. Had asked about Ross's sonogram before asking about Monica's day. Had made three comments about Monica's weight in under five minutes.
Why am I always second? Monica thought, then immediately felt guilty for thinking it.
Ross deserved this happiness. He'd been miserable for months. Seeing him actually smile was worth celebrating.
She took a sip of her cappuccino—the barista, Gunther, always made it perfectly—and let the bitterness dissolve.
Rachel was asking Ross about baby names. Chandler was suggesting increasingly ridiculous options. Joey wanted to know if he could teach the kid to play poker.
This was her family now. Not the Gellers who preferred Ross. This weird collection of friends who actually saw her.
Monica smiled and joined the conversation, suggesting a sensible name that everyone immediately rejected in favor of Chandler's "Baby McBabyface" proposal.
The complicated feelings could wait. Right now, her brother was happy, and that was enough.
The gang stayed until 9:30 PM—later than usual.
Ross was riding the high of new fatherhood, telling stories about the sonogram in increasing detail. How the technician had pointed out tiny hands. How Carol had cried. How Susan had been surprisingly sweet about letting Ross be part of the moment.
The others listened with varying degrees of attention. Monica was fully engaged. Rachel looked interested but tired—her feet probably hurt from waitressing all day. Joey was half-listening while also watching a woman at another table. Chandler made appropriate jokes at appropriate times. Phoebe had started writing a song about birth that was equal parts beautiful and disturbing.
I cleaned tables that didn't need cleaning and listened.
This was their dynamic. This was how they supported each other. Ross got the spotlight when he needed it. The others created space for him to process his feelings out loud.
Next week, it would be someone else's turn. Rachel's job struggles, probably. Or Monica's work stress. The spotlight rotated, but the support stayed constant.
When they finally left, Ross stopped at the counter.
"Hey, Gunther?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for earlier. The coffee and the... you know. The talk."
"No problem. Congratulations on your son."
He smiled—genuine and warm. "Thanks, man. I'll see you tomorrow?"
"I'll be here."
He left with the others, still talking about baby names and nursery colors.
I locked the door behind them and started the closing routine.
Terry had been in the back office all evening doing inventory. He emerged as I was wiping down the espresso machine.
"Ross seemed happy," he observed.
"His son's sonogram was today."
"Ah." Terry nodded. "You talked to him earlier. Before he left."
It wasn't a question. Terry noticed more than he let on.
"He looked nervous," I said. "Figured he could use some encouragement."
"That's not really your job."
"I know."
Terry studied me for a long moment. "You're different lately. More engaged. Actually talking to customers instead of just serving them."
I kept my focus on the espresso machine. "Is that a problem?"
"No. It's good. Just unexpected." He grabbed his jacket from the office. "Keep it up. People remember baristas who actually give a damn."
He left through the back door, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I finished cleaning and walked home through cool night air.
September 26th was over. Ross knew his son was a boy. Monica's parents had visited the coffeehouse earlier—I'd served them politely, noted how Monica tensed around her mother, filed that information away for future reference.
The gang was becoming more real to me. Not characters on a screen but actual people with complicated emotions and family dynamics and fears they couldn't always articulate.
Ross had shaken my hand today. Had thanked me by name. Had said "see you tomorrow" like he meant it.
One down, five to go.
Back in my apartment, I updated the notebook:
September 26 - Ross's sonogram day First real conversation with Ross - name exchange, handshake Monica noticed my competence - small compliment but genuine Ross knows my name, remembers the pre-sonogram talk Status: Visible to Ross, peripherally noticed by Monica
The words looked significant on paper.
I was becoming real to them. Slowly. One conversation at a time.
My alarm was set for 6 AM. Tomorrow was another day. Another shift. Another opportunity to be present, helpful, visible.
I lay in bed and thought about Ross's face when he'd said "it's a boy." The wonder and terror and joy all mixed together.
I'd helped with that. Just a little. Just enough.
It felt good.
I fell asleep with the window open and the sounds of Manhattan humming beneath me, and dreamed of coffee shops and friends and slow, patient progress toward something better.
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