𝗔𝗰𝗾𝘂𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀

Two.

Rebecca Caruso

My relationship with Christopher Chico has been a long and winding road adjacent to paradise. It all started with a typical boy-next-door scenario, as our fathers served as policing partners for a good decade.

We practically grew up together, experiencing significant moments such as my mother's passing, my father's remarriage, and countless other circumstances. We even communicated by throwing paper planes with heartfelt notes across our yards, from his bedroom window to mine. Yup, we were that couple in high school, the young romantics who inspired authors and poets...

Looking back, we were quite ignorant. Nieve, too. 

"Did you go dumpster diving today or something?" I asked, trying to maintain a slight distance from him. "You smell like unwiped ass."

Christopher left the city in 2012 with his mother as soon as his father, Ramus, passed away from the job; an undoubtful slaying his mother blamed my father for. A year ago, following his mother's passing, Christopher returned to the good-ol neighborhood, choosing to buy the house across the street from us. 

I had always been there for him, and he for me. Our friendship hit a new level when I decided to crash at his place. It wasn't just about getting back together romantically; it was like we were picking up where we left off, but with badges and guns this time—just like our dads. Living together brought a whole new vibe to our relationship, mixing the personal with the professional. It was wild, but it worked. We were partners in every sense of the word.

I admit, though, that no couple is perfect, and people do tend to change over time. Since Christopher's return, it feels like I'm with a completely different person. There's this constant struggle between Christopher the idealist and Christopher the traditionalist. An entire relationship bend on which eggshell I'd accidentally step on. 

He glanced back at me, a snarky half-smile on his face, and said, "Your pops and I struck gold —a container packed with bodies by the port. It was the most disgusting, yet awesome thing I've ever witnessed..."

I wasn't sure if he chuckled, but it felt deliberate. 

Lucky me, I ended up with the traditionalist this evening.

"You should have been there, Beck. I swear, I've never seen anything like it."

Yeah, he was right, I should've been there. Being suspended for six months without pay is preventing me from enjoying the pleasures our city has to offer, especially the more intense ones.

Only five months, two weeks, and seven hours to go... but who's counting? Certainly  NOT me. 

I've been missing out on doing something meaningful, making a positive impact, and assisting the people in this unpredictable city. Ironically, those were the very reasons that led to my suspension in the first place.

Don't go there, Rebecca. Not here. Not now. 

"You could've sprayed on some extra cologne," I muttered to myself, purposely redirecting the conversation, "Or showered..."

"I heard that," he nonchalantly responded. 

A narrow staircase near the kitchen led us to an upper-level private room tucked away from the bustling restaurant. The waiter, a somewhat short man with a warm smile, greeted us with enthusiasm.

"Ah, Mr. Chico, welcome, sir. I'm Moris, your maître d' for this service," he introduced himself, leaving the long, deep-oak table in the center of the room to approach us. "Thank you for choosing The Alcove for your private event tonight. Please, have a seat. I'll return shortly with your hors d'oeuvres."