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."
Moris exited the room, and Christopher ushered me towards a seat at the table. Leaning in close, he whispered, "Admit it, this is pretty fucking amazing. Right?" He pulled out a chair, his excitement evident.
"True, it's... something," I mused aloud as he moved my chair closer to the table. "Honestly, I was expecting you to go up on that stage down there and do a whole grand proposal scene with the band."
He chuckled, settling into a seat at the far end of the table. With his medium-length dark hair slicked back and bold eyebrows, Christopher had a charm reminiscent of Andrew Keegan. However, his physique and demeanor were far from the dramatic characters we watched as kids. "You know what, I did think about it. But then I had this idea, you know? Let me try something more intimate. More private. More you."
And there it was... his expectation, his hope.
I took a moment to survey the room. The walls were a deep crimson, and the ceiling had a distinctive pattern. From the window, I had a clear view of the entire dance floor. It appeared to have been an office, not much bigger than a queen-sized bedroom. The table was covered with a pristine white gauze tablecloth, sparkling under the dim lighting. In the center, there was a large crystal bowl holding a pink champagne flute and an oval plate filled with charcuterie.
As I leisurely savored a sip of my white Russian, which now tasted disappointingly average, I mirrored Christopher's expression with a defiant glare and a dismissive shake of my head.
"So, who did you bribe to get this shindig?" I boldly vocalized.
"Come on, Beck, do you think so little of me?" He retorted sarcastically.
After gingerly placing my glass back on the table, I locked eyes with him, mentally running through the extensive list. Don't get me wrong, Christopher was as honest as they come, but sometimes unfiltered honesty wasn't the most effective strategy. He was undeniably a "teacher's pet" or, if you prefer, a "suck-up," particularly to my father, Robert, the esteemed Chief Superintendent of the Chicago Police Department.
I trusted Christopher with my heart and feelings, but never with my thoughts—unfortunately, that lesson was learned the hard way.
So, what kind of person did I really take him for? As I began to formulate my response, he interrupted, saying, "Alright, alright. Fine, you got me. Remember Stanley from forensics?"
"Combover redhead, how could I forget?" Stanley was a nice guy, and an amazing cook too. He always brought an epic vegan chili to our department holiday party. However, when it came to looks, he wasn't exactly blessed.
"Yeah, so Stanley owed me three hundred and thirty-two dollars from our last fantasy football season. A couple of months ago, he mentioned that he knew the owner of an upscale nightclub in the loop. I took him up on it, not expecting anything to come out of it, but damn..."
"Is he still playing with you guys this season?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.
"Stanley? Nah, he's become too much of a liability for the league," Christopher replied. "I think I overheard Bethany mention that he took a sabbatical to—"
Just then, our waiter ascended the stairsteps, his footsteps echoing in the room. "Your hors d'oeuvres have arrived," he announced with a professional tone as he entered the room.
Placing one of the plates in the center of the table, he presented our first delicacy. "Here we have Chianti Whipped Ricotta, accompanied by four housemade herb parker rolls and two slices of honeycomb, sourced directly from our urban farm in Pilson."
The steam still wafted from the freshly baked bread, filling the air with an exquisite aroma.
Moving swiftly, the waiter placed the other plate on the adjacent side and continued his description. "On this plate, we have tempura-fried gulf-coast shrimp, Rhode Island blue crab, and artichoke hearts, all coated in an organic lemon vinaigrette and garnished with a generous sprinkle of fresh caperberries."
I couldn't help but express my awe. "Wow," I exclaimed, unable to contain my admiration for the culinary masterpiece before us.
"Yeah, this looks delicious," Christopher interjected, his eyes filled with eagerness as he eagerly dove into the plate of fried shrimp. "Thank you, Marcus," he expressed his gratitude before taking a satisfying bite.
"It's Moris, sir," the waiter politely corrected.
Christopher quickly swallowed the morsel without even chewing, his enthusiasm getting the better of him. "I'm sorry," he hoarsely remarked, his voice strained as he quickly coughed and cleared his throat, "It's the food. It took me by surprise."
Hastily reaching for his glass of water on the table, Christopher took a refreshing sip. "Thank you again, Moris."
"It's all right, sir. This presents a great opportunity to transition into our drink options for the evening," Moris suggested, glancing at me. "What would you like to start with, miss?"
"I'm good," I replied, gesturing towards the condensation forming on my White Russian. "Just a water, thank you."
Moris nodded, accepting my choice, and then turned his attention to Christopher. "And for you, sir?"
"Any IPA you have on tap."
"Very well. I will be right back with your drinks." Our waiter promptly departed the room without uttering another word or attempting to ingratiate himself.
Observing Christopher help himself to another shrimp, I couldn't help but remark, "Smooth moves there, Senor Suave. It's literally a Red-Line stop, how could you forget?"
In response, he shrugged and admitted, "What can I say? I got nervous."
"Nervous?" I chuckled, scooping up a spoonful of the ricotta and placing a generous dollop on my plate. "Moris and Ryan Reynolds are probably in the back dipping dicks in your IPA,"
"It wasn't that bad," Christopher defended himself.
"You forgot his name, Chris. That's pretty bad," I remarked, "Better tip him now, a good one too."
"You're fucking with me."
"I fuck you, there's a difference," I snagged the last piece of shrimp from the fried platter right before Christopher could get to it, along with a small sample of another item from the same plate. "Besides, we've both seen Waiting," I casually remarked, letting Christopher dwell in confusion while I polished off a parker roll.
Right on cue, Morris appeared with our drinks in hand. He greeted us with his customary warmth and compliments. As expected, my water arrived first, and Christopher's eyes widened as the waiter placed his drink in front of him.
I struggled to contain my bubbling amusement, but it was futile. The sheer delight erupted from every muscle, and I was gratefully smiling.
Caught off guard, Christopher noticed my grin and retaliated with his trademark judgmental gaze, his eyes gleaming.
"I apologize about earlier, Moris," he said to the waiter, all while keeping his glance fixed on me. "I've been a bit nervous this evening, and, well..." Christopher scooted his seat back, gathering his thoughts. "I don't want to be nervous any longer."
He took a few steps toward me, getting down on one knee. "Rebecca Caruso," Christopher began, reaching into his front jean pocket and pulling out a small black box. "We've known each other since we were three. You weren't just my first crush; you were my first friend. After spending an eternity by your side, I want you to spend eternity with me." Opening the box, he revealed a silver diamond ring, the same one I had seen twice before. "Will you do me the honor of marrying me?"
Moris observed with a mixture of awe and amusement as he witnessed the scene unfold before him.
"Chris, c'mon," I responded kindly, lifting him upward, "really, now?"
Christopher clung to himself in disbelief, unable to fathom the idea of being rejected. Confusion painted his face as he questioned, "Is that a 'yes'?"
"I, uhmm. I'm sorry Moris, could you give us a minute?" I requested, hoping for some privacy to explain my decision to Christopher.
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