Acquaintances (A Mafia Romance)

Three.

Rebecca Caruso

It was a hard bargain, but the traditionalist agreed to be patient with me—though I could still see the hurt lingering in his eyes.

Christopher had always been the one with clear plans for our future: house, wife, kids, the whole picture neatly laid out. But this "third time's a charm" proposal rejection seemed to have shaken him in a way he couldn't quite put into words.

We silently agreed to carry on as if nothing had happened, but the tension between us was palpable, the weight of his unspoken disappointment hanging in the air. I could feel it in the way he avoided my gaze, in the stiff silence that replaced our usual easy conversations. It was a delicate balance, as we both tried to navigate our feelings.

He broke the silence, blatantly asking, "You got everything?"

"Yeah," I said, my voice trailing off as I hesitated behind him. Glancing at my phone, I saw it was 7:09 PM. "But, um, I think I'm gonna stay," I added awkwardly, struggling to find a reason that didn't seem too out of place. I was desperate to escape the uncomfortable silence and momentarily forget what had just happened. "I read that Buddy Guy's performing tonight."

"Who?" Christopher's doubt was evident.

I couldn't help but roll my eyes, tucking my phone away in my pocket. It was becoming clear just how little research Christopher had put into choosing this place. At least the complimentary appetizers were a silver lining.

"A famous jazz player," I bantered playfully, raising my voice slightly to be heard above the bustling kitchen staff. "He's the Godfather of blues."

"You want me to stick around?" he asked, and it irked me.

Why did doing something together always feel obligatory? It would have been nice if he genuinely wanted to stay, instead of constantly focusing on the state of our relationship. A simple, enjoyable date would have been much more pleasurable.

"Nah, you're good. You can go," Time off was a rarity for him, and when we did have it, it was usually spent on relaxation and catching up on sleep. So, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I often did. "It's all right."

"Are you sure? I can stay if you want," he offered, adding that infamous 'if you want' clause.

I want you to want to...

"We're good," I lied, mustering a smile. "I'll just take a cab home."

Sometimes, I craved more than just the comfort of staying indoors. Being out in the bustling city was invigorating, full of life and adventure. One of the perks of his job as a police officer was the opportunity to experience and explore the city firsthand.

"'Kay, see you, Beck," he said, his voice clipped as he pulled his car keys from his coat pocket. "Text me when you leave." We parted in the same way we had arrived—separately, without the comfort of familiar routines. There were no probing questions, no arguments, no kiss to soften the farewell. Just a tacit acknowledgment of the awkwardness between us, an unspoken understanding of the situation.

As I made my way toward the stage, the awkwardness—no, guilt—from earlier still clung to me. My thoughts were preoccupied, and the emotional distance between Christopher and me seemed to stretch endlessly. The dissatisfaction that had settled in my chest refused to lift.

When I spotted the familiar man from earlier, still ensconced in the bar area, lost in his thoughts as he nursed a drink, I felt a twinge of relief. Here was a distraction from the heavy weight of my emotions. I approached him cautiously, the residual discomfort from the earlier events making my steps feel awkward. I took a seat beside him, trying to push past the lingering tension.