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The morning had arrived—the morning I was supposed to face my dad. Great. I sat cross-legged in front of my mirrored wall, finishing up my lip liner. A quick swipe to clean up the corner of my mouth, a little more precision, and I topped it off with a clear gloss. I pursed my lips, assessing the final result before leaning back and taking in my reflection. Satisfied, I smiled at myself and stood up.

I adjusted my jeans, tugging them slightly higher, and turned to check the full look in the mirror. It was my grandfather's funeral, so black was the obvious choice. My black lace top felt fitted and sharp, and the low-rise jeans added a hint of rebellion. Grabbing my phone from the charger, I glanced at the time—10:09. We were running late, and the thought made my stomach twist.

"Becky, come on! We can't be late!" my mom called from the kitchen, her voice edged with urgency.

I rolled my eyes, slid my phone into my pocket, and grabbed my suitcase. Turning off my bedroom light, I pulled the door shut behind me and walked into the kitchen. My mom stood by the table, coffee in hand, the fabric of her blouse catching the morning light. She looked up when she heard me and froze, her eyes wide.

"Becky, what on earth are you wearing?" she said, setting her coffee down with an incredulous look.

I glanced down at myself, a little confused. "It's a funeral, Mom. I'm wearing black," I said, my tone defensive.

"Yes, black," she said, gesturing at my outfit. "But not a black lace top and those jeans. I can see your belly piercing, Becky."

I raised an eyebrow, meeting her eyes. "So? What's the point of having it if I can't show it off?"

She let out a frustrated sigh, pressing her fingers to her temple. "Forget it. We don't have time for this. We should have left ten minutes ago."

I rolled my eyes and grabbed my suitcase, heading for the door. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with."

She opened the front door and held it for me, but her eyes flicked down to my belly piercing, the lines on her face deepening.

"I still don't know why I let you get that," she muttered, exasperated.

I shot her a defiant look over my shoulder. "Well, maybe don't skip my birthday and then try to make up for it by saying I could have anything I wanted."

She shook her head, a bitter smile tugging at her lips as she took a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm definitely starting to regret that."

Without another word, she closed the door behind her, and we made our way to the car. The sooner this day was over, the better.

The rain pelted down harder as I sat in the passenger seat, my phone in hand and my AirPods in, blocking out the world as best I could. The drumming of the rain on the roof of the car seemed to match the steady thump of my heartbeat. This morning was unlike any other—I was leaving my home for the next month, and the person I was going to meet wasn't someone I was excited to see.

My mom's quiet sigh broke the silence, and I glanced up just in time to see her eyes shift in my direction before she turned back to focus on the road. I didn't respond; I wasn't planning to. We both knew I wasn't going to be talking to her, not today, not after the fight we'd had the night before. This was a goodbye I didn't want, but it was happening anyway.

The car rolled to a stop in the police station's parking lot, and I glanced around at the uniformed officers going in and out of the building, their conversations lost in the noise of the rain. My mom put the car in park and stared out the window, her expression unreadable. I looked down at my phone again, fingers typing out a message to Paisley, when I felt her eyes on me.

"Stay here, okay?" Her voice was soft, but firm. "I'm going to talk to him for a bit." I didn't look up. I just nodded once and kept typing, hoping she'd leave me to my solitude.

I heard the car door open and close, and then I saw her, her back framed against the rain as she walked toward the man I hadn't seen in months. He stood by a car, hands in his pockets, the dark of his clothes blending into the storm. I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening on my phone.

Mom's voice carried faintly through the rain, but the words were lost as I stared at him, my stomach churning. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but I knew I wanted no part of it. A soft knock on the window snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked up to see my mom, her face set in a gentle expression that tried and failed to mask the worry in her eyes.

"Want to get out and see him?" she asked. I glanced past her, past the rain, to the man standing there, tall and lean in a black, fitted outfit with knife-like angles. He looked like a shadow, cold and sharp.

"No," I said, my voice thick with disgust. I turned my head to stare out the window, willing this moment to pass.

"Becky," she said, her voice a mix of concern and frustration. "We need to go. Come on."

I huffed and pushed the door open, the sound of rain pounding against the pavement filling the silence between us.

"Thank you," she said, as I stepped out, and she pushed my shoulder lightly. I felt the weight of her touch, the warmth of it against the cold of the morning. We walked in silence, the rain soaking through my clothes as we made our way toward him.

His eyes found mine first, dark and unreadable. Then, they shifted to my mom's.

"Diego," my mom said, her voice as steady as she could manage.

"Patch," he responded, barely sparing her a glance. The air between us was thick with unspoken words, and I could almost hear the rain tapping against the car windows in the background.

"Say hi, Becky," my mom prompted, shooting me a pointed look.

"Hi, Becky," I muttered, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Diego's gaze shifted to my mom, who sighed, her shoulders tensing. "You two stay here. I'm going to get her suitcase from the car," she said, turning and walking back toward the vehicle.

I waited, the rain pattering around us, a backdrop to the tension that clung to the air. Neither of us spoke.

"So, you're spending the rest of the month with me," he said finally, as if I hadn't already memorized every detail of this day.

"I'm well aware," I shot back, my tone clipped.

"Don't give me that attitude, alright?" His voice was low, edged with something I couldn't quite place.

"What? you gonna hit me with one of those knives strapped to your leg?" I asked, tilting my chin toward the collection of blades that lined his thigh. The metal glistened, sharp and deadly. "Although, with those knives, I'd be worried about getting too close. Wouldn't want to cut myself, or worse, get stabbed by your thigh jewelry."

Diego stared at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, as if he were trying to gauge whether my comment about his knives was a joke or an insult. Before he could respond, my mom appeared, rolling my suitcase behind her with an effort that seemed too big for her.

"Here you go, Becky," she said, handing me the handle. I took it, holding it tightly as the tension between us hung in the air.

"Getting along?" she asked, turning to Diego with a strained smile.

"This one's got attitude," Diego said, giving me a sharp nod. I smirked back at him, the challenge hanging unspoken between us.

"I wonder where she gets that from," my mom said, her voice teasing, but her eyes were serious as they met Diego's.

He raised an eyebrow at her, but didn't respond. There was history in that look, a silent standoff I wasn't privy to, but that was fine. I'd had enough of their drama for one day.

"Becky," my mom said, drawing my gaze as she stepped closer. The seriousness in her expression softened her voice, making it almost pleading. "Please, try to be on your best behavior."

"Yeah. Whatever," I mumbled, looking away as if I couldn't handle the weight of her concern.

"And you," she said, turning to Diego and pointing a warning finger at him. "Keep an eye on her. And if you even think about taking her on one of your little 'missions,' I'll make sure you regret it."

Diego's jaw tightened, but he nodded once, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was about to smirk but caught himself.

My mom looked back at me, the smallest crack in her composure showing as she leaned in and kissed the top of my head. "Alright, I have to get inside. Love you, Becky," she said, the last part like a whisper against the rain.

"Love you, too," I muttered, watching her walk away. The clicking of her boots against the pavement echoed louder than I'd expected, almost drowning out the silence that fell between me and Diego.

"Alright, let's go," Diego said, the sharpness back in his voice as he pulled his keys from his pocket. He turned and started toward his car, leaving me standing there.

"Aren't you gonna put my suitcase in the car for me?" I asked, letting the sarcasm drip from my voice as I looked at Diego expectantly.

He stopped mid-stride, turning his head toward me like he couldn't believe I was already testing his patience. His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Dad," I added with an innocent smile, emphasizing the word just to get under his skin.

Diego exhaled through his nose, clearly annoyed but unwilling to start an argument this early. With a sigh, he turned back, grabbed my suitcase from me, and hauled it toward the trunk. I watched in amusement as he tossed it in with a little more force than necessary and then slammed the trunk shut.

Satisfied, I strolled toward the passenger side of the car and stopped right in front of the door, making no move to open it. Diego, already halfway into the driver's seat, caught sight of me hesitating.

"Are you gonna open the door for me?" I asked, feigning expectation.

He turned to me, his jaw tightening. "Just get in," he snapped, his voice low and irritated as he climbed into the driver's seat.

I couldn't help but smirk. Pushing his buttons was way too easy. I opened the door, slid into my seat, and buckled up as he started the car.

The rain continued to fall steadily, tapping against the windshield as Diego pulled out of the police station parking lot. The silence between us stretched on, tense but not exactly unbearable. It wasn't like we had much to say to each other anyway.

I stared out the window, watching the blurred scenery pass by, my thoughts wandering. Spending a month with him was going to be hell. I knew it, and so did he. But if I had to suffer through this, I might as well make it interesting.

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WORDS WRITTEN:
1939