Page 26 of The Comfort Trap

Patrick [THEN]

Iwakeuptomusic. Not the godawful pop that bleeds fromevery passing car, but something real—guitars that sound like they're being strangled by their own strings, vocals screamed from the pit of some guy's stomach. The kind that got me through high school, the soundtrack to my life when I was hoarding records.

My first thought is my phone, because who the hell else would be blasting my eardrums at this ungodly hour?

I slap around on the bedside table, my hand smacking into the alarm clock with the cracked screen before finally closing around my phone. My eyes are still crusty from crying myself to sleep last night, and when I rub them, I curse under my breath. Forgot to wash off the damn eyeliner. Stupid, really. I only put it on for a quick trip to the market for smokes yesterday, haven't left the apartment since.

I'm squinting at the screen, scrolling through what looks like ten missed calls from Aubrey. A couple of texts about him loving me and possibly getting kidnapped today, whatever the hell that means. Then I hear it again. Not my phone. A noise at the window, followed by something rattling against the glass.

Aubrey's kidnapping crisis can wait. Someone's about to learn what happens when they decide it's a good idea to throw shit at my window at eight in the morning.

I snatch my black sweatpants from where they've been festering on the floor for two days because yelling out the window naked is going to attract the wrong kind of attention. The window latch is a bitch, rusted shut from god knows when I last opened it.

Right as I manage to pry the damn thing open, all hell breaks loose. First, Gerard—my sad little Monstera plant—topples over, dirt spraying everywhere. Then I back up straight into the wooden leg of my bed, the sharp edge catching my ankle. And as I'm collapsing onto the mattress, already muttering apologies towhoever the fuck is out there, something hard and small smacks me right in the forehead.

A rock. A goddamn rock.

I wasn't pissed before. Now I am.

I'm on my feet in a second, my hand flying to my forehead, checking for blood. Nothing. I lean halfway out the window, my knuckles white where I'm gripping the frame, peering down three floors to the sidewalk below.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I scream, my voice raw from sleep and last night's crying jag, already scanning for the asshole I'm about to murder.

Only it's not some random punk, or Aubrey pulling some bullshit, or any of the other scenarios my brain cooked up.

It's Ricardo.

"Patrick!" he yells, beaming from ear to ear as he looks up at me. "Hey!" He waves like some idiot.

He's dressed up—black dress slacks and a silk shirt that's probably worth more than my entire wardrobe. Thin red tie hanging loose around his neck. His reading glasses are still perched on his nose. In one hand, he's holding a bouquet of red roses that look completely out of place on my grimy street. On the floor, he's got some busted old stereo blasting the music that's been rattling my windows. And clutched in his opposite hand is what I'm guessing is rock number three, ready to be launched at my head.

My brain's short-circuiting, all the anger draining away replaced by pure, unadulterated what-the-fuck. I'm speechless.

"What... what is this?" is all I manage to yell back.

"It's me! Ricardo!"

I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing, dropping my hand from my forehead as I lean further out the window. "Uh—Ricardo, what in the living hell are you doing?"

"I'm here to win you!" he yells over the music, all childish pride and hope.

"Turn that thing off!" I yell back, but I can feel a grin I can't suppress spreading across my face. "Stay there. I'm coming down."

I spin around, my brain still trying to catch up. I grab the first shirt I can find, some faded band tee slung over the back of the couch, and pull it on. I look across the apartment. It's a disaster zone, but he's already seen worse.

The bathroom mirror shocks me. My red hair's sticking up in about twelve different directions, and my eyes look tired. The eyeliner I slapped on yesterday for a five-minute smoke run has migrated south, creating these dark, smudgy circles that make me look like some kind of demented raccoon. Fucking perfect.

I scrub at my teeth with a speed that's probably scraping off my enamel, then gargle mouthwash that burns my tongue. I splash water on my face, hoping to wash away some of the evidence of my breakdown. Under the sink, I find a makeup wipe and attack my face, trying to look less like a walking cry-for-help and more like a functional human being. The wipe goes in the trash with a satisfyingswoosh.

I rake my fingers through my hair, trying to tame the chaos. One deep breath, then I'm bolting out of the bathroom, clipping my shoulder on the doorframe with a muttered curse.

I run down to the lobby doors and open them up.

”Hey, gorgeous,” he says.

I stand there in the sunlight, my hair a mess, my stubborn eyeliner still smeared, in dirty clothes.

“Hold on, don’t tell me to fuck off yet.” Ricardo stands on the sidewalk, right next to the heavy, retro boombox. He’s sweating despite the cool breeze. He reaches down and hits the 'Stop' button. The sudden, heavy silence is almost louder than the music was.