Page 3 of The Comfort Trap

He mulls it over. "Alright," he says finally. "How about this. We can... look into it first. See what the fuck this is all about before jumping in." He pushes himself up from the couch, a new energy radiating from him. "But I gotta finish balancing Eli's books. Can we... talk about all this later, before I sign off on anything? Tonight, maybe?"

Relief washes over me, so intense it makes me dizzy. I nod. He bends down and kisses me, a quick, hard press of his lips.

As he walks back to his desk, I watch him. His shoulders are a little tighter, his posture more deliberate. The comfortable, predictable Ricardo is still there, but now he's standing beside a shadow. A shadow of the man he used to be, the one who wouldn't take no for an answer. The one who saw something he wanted and went after it, consequences be damned.

And for the first time in years, I feel that same jolt I did when I watched him wrestle with his car door and those coffee trays all those years ago. A jolt mixed with a healthy dose of fear.

Fear, because I still hear that little voice in the back of my head, whispering that this is all too good to last. That one day he's gonna wake up and realize I'm just some fucked-up barista.

Chapter 2

The Boy Who Kept Coming Back

Ricardo [THEN]

I'veneverbeensonervous in my life. The coffee shop is abattlefield of hipsters and harried office workers, a cacophony of grinding beans and shouted names. And right in the center of the storm is him. Patrick. My very own galactic star, and I'm a hapless planet caught in his gravity, about to burn up on entry. I’d been hopelessly crushing on him for weeks, despite a steady stream of rejections.

Today is the day. I have my plan. I'll order a complicated enough drink to show I'm not a simple black-coffee kind of guy, I'll make small talk, and I'll ask for his number. Simple. Clean. I've practiced it in the mirror. I'm ready.

The line inches forward. My heart races.

When I finally reach the counter, all my carefully rehearsed lines evaporate.

He looks up, and the windows to his soul are a cool, piercing blue. A silver ring curves through one eyebrow, one on his bottom lip, and another through his septum. He's all in black, his nails painted a bright purple that's already chipped at the edges. He wears black eyeliner, he always does, the makeup currently smudged from steaming milk. His expression is one of professional boredom, but there's an edge to it, a sharpness that's intimidating as hell.

"What can I get you?" he asks, his voice clipped.

I open my mouth. "I, uh… I'll have a… a large. A large…" I stare at the menu, the words swimming. "A large caramel macchiato, but with, uh, oat milk. And an extra shot. And the vanilla syrup on the sides."

His eyebrow arches. Just a fraction, but it feels judgmental.

"Name?" he drones.

I then realize he still doesn't recognize me. Of course he doesn't. To him, I'm another face in the endless parade of caffeine addicts, another anonymous order to be scribbled on a plastic cup. He asks every time, like I'm invisible, like I've neverstood right here before, heart pounding, trying to work up the courage to say something other than my name.

"Ricardo." It comes out as a mumble.

He writes my name on a cup before typing my order out on the register screen, his movements efficient and impersonal. "That'll be $7.50."

I fumble with my wallet. I pay, trying to catch his eye again. He's already moving away, calling out the next order. I watch him work, mesmerized by the way he commands the space, directing his coworker, Aubrey, with sharp, concise commands.

A few minutes later, he returns with a drink carrier holding four cups. My order isn't there yet. He sets the coffees on the counter and starts to turn away.

"Hey," I blurt out.

He turns back, one eyebrow raised again, a clear look of impatience on his face. "Yes?"

"I was wondering." I clear my throat, my face heating. "I wasagainwondering….if you'd like to, maybe, get a coffee sometime. When you're not working."

Silence.

Aubrey, who's been pretending to clean the same single spot on the espresso machine for the last five minutes, isn't even pretending anymore. He's openly staring. Patrick's expression is unreadable. For a second, I think I see a flicker of pity, but it's gone so fast I must have imagined it.

"The answer's still no,Uh-Ricardo."

The nickname, the one I blurted out the very, first time I ever ordered, is a deliberate twist of the knife. He does remember me. The realization hits me hard, worse than if he'd forgotten me entirely.

He turns his back to me, his focus already on the next customer. I'm left standing there waiting for my order, my face burning. I reach into my pocket, pull out a five-dollar bill, andslide it into the tip jar. It's a pathetic, last-ditch effort. Frankly, I don’t know what else to try.