Page 34 of The Comfort Trap

I laugh, a little too loud, relieved he's not writing me off as a complete lunatic. "My uncle Enrique's vintage store.Actually, it’sless a shop and more a mausoleum forhis hoarding problem. I found it under a stack of VHS tapes, mostly slasher films from the 80s. He wanted fifty, but I pointed out the corroded battery compartment and got him down to twenty."

Patrick's expression shifts. "I know that place. It's where I found my leather jacket. The Schott. The one with the busted zipper and the silver star."

"I know that jacket!" I practically bounce in my seat. "I saw it a while back. The leather was incredible, but the cut was too narrow for my shoulders."

"It's a good piece," Patrick says. "There's a history to it, you know? The flaws are part of the story. Sometimes the broken things are the ones worth keeping.”

"So…speaking of beautiful broken things," I say, leaning forward across the table. "My car.It’s the same color as the nail polish you like to wear.Admit it."

Patrick raises an eyebrow, his coffee cup paused halfway to his lips. "It is. It'sa chrome finish though. I’ve never seen chrome on a car. Custompaint?"

I grin. "Hell yeah. Custom everything. She's my baby. Imported last year. Spent months getting her right."

"Your baby," Patrick repeats, setting his cup down. There's a new interest in him, something beyond his usual detached amusement. "I guess I should have figured, with you working at that repair shop. You’re a car guy."

"She's not just a car," I say, warming to the subject. "She's a beast on the track. Street racing mostly. Late nights, empty highways. Eli—my boss, the one whorunsthe auto shopwith Mike—he comes with sometimes. We've got this thing going. It's liberating, you know? The roar of the engine, the blur of lights, everything narrowing down to you and the road."

Patrick leans in, his elbows on the table, his full attention on me. The mask has slipped, replaced by genuine curiosity. "I've never been to a street race."

"You should come," I say, the words out before I can stop them. "Next time we go out. You'd love it. The energy, the danger... It's like nothing else."

He's quiet for a moment, processing this. I can see the conflict, the part of him that wants to stay detached warring with the part that's clearly intrigued.

Saul comes back with our food, and we both dive in. I can’t help it, I watch him the entire time we’re eating.

"Maybe," he finally says, noncommittal but not dismissive. "I’m not much of an adrenaline junky."

I take a sip of my coffee, buying a moment to collect my thoughts. "It's not only about speed. It's about precision. The way you have to know your car, know every vibration, every sound. It's this intense focus where nothing else exists. Just the road ahead, the competition beside you, and this perfect synchronicity between you and the machine."

Patrick nods slowly, his fingers drumming against his nearly empty açaí bowl. "I get that. Sort of. It's like when I'm working on a complex espresso order, where everything has to be timed perfectly." He grimaces.

I laugh. "Yeah, but you're good at it. I've seen you. The way you move behind that counter during morning rush. It's practically a dance."

"Yeah. A frantic, chaotic dance with a partner who keeps pissing me off," he says, rubbing at his temples. "God, I hate my job sometimes. The customers... they don't see the work. They don't see the art in it. They want their caffeine fix, and they want it now. And if it's not exactly how they imagined it in their head, even if they described it wrong, it's my fault."

"Sounds frustrating," I say. "Being the face of something people only care about when it goes wrong."

Patrick perks up, surprised. "Yeah. Exactly that." He takes a deep breath. "The customers are one thing, but... It'salso Rosie, one of themanagers.She’sconstantly riding me about being more friendly, about upselling, about smiling more. As if my emotional labor is part of the job description. As if I'm not already giving everything I have to make these drinks perfect. Every day I have to work with her is legal torture."

I nod, thinking about my own work at the shop. "Eli's not like that. He's tough, but fair. He knows my strengths. He doesn't micromanage."

"Well, you’re lucky," Patrick says with a bitter laugh. "I've gotRosiethreatening me with 'customer service workshops' like I'm the one with the problem. As if the issue isn't that people are becoming more demanding, more entitled every day. I'm working hard, but I set boundaries. I don't see anything wrong with not letting people walk all over you."

I lean forward, lowering my voice. "Have you ever thought about why that is? The entitlement?"

Patrick shrugs. "Because people are assholes?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "It's deeper than that. Think about it. We're living in this age of instant gratification. Everything is on demand. Streaming services, one-click ordering, food delivery at the touch of a button. People have lost the ability to wait, to be patient. And when they have to interactwith another human being for their needs, they bring that same expectation of immediate, perfect service."

Patrick is quiet.

"And the coffee shop," I continue, "is the perfect storm. It's a place of necessity and indulgence. Peopleneedtheir coffee to function, but they also want the experience—the cozy atmosphere, the artisanal drink. So when that experience doesn't meet their impossibly high, media-curated expectations, they lash out. At you. Because you're the face of their disappointment. You're the punching bag for those customers due to pure proximity, unfortunately."

"Fuck," Patrick says, running a hand through his red hair. "That's... depressingly accurate. So what's the solution? Accept that I'm going to be an emotional punching bag?"

"Hell no," I say, leaning back in my chair, my coffee forgotten. "You find your own space. Your own control. For me, it's the road. When I'm behind the wheel, I'm in charge. There are rules, but they're my rules. The only expectations I have to meet are my own."

I watch as the idea settles over him, see the gears turning in his mind.