Page 23 of The Comfort Trap

I'm alone in my apartment, covered in my own cum on the floor, listening to old music while thinking about a man who's doing anything but running from me. Fuck.

I grab the nearest rag—some old t-shirt I use for cleaning—and wipe myself off, the movements jerky and ashamed. I toss it in the bin once I'm done and lean over the kitchen counter with my head in my hands.

I always do this to myself. The adrenaline is still humming under my skin, but the warmth of it is already turning cold, curdling into something I instantly realize is panic.

I press my forehead harder against the cool laminate of the kitchen counter, clamping my hands over my ears as if I can physically shut out my own thoughts. The apartment is dead silent except for the ragged sound of my own breathing.

Ricky.

Repeating his name in my head makes my chest tighten. I’ve just spent the last ten minutes completely lost in him; the memory of his laugh, the terrifyingly sweet way he looks at me like I’m something worth keeping. I used the thought of him to get off, but the moment the release hits, the fantasy shatters, leaving me stranded in the harsh, lonely light of reality.

I’m falling. Hard. And it terrifies me to my absolute core.

I fumble for my phone, the cool metal slick with sweat against my palm. I need to clear my history. I need to erase the digital breadcrumbs of my pathetic little session of trying to find Ricardo on social media earlier this morning. But as the screen flickers to life, some stupid algorithm decides to kick me when I'm already down.

Cloud Photos: One New Memory from Two Years Ago Today.

I know what's coming. I know exactly what's behind that cheerful little notification, and I don't want to see it.

But my thumb, traitorous bastard that it is, moves on its own, tapping open the digital ghost.

The image explodes across the screen. It's this same kitchen counter I'm at right now, but viewed from across the room. Back then, the walls were bare, surrounded by a fortress of cardboard boxes sealed with packing tape. And sitting right where I'm sitting now is the other ghost, the one that's been haunting this place long before Ricardo ever showed up on my doorstep.

He looks so small in the photo. Thin, shoulders hunched, eyes puffy and red-rimmed, carrying that thousand-yard stare of someone whose whole world imploded on the freeway. This was only a month after his parents passed in the crash. I remember taking that picture. I remember thinking I could fix it. I could be his anchor. I loved him enough to save him.

I stare at the screen, the weight of that mistake crushing my chest.

My attention drifts from the phone to the empty spaces along the baseboard of my record player, where my vintage crates used to line the entire wall. I sold nearly every piece of my collection to keep us from getting evicted while he sank deeper into a pill bottle. For months, he self-medicated with whatever my cousin's crew could slide him to numb the grief.

I gave that man everything. Every last piece of myself until I was a hollowed-out shell. And then, when there was nothing left to take, he slammed the door and vanished anyway. Walked out, leaving me with nothing but silence and a mountain of debt. Haven't heard a word since. Don't even know if he's alive, or living under a freeway overpass somewhere.

I shouldn't give a shit after how he treated me. But I do. I care too much, and that's always been my fucking problem. I get attached.

And now I know better. Giving someone all of you is a sucker's bet, and I'm not playing that game again. Not now. Not ever.

I let out a shaky breath against the counter. I lock the phone, watching the screen go black, taking the nightmare of my past with it.

I can't do it again. I can't let Ricardo in, because if I pour myself into someone else a second time, I know for a fact I won't survive it. I'll just be another ghost haunting my own apartment.

Chapter 13

Where I Land

Ricardo [NOW]

Thisentireweekhasbeen a special kind of hell, the kindthat sneaks up on you when you're not looking. I used the safeword like I was supposed to—did the right thing, the smart thing—but the look on Patrick's face is burned into my retinas. I can't shake it, can't stop replaying it in my head. I can't stop feeling like I let him down, that he was finally getting what he wanted, what I promised I could give him, and then I just... couldn't.

I can tell he's not over it either.

He's been walking on eggshells around me, extra sweet in that way that screams he’s trying so hard not to fuck up. No teasing remarks about my obsessive number-crunching, no complaints about the coffee machine at his work. He's apologized to the kitchen counter twice this morning for bumping into it, and to me about a dozen times for shit that doesn't even register on the "things to be sorry about" scale. This isn't my Patrick, not the firecracker who pushes my buttons to see me spark. I don't know how to tell him we're okay when I'm not sure we are.

The truth is, I don't know what the hell happened that night, and I've been turning it over and over in my mind. I didn't think I had any boundaries when it came to Patrick, but it wasn't him. It was me.

One minute I was feeling doted on, adored, like I was the center of his universe—the next, I was suffocating, trapped in my own skin. Not that I didn't want to be there, not that I didn't want him. It doesn't make sense the longer I think about it, and while I meant every word I told him about everything being okay and learning new boundaries, I'm starting to realize we're not just learning about each other. We're learning about ourselves too. Even if I don't know what the hell that says about me yet.

I'm sprawled out on the couch, my Sudoku puzzle half-finished on the coffee table, when my phone buzzes against my thigh. The sound cuts through the quiet of our apartment, too loud in the sudden stillness. I've been staring at the same rowof numbers for ten minutes, my brain refusing to cooperate, too tangled up in thoughts of last week and the way Patrick's face looked when I used the safeword.

I grab my phone, my thumb swiping across the screen with a sigh. It's Patrick, of course. Who else would it be?