Page 24 of The Comfort Trap

Patrick:Hi, baby. Are you hungry?

I stare at the message, at the careful way he's phrasing everything lately. Like he's walking through a minefield, afraid one wrong word will set me off again. It's driving me crazy. I type back, trying to sound normal, trying to be the Ricardo he fell for, not this... whatever the hell I am now.

Ricardo: Hey, my love. That depends. Hungry for what?

Three dots appear immediately, then disappear, then appear again. I can almost see him on the other end, brow furrowed, tongue caught between his teeth as he overthinks a simple question. When the response finally comes, it's exactly what I expected.

Patrick: I can bring dinner. Tacos?

I almost laugh. Of course he'd suggest tacos. It's our thing, our ritual after a long day. But lately, everything's been twisted into something complicated. I decide to play, just a little, to see if I can get a rise out of him, to break through this careful facade he's been hiding behind the last few days.

Ricardo: I prefer eggplant.

The response is instantaneous, a flurry of panicked texts that hit me with a mixture of frustration and guilt.

Patrick: I'm so sorry!

Patrick: I don't know why I said tacos without waiting to see what you wanted first.

Patrick: I can stop by the Mediterranean place on the way home.

Patrick: They have that eggplant dish you like.

Patrick: Or we could just order in. Whatever you want. Really.

I close my eyes, rubbing at the tension building behind them. This isn't working. This careful dance we've been doing all week, it's exhausting. I miss the way he used to challenge me. I miss my Patrick.

Ricardo: Babe, I'm joking.

The response is a single word, and it's somehow worse than all the panicked apologies combined.

Patrick: Sorry.

I toss my phone onto the cushion beside me, the Sudoku puzzle forgotten.

We're not okay. And I have no fucking clue how to fix us.

The second Patrick walks into the apartment, I know something's wrong. He's carrying a bag of takeout, probably the eggplant but not the eggplant I had in mind when he asked me what I wanted. His red hair is a mess. He doesn't look at me when he drops his keys on the counter. He keeps staring at his food.

"Hey," I say.

He glances up. "Hey," he echoes, his voice flat, devoid of the usual snark that used to be there. "You hungry?"

I nod my head, moving so he can sit across from me. "Yeah."

He nods, sliding me my box of food before opening his and poking at it with a plastic fork. It's a half-assed attempt at eating. The sight of it twists something in my gut.

I reach across the table, my fingers brushing against his hand. He freezes, his eyes darting up to meet mine.

"What's going on?" I ask.

He pulls his hand back. "Nothing."

"Bullshit," I say, the word sharp. "You've been moping around all week, barely eating, barely talking to me. And now you're sitting here, playing with your food. Talk to me, Patrick."

Something in him finally snaps, that familiar fire I've been missing all week breaking through the careful mask he's been wearing. "What the hell do you want me to say, Ricardo? That I'm sorry I can’t be what you need? That I fucked up our little game, and probably our entire sex life, for good?"

The words hit me, and I flinch before I can stop myself. "That's not what this is about."