Page 33 of The Comfort Trap

Ricardo [THEN]

Theechoofthelobby door clicking shut behind me feelstriumphant. I did it. Patrick actually fucking agreed to go on a date with me. Eli's insane, last-ditch suggestion—some grand romantic gesture—actually worked. The man's a genius, always joking that I'm his protégé, but this sealed it. Eli could tell me to walk through fire next and I'd probably try it, no questions asked.

I'm driving Patrick to our first date, and I've spent so many nights envisioning this very moment. Us in my car, the city blurring past the windows. But the reality is so much better. He's sitting there, slouched slightly in the passenger seat, one hand resting on his knee, the other tracing invisible patterns on the worn upholstery. He's pretending to be bored, staring out the window, but I can feel the weight of his attention, the slight tension in his shoulders that betrays his casual act. He smells like the flowers he left back at his apartment.

I parallel park with more concentration than I've ever mustered in my life, my palms sweating on the steering wheel. I get it in on the first try, a small miracle. I kill the engine and practically launch myself out of the driver's seat, my movements clumsy with eagerness.

I'm going to open his door for him. That's what you do on a date, right? It's a small thing, but it's something.

But he's too quick. Before I can even fully straighten up, he's already out, shutting the door with a soft click. He leans against the car, arms crossed over his chest, a look on his face that's a mixture of amusement and something softer.

I grin sheepishly, walking up to him. He watches me, that infuriatingly knowing look on his face. I shove my hands in my pockets and start toward the restaurant's entrance.

I'll get the door for him. That's another thing. That's definitely a thing.

But of course, it's still locked. I forget that part. I grab the handle, pulling. Nothing. I try again, my hand slipping slightlyon the cool metal. Still nothing. A third time, with more force, my face starting to heat up with embarrassment. I can feel Patrick's eyes on me, and I swear I can hear the faintest hint of a laugh.

"It's locked," I mumble, turning to him, my cheeks burning.

"No shit, Sherlock," he says, but there's a positive expression playing on his face. “You said they weren’t open yet.” He takes pity on me, stepping forward and rapping his knuckles against the glass door, a sharp sound that cuts through the morning air.

A moment later, the lock clicks from the inside, and the door swings open, revealing the owner, a portly man with a booming laugh and a flour-dusted apron.

"Ricardo! My boy!" he exclaims, clapping me on the shoulder. "And this must be the special guest." He looks Patrick up and down, a warm, inviting expression spreading across his face. "Come in, come in. We've been waiting for you."

The owner, Sal, leads us through the empty dining room, the tables all pristine and waiting for the lunch rush that won't come for hours. He guides us to a cozy corner booth, the red checkered tablecloth exactly as I'd described. I wait until Patrick slides in, then I move to the other side, my movements feeling stiff. I'm trying to play it cool, but my palms are sweating where they rest in my lap under the table.

Sal bustles away, promising to return with coffee and menus, leaving us in a silence. Patrick leans back against the booth, his arms crossed over his chest, one eyebrow raised in that way that makes me feel like he's seeing right through all my carefully constructed defenses.

"So, Ricardo," he says, but I can hear the challenge underneath. "If this really isn't about wanting something because it's hard to get... tell me about what you're looking for."

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.

"This," I say. I gesture vaguely between us, at the table, at this moment. "This is what I'm looking for."

The silence stretches, broken only by the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

"That’s it?" he finally asks, the words loaded with skepticism.

Sal comes back carrying two steaming mugs and a couple of laminated menus that look like they've been through three decades of hell and back, probably survived a few fistfights too.

"So, what can I get you guys?" he asks, leaning in a little too close. "The breakfast sampler's our specialty, comes with a little bit of everything. Sausage, eggs, hash browns, the works." He winks.

My stomach's already doing backflips, my brain screaming at me to order everything on the menu. I could probably down that sampler in under two minutes flat, maybe three if I take my time to chew.

"I'll take the Açaí bowl, please," Patrick says, holding his menu up for Sal.

"Same," I say, because I'm an idiot. I watch intently as Patrick bites back a grin.

Sal nods, grabs our menus, and shuffles away without another word.

Patrick immediately reaches for the sugar dispenser, his movements fluid as he sweetens his coffee without even tasting it first. I watch him, fascinated by the small, precise way he stirs.

"So," he says, swirling his coffee with an almost scientific precision, his gaze fixed on the swirling liquid. "The auditory assault on my neighborhood this morning... Thatwas'I Wanna Be Your Dog' by The Stooges. From their self-titled debut, 1969. A classic proto-punk anthem, buta little aggressive for 8 AM."

I feel my face heat up. "Was the song choice toomuch?"

“No.”He finally brings his eyes to mine. "I once owned a vinyl pressing of that album. The Fun House sessions were better, but you can't beat the raw, nihilistic energy of the debut." He takes a sip. "Where’d you get the stereo?That thing was a boomboxstraight out ofthe early 90s."