Page 6 of The Comfort Trap

"Hey! What the fuck are you doing? I'm talking to you!" he spits out, his knuckles rapping against the glass, the sound insistent.

I ignore him until the window reaches the top, sealing me inside my little emo sanctuary. He points to the coffee again, the cigarette dangling from his fingers, ash threatening to fall onto my car. His face is a mask of confusion, and for the first time, I feel a sliver of something that feels dangerously like power.

My hand fumbles for the shifter, the plastic cool against my palm. Reverse. The car groans as I back out, tires crunching on the gravel.

I don't look at him. I can't. My attention stays fixed on the rearview mirror, watching his silhouette shrink in the distance. He's a black shape against the bright morning, a cigarette still glowing between his fingers. He's holding the coffee, my coffee, the one I didn't want. The one he didn't have to make.

As I turn onto the main road, the coffee shop disappears from view. But I can still feel his eyes on me, burning a hole in the back of my head.

Chapter 3

Restless Hearts

Patrick [NOW]

Ricardo'ssittingacrossfromme at this patheticexcuse for a table, two empty beer bottles standing between us. We're crammed onto our tiny balcony. The city hums in the background, this constant thrum that's usually comforting. We've been talking about nothing for twenty minutes, circling the one topic we're both too chickenshit to touch.

Finally, I can't take it anymore.

"So," I say. "The kinky thing."

Ricardo, who's been methodically peeling the label off his beer bottle like he's performing surgery, looks up. The light from inside catches his face. "Yeah," he says. "The kinky thing."

"I wasn't joking," I spit out, because goddamn it, he needs to know that. I need to know if he was just humoring me, playing along to shut me up.

"I know." He sets the bottle down, the glass hitting the metal table with a soft clink. "I'm... still processing."

Here it comes. The part where he tells me I'm a freak, that he's not into it, that I've detonated the perfectly good, comfortable bomb we've been sitting on for two years.

Finally, he speaks. "Can I ask you something?"

I look up from where I'm picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion. "Yeah."

"I guess I always assumed, if you ever needed something, you’d tell me.… Are you asking for this because you're unhappy with us?"

I sit up straight, thechairgroaning under my sudden movement. "No!" My hand goes to my lip ring, twisting it between my thumb and forefinger. Nerves. Always the fucking lip ring when I'm nervous.

Ricardo doesn't look convinced, his brow furrowed. Probably calculating the exact probability that I'm full of shit.

"Baby, I cry when you leave town for two days," I say, hoping I can make him understand. "I'm not ashamed to admit it. I ugly-cry, Ricardo. The kind of crying that makes my face swell up like a pufferfish."

"You do not," he says, but his lips give him away.

"I absolutely do," I insist, leaning forward to press my forehead against his. "The last time you visited family in Mexico, I even sent you that voice note of me crying because I used the last of your cologne spraying it all over the bed. Remember? I was trying to create a Ricardo-scented cocoon to survive in until you returned. It was a survival technique, Ricardo. A cry for help."

"I thought that was because you didn't feel like doing the laundry while I was gone, and you still wanted it to smell fresh," he murmurs, his breath warm against my skin. “You gorgeous little freak.”

"Doesn't matter why. Point is, I cried for an hour because your smell was gone." I pull back, changing the subject before he can call me out on my bullshit. "I'm happy with us. I promise. So happy it's almost stupid, you know? Like, my brain can't quite process it. I love you, Ricky, I just..."

"Are you bored?" he presses, his eyes searching mine. "In the bedroom?"

"No!" I practically shout, then lower my voice, glancing toward the bedroom door. "No, it's not that..."

"So what's all this about then? Finding the spark? Is there something I'm not doing that you'd want me to do?" I can see it—the fear that he's not enough, that he's failing me somehow.

"No, baby, I only figured we'd have some fun. Like when we first started out, that's all."

He pauses, his brow furrowed in thought. I watch him, nerves building.