4. Chapter 4
Maybe
Ricardo [THEN]
It takes me two weeks to work up the courage to go back to that coffee shop.
Two weeks of Eli teasing me about the coffee shop snail incident.
Two weeks of Aubrey sending me apologetic text messages, promising Patrick isn't always a gargantuan asshole.
Two weeks of me replaying the moment over and over in my head, the way Patrick lights up, the way he cuts me down, and then the bewildering, confusing way he still remakes my coffee and tries to give it to me.
My pride tells me to stay away. My ego, bruised and battered, screams that I should never subject myself to that kind of humiliation again.
But a louder, more stubborn part of me refuses to let it go.
It isn't solely about him anymore. It's about proving to myself, and to him, that I'm not some bumbling kid he can brush off. That I’m a man worth a shot. That I’m patient. That I want him.
So, on a rainy Tuesday morning, I find myself pulling into the same parking spot, my heart doing its best to beat its way out of my chest. I leave the emo in the car this time.
The Rites of Spring album feels too on-the-nose.
Instead, I have the radio tuned to some generic pop station, trying to project a false aura of casual indifference.
I step inside, the bell jingling overhead, and the familiar scent of coffee and pastries hits me.
The shop is less chaotic than usual, the morning rush having petered out into a mid-morning lull.
Aubrey is behind the counter, and he gives me his signature wide-eyed, panicked look.
He’s wondering what the hell I’m doing back here again. I ignore him.
I scan the room, landing immediately on the figure by the espresso machine. Patrick. His back is to me, his black t-shirt clinging to his lean frame as he wipes down the steamer. I haven't thought this part through.
What am I supposed to do? Walk up to the counter and order like nothing happened? Wait for him to notice me?
I decide on a hybrid approach. I get in line, but I keep my attention locked on him, willing him to turn around. After a moment, as if he can feel the weight of my gaze, he does.
Our eyes meet across the coffee shop. His expression is a cool mask of professional indifference. But then something shifts. A flicker of surprise, a hint of amusement, touches the corner of his lips. He keeps staring, one eyebrow slowly arching in that maddeningly condescending way of his.
I feel my face heat up.
I break eye contact first, looking down at my shoes as if they’re somehow the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen in my life. When I look back up, he is still watching me, now leaning against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s waiting for me.
I reach the counter, my throat tight. Aubrey is suddenly very interested in the arrangement of the pastry case. I clear my throat.
"I'll have a, uh, large black coffee," I say. Simple. No room for artistic interpretation. No foam for him to draw a dick on or something.
Patrick pushes off the counter and walks over.
He takes his sweet time, making me wait, his gaze roaming over my face with an intensity that is both unnerving and intoxicating.
He stops right in front of me, close enough that the air between us thickens with his scent—rich dark roast clinging to his skin, mingling with the clean, spicy notes of his cologne.
It's a scent I've started associating with him.
"A large black," he repeats. He turns away, grabs a cup, and scribbles something on it with a sharpie. He fills it, the hot liquid splashing against the paper. He sets it down on the counter in front of me, sliding a to-go cap next to its side.
"Two-fifty," he says, gazing up at me again.
I fumble for my wallet, my fingers clumsy. I hand him the exact change, our fingers brushing for the barest second. I go to grab the coffee, ready to make a quick escape, but his hand shoots out and covers the top of the cup, pinning it to the counter.
I look up at him, startled.
His face is inches from mine, locked on with an unnerving focus. For a long, stretched-out moment, neither of us says anything. The pop music on the radio seems a world away. I can hear my own ragged breathing.
"I'm still not interested," he says.
But he doesn't let go of the cup. His gaze drops to my mouth, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, a gesture so quick I almost miss it. It's a blatant contradiction. His words say one thing, his body language screams something else entirely. He’s leaning in.
My brain short-circuits. I am lost in those pools of blue, the proximity of his body. I forget about the coffee, the shop, the humiliation. All I can think about is how badly I want to kiss him.
"I think you're lying," I hear myself say, the words surprising us both. My voice is is firm. Confident. It’s the voice I use when I am explaining to a customer why their car's timing belt absolutely has to be replaced.
His expression narrows. He leans in even closer, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my face. "Is that so?"
"Yeah," I whisper. I'm teetering on the edge of a cliff, and I have no idea what is at the bottom, but I am about to jump anyway. "I think you're just as interested in me as I am in you. You're just too stubborn to admit it."
He lets out a soft, humorless laugh. His hand is still on the cup. "You don't know the first thing about me."
"I know you make a mean snail," I retort, a small, defiant smirk touching my lips. "I know you recognize Rites of Spring. I know the purple on your nails is the exact same shade I painted my shitty car. And I know you wouldn't have remade my coffee last time if you didn't feel something, too."
For a second, the mask slips. I see it in the twitch of his pierced lip, the way his gaze sweeps over me like I'm something worth looking at.
The smirk starts to form, that little curl of his mouth driving me wild.
But then it's gone, his face settling back into that carefully constructed wall of indifference he's been hiding behind all week. His hand lifts from the coffee cup.
"Enjoy your coffee," he says. He turns and walks away without another glance, disappearing into the back of the shop, leaving me standing there with a cup of coffee and a head full of questions.
I look down at the cup in my hand. On the side, in his neat, blocky handwriting, is a single word. It's not my name. It's not an insult.
It says: Maybe.
I stare at it for a long moment, a slow grin spreading across my face. I don't feel humiliated anymore. I don't feel defeated. I feel like I've won the first round. And I am nothing if not persistent.
The game is on.