6. Chapter 6
The Things We Don't Say
Ricardo [THEN]
The word Maybe on my coffee cup becomes my personal obsession. I carry it with me all day, sneaking glances at it when no one is looking. It isn't a yes, but it isn't a no. It's a crack in the armor, a tiny sliver of hope I cling to with a desperation that is probably a little unhealthy.
For a week, I stay away. I let the mystery of that single word simmer. I give him space. I tell myself I'm being strategic, letting the anticipation build. In reality, I'm terrified of messing it up.
But then Friday rolls around, and I can't take it anymore. I have to see him.
I walk into the coffee shop during the late afternoon lull, a time I know Aubrey will be working alone. The bell above the door jingles, and Aubrey looks up from wiping down a table, his face breaking into a wide, knowing grin.
"Well, well, well," he says, sauntering over to the counter. "You back for more punishment?"
I roll my eyes, but I can't help smiling back. "Is he here?"
Aubrey's grin softens. "Yeah, he's in the back. He's doing inventory. He's… been a little less of a dick this week, for the record."
"Good to know," I murmur, my heart starting its familiar thud against my ribs.
"You want me to get him?"
I hesitate. Part of me wants to say yes, to have him march out here and face me. But a bigger, smarter part of me knows that won't work. Patrick needs to feel in control. He needs to make the next move.
"Nah," I say, shaking my head. "Just a black coffee, please. Large."
Aubrey gives me a curious look but doesn't argue. He makes the coffee quickly, scribbles my name on the cup—my actual name this time—and hands it to me.
"On the house," he says with a wink. "For the entertainment."
I laugh, shaking my head. I take the coffee and walk to a small table in the corner, one with a clear view of the door to the back room. I stand there, sipping my coffee, pretending to be absorbed in something on my phone.
I don't have to wait long. The door swings open, and Patrick walks out, carrying a clipboard. He’s talking to Aubrey, his brow furrowed in concentration, pointing at something on the sheet of paper. He is in his element, organized and in charge.
Then, he sees me. He stops mid-sentence. For a split second, his composure wavers. He seems surprised, maybe even a little panicked. Aubrey follows his gaze and gives an exaggerated shrug.
He recovers quickly. Patrick finishes his thought to Aubrey in a clipped tone, then walks toward me. He walks with a purpose. He stops a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, a defensive posture I'm starting to recognize as a habit.
"You're back," he says. It isn't a question. It's a flat statement of fact.
"I am," I agree, setting my coffee cup on the table. "I liked the note on my cup last time. It was... poetic."
A faint flush creeps up his neck, but his expression remains carefully neutral. "It was a coffee cup."
"It was a 'maybe'," I counter. I take a step closer, closing the distance between us. I'm done playing games from across the room. "And I'm here to see if maybe has turned into a yes."
He watches me.
"Why?" he asks, the single word loaded with suspicion. "Why are you so persistent? I told you no. I was an asshole to you. Most guys would have gotten the message and moved on. Red flag, remember?"
I shrug, trying to look casual when I feel anything but. "I dunno.”
He lets out a short, humorless laugh. "Clearly you're a masochist."
"I just... I know what I want when I see it," I say, the words coming out with more honesty than I intend. "And I saw you."
He shakes his head, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. "You don't know me. You know the guy who makes your coffee. The guy who's an asshole to customers who hit on him during a rush."
"You're not an asshole," I say quietly. "You're guarded. There's a difference."
He looks away, his jaw tightening. The silence stretches.
"I don't do... dates," he says finally. "I don't do coffee and small talk and getting to know you. It's a waste of time."
It feels like a punch to the gut, but I don't back down. "Okay, you don't do dates. So what do you do?"
He looks back at me. For a long moment, he says nothing. He's warring with himself, I can see it. The desire to push me away is fighting with whatever it is that made him write Maybe on that cup.
Finally, he sighs, a sound of pure exasperation. "My apartment," he says, the words coming out in a rush. "427 West Fifth Street. It's five blocks from here. I get off work at six."
My heart skips a beat. "Okay."
"Don't be late," he warns, his finger jabbing toward my chest. "And don't expect any bullshit. We're not going to talk about our feelings or our favorite movies. You show up. We have sex. You leave. You move on with your life, and so do I. That's it. That's the deal."
It's the most unromantic proposition I have ever heard in my life. It should be insulting. Instead, it is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me.
I nod, my throat suddenly dry. "I understand."
He gives me one last, hard look, as if daring me to change my mind. When I don't, he turns on his heel and walks back toward the counter without another word.
I stand there for a moment, my head spinning. I look at the half-finished coffee on the table. I don't need it anymore. I’m buzzing with a nervous, exhilarating energy that’s a thousand times more potent than caffeine.
It isn't a win, not yet. But it's not a loss. It's a maybe that’s turned into an open door.