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"You know what I like about you?" he asks.

I scoff. "Nothing."

He pulls the other barstool over until it's right up against mine and sits beside me.

"Pfft, come on, that's not true," he says. "I like that you watched me hack your ex-boyfriend to death—that you know I was going to and still might kill you—and you'll still look me in the eye, call me names, and tell me to get out of your house. It's hot."

"Tate, what do you want? Because I am so fucking serious—"

"I just want to help you," he says. "It's my fault, right? Well, technically, it's Silas's fault, but we both know that anytime he does anything wrong, it's my fault, and ifyoudo something wrong, that'salsomy fault. You'd probably blame me for global warming if you could—"

"Stop, okay? You can't help me."

He props his head up against his hand with his elbow on the counter, and threads the other hand into my hair, his thumb finding the skin behind my ear again. I lean into it, closing my eyes.

"Maybe I can. How did this happen?"

"I don't know," I tell him, sniffling. "Um, maybe that's not true. I think…I think I just waited too long. I—after it happened—I didn't want to eat. The thought of eating made me sick, and so I just decided that Iwouldn'teat until the idea of eating didn't make me feel that way anymore. But then a week went by, and it still made me sick, and everything hurt. I tried, but it had been so long, and I was just…too in my head, and my body didn't cooperate. I kept thinking about the way it felt between my teeth and on my tongue, and the fact that it wasinme, you know? And it brought me so much stress, I just kind of stopped trying. I tried to live off of liquid calories for a while, and eventually, really dry carbs were okay, so that's what I settled on for months, but it caught up to me." I wipe my eyes with my sleeve again. "I don't know why I'm even telling you this."

"Nothing helps?"

"Getting drunk. If I can get drunk enough, then I don't care as much. But that's not sustainable, either—not with my issues. My body hurts. Myorganshurt."

"Let me stay," he says. "Do you still like The Weeknd?"

"I don't—I guess. I don't really think about stuff like that anymore."

"You don't listen to music anymore? What?"

"No, not really. I mean…do you?"

"Constantly."

"Right. Well, you're probably…" I trail off, deciding not to finish the sentence.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me."

"You're probably happier than I am. You're not alone. You don't have to think about food all day, and no one knows me, just like you said they wouldn't."

"Youchoseto be alone."

"Wasn't much of a choice, Tate."

He shrugs before taking out his phone. "Blinding Lights" plays from its speaker, and he sets it down on the table. Then he picks up my fork, stabs one of my miniature omelet squares, and holds it in front of my lips. "Open up," he says, the fingers on his other hand massaging my scalp.

I contemplate fighting him again, but maybe if I regurgitate the eggs onto his lap, he'll leave of his own accord. I open, taking the food from the fork.

"Good girl," he says. "Just relax. Listen to the music. What about vitamins? Do you take vitamins?"

Without realizing it, I swallow the food so I can answer. "Yeah, sometimes. When I can buy them, I grind them up and put them in my coffee."

He loads another bite of omelet and a piece of the hamburger onto the fork, holding it out for me, and I shake my head.

"This is embarrassing."