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"It's not that bad," he says. "Why would you be embarrassed in front of me, anyway? Huh? I'm not just anyone."

I open and take the next much bigger bite.

"I wish you would have trusted me," Tate says softly enough that I barely hear it over the music. "When you left the apartments, I mean."

I swallow again, surprised that much food goes down with so little chewing. "Tate,whywould I have trusted you?"

"I was always there for you, wasn't I?"

"I don't know how to answer that."

He feeds me again, the same amount of food as before.

"That's because you don't like that the answer is yes."

"Except for the times you tried tokillme!"

He raises his eyebrows and points at me with the fork. "You brought that on yourself."

I snatch it from his hand and swallow.

"Nope," Tate says, taking the fork back. "I'm feeding you, and it's working, isn't it? It's helping, right?"

I don't think it's the music or the fact that he's the one feeding me. I think it's more that he's distracting me with how fucking insufferable he can be—with the duality of his entire persona and how fucking confusing it is.

And if I'm being honest, it felt good just to tell someone else what's been happening to me.

Regardless of the reason, I need the calories, so I let him feed me again.

"It's okay," he says while I chew. "You don't have to tell me I'm helping you; I know how much you'd hate that. I'll be quiet now—just listen to the music."

I don't look at him; I don't acknowledge him in any way. I listen to the music, singing along with the lyrics in my head while he feeds me. I realize that it's been so long since I listened—reallylistened—to music, not just as something in the background at the café or in a movie, and after a while, I'm even enjoying it. Swallowing gets a little easier the way it does when I'm drunk, and I don't have to brace myself. Tate sings along softly, his foot tapping against the hardwood floor.

I kind of like that, too.

"I can't eat anymore," I tell him eventually, shaking my head when he offers me more food.

"There's not much left," he says.

And he's right—almost all the food is gone. I check the time on the clock like I always do.

Twenty-six minutes.

I ate more food than I usually eat in an hour in only twenty-six minutes. I almost cry.

"This is more than I ever eat. I don't want to throw up and have it all be for nothing."

"Okay."

He takes the plate from me, opens cabinets until he finds a storage container, and then he puts the extra food in the fridge before cleaning my dishes in the sink.

And I just…watch him.

"Let's go," he says. "Grab your keys."

I slide off the barstool and follow him toward the door, stopping to step into my boots. "Where are we going?"

He smiles, places his hands on my cheeks and then leans in, kissing my forehead and then my lips. "You'll see. We can fight about it when we get there."