I sighed. “When have you ever heard me laugh?”
Her breath hitched. “Good point.”
Damn, as far as two a.m. conversations went, this one was bordering on suicidal.
“So…” She cleared her throat. “…how do you make friends?”
Not what I was expecting. Was she seriously asking a murderer, a mob boss, a thief, a rapist, an emotional terrorist in his own right how to make a freaking friend? “Go to your computer, type in Mr. Rogers, watch a few episodes, take detailed notes, and you’ll be good to go.” My hands shook with the desire to comfort her, but those same hands had hurt women — had hurt so many people. How could they bring comfort? When all they ever truly brought was death?
“Phoenix.” Her voice was soft… too soft.
I could only see the outline of her body. She reached up to wipe her cheeks, my hand collided with hers. Wet. Her fingers were wet.
Damn it. “Why are you crying?”
“B-because…” She sniffled. “…you’re the only friend I have, and even then you don’t like me! How do I get people to like me? I must be doing it wrong, because I don’t think anyone really does like me. They just put up with me, and I really… really…” Her words slurred together as she hiccupped out. “…could use a friend right now.”
She thought I was her friend. How sad that I was her only friend? The idea should have repulsed me, caused me to push her away. Instead, I had this insane desire to pull her close, kiss her forehead, and say thank you. Thank her for being my friend when I was the least likeable person in the universe, when I was the least deserving.
Humbled. My hands continued to shake with the need to touch her. My body went hot and cold all at once.
“Bee, you’re going to do fine tomorrow. How could anyone not like you?”
“You don’t like me.” She shifted, pulling her knees to her chest.
“Hey!” I tried to keep my voice light. “I thought you said we were friends.”
“Friends eat other friends’ lasagna.”
It was dark, so I was totally free to smile without her seeing that, yes, I did, in fact, have a sense of humor and a giant-ass chink in my emotional armor. “Would that make you feel better? If I ate a bite of lasagna?”
“Maybe,” she croaked. “But more like a plateful.”
“Is this just a ploy to get me to eat a color other than green?”
“If it is?”
“Tears work.”
Bee moved closer to me; I could almost taste her. Instinct told me to lean forward, so I moved back, away from temptation. I couldn’t trust my instincts anymore. They were evil — like me.
“One plate of lasagna… because you said we were friends, and that’s what friends do.”
“It’s two in the morning.”
“Good.” She stood and held out her hand. “Then maybe the starch will stick to your body, and you’ll go up to three-percent body fat.”
I rolled my eyes and took her hand.
The minute our fingers touched.
I regretted it. In a very big way.
Images flooded my brain. Of kissing her, of pulling her into my arms, and then those images turned into something horrific… memories of hurting those girls… memories of their screams, their cries.
I dropped her hand, my own suddenly clammy.
“You coming?”
“Yeah,” I whispered, pulling a shirt from the floor and tugging it over my head, careful to keep at least a foot of space between us. We walked in silence down the stairs.
Bee quickly moved through the kitchen, pulled the lasagna out of the fridge, and placed it on the counter. I reached for a plate, just as Bee reached for one; her hand was on mine again, her body pressed tightly against my chest.
Cursing, I stepped back, giving up the plate and my sanity for a brief moment before taking a seat and letting her dish out the food.
Apparently, she thought I was in a starvation camp because the helping she gave me was so large it took up the entire plate.
“Again…” I pointed. “…two in the morning. Not sure I can eat all that.”
“You can,” she said confidently. “You don’t eat enough as it is. It’s like you’re punishing yourself or something.”
“Maybe I am.” She wanted friendship; well, that meant honesty.
Bee’s hand hovered over the microwave. It dinged a minute later. The smell hit me square in the face; my stomach growled on cue.
She had no way of knowing.
But it was going to be the first real hot meal I’d had in close to three months. Protein shakes and cold eggs in the morning. That had been my life, my existence. It made sense if I really thought about it. Why should I experience any sort of pleasure — even with food — when I was the one who freaking took it from everyone I came into contact with?
My body trembled as I picked up the fork and slowly dipped it into the cheese on top. Damn, I was like a little kid eating his first bite of cereal.
Lasagna officially terrified me.
What if one bite was all it took to send me off the edge? What if that one bite, that one bit of pleasure made me crave what I’d done in the past? What if…
I dropped the fork and pressed my sweaty palms against the cold countertop. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
Bee sighed and plopped down on the barstool next to me after a brief glance at the empty spaces left by the two stools I’d destroyed. Other than that look that was so quick I might have imagined it, she seemed utterly unfazed.