Page 22 of Be Mine

“Like the dead. I can’t believe I slept the entire day away. I don’t think I’ve done that since I was a teen.” I slide down into my spot, again on the bench, a generous helping of lasagna sitting in front of me. My stomach growls in anticipation. Noah sits across from me, sliding in close to the table, the corners of his mouth tilt, offering me a slight smile. His hair has lost some of the product he must use to hold it in place, loose pieces falling over his forehead. I like him like this, he’s not so callous. He’s almost human.

“You needed it. You also need food.” He tips his chin towards my plate, but I’m all too happy to dig in right now.

Clutching the fork and knife, I move to cut into the lasagna. It’s divine and my eyes nearly roll in my head as the combination of meat, sauce, and cheese explodes on my palate. “This isn’t one of your victims, is it?” I say around a mouthful of food, praying he isn’t into cannibalism.

His eyes twinkle. “No, I don’t have an affinity for eating people.”

“Good to know.” I laugh as I wash it down with a sip of wine. “I think I’ve had my fill of encounters with body parts, at least of the dead variety.” This earns me a chuckle from him, and God could I get used to that sound. Is it wrong I’m actually enjoying sitting and eating a meal with him? I probably need a psych evaluation.

We eat. We talk. Well, I mostly talk, but he listens attentively and occasionally adds to the conversation. He’s intense and it still feels strange to hear Noah’s voice after him being mute for so long. It’s deep, and rich, and makes me want to do things that Idefinitelyshouldn’t want to do with my captor.

We clean up after dinner—me washing the dishes, him drying—and again it feels so normal.

Noah puts the last dish away in the cupboard as I drain the sink. The song has switched toWhen a Man Loves a Womanby Percy Sledge, and Noah hangs the towel over the handle on the stove before reaching for me, pulling my body to sway with his.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” I confess. My music taste is vastly different than his, you can’t really dance to metal.

“That’s ok, I can teach you.” He laces his fingers through mine, pulling me to the center of the kitchen where we have room to move.

With my right hand in his left, he guides my other hand to his shoulder, his falling away to my waist.

“Just follow my lead, when my left foot goes forward, your right foot goes back.” My eyes watch his feet as he steps forward, and I awkwardly follow. “Yes, just like that. Now we both take a step to the side, then your left foot goes forward, and my right goes back.”

He guides me through the steps a few more times, until I think I’ve gotten it down pat, and I can actually raise my head instead of focusing on our feet. I’m no ballroom dancer—I’m clumsy as hell—but soon we’re moving with some semblance of grace. I can’t remember the last time I danced with anyone. It sure as hell wasn’t with Myles, or any other ex, for that matter.

I smile softly at him, my stomach in a flurry when he reciprocates it, like he’s proud that I accomplished it. He reallyneeds to reign it in, a girl would do unspeakable things for his praise.

“So, the music, I have to know. You’re probably the only man I know in his twenties who listens to the oldies.” I am genuinely curious where he got his taste in music from.

Swallowing, his eyes drift past me, as if he’s embarrassed to say. “You don’t have to tell—”

“When we came back from spring break, you were telling your friends you watchedDirty Dancingwith your aunt.” Those blues slip back to mine. “You said you loved the movie and the music, and wished you could have lived during that time. I went home and watched the movie, and I took a liking to that time period myself.” He shrugs, as if this doesn’t mean anything.

My eyebrows hit my hairline with his confession. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything about you, Frankie.”

That shouldn’t make the blood pump through my veins the way it does. It shouldn’t make my insides quiver. Maybe I’m experiencing some form of Stockholm syndrome, because his criminal offenses are starting to pale in comparison to the way he makes me feel.

“Why me? I’m nothing. Women practically fall over you. Do you even realize that most of our co-workers don’t shut up about you? You’re a constant topic of conversation.”

“One, you are not nothing. Whoever made you think that way is wrong. When most of the people around me treated me like shit, you were the one person who—”

“But I never helped you!” I protest.

“I didn’t need your help. I needed one person to look at me like I wasn’t some poor boy who wasn’t worth anything. I needed someone to look at me like I wasn’t below them. And that was you. Every small smile you gave me in the halls was enough.I kept it from you for this long because I didn’t want you to see me as the weak little boy anymore.”

My pulse is fluttering in my ears. It wasn’t enough. And despite the circumstances, now that I know it was him all along, my heart aches. And it all makes perfect sense now. Why he was always quiet and detached. Why he never interacted with anyone. That was his defense mechanism. You learn to protect yourself with what you know best.

“You weren’t supposed to find the picture. You weren’t supposed to find out like that.” He pulls back, distancing himself from me, dismissing the topic.

"But you must have wanted me to piece things together. Why else would you send me the handmade valentine?" He doesn't utter a word, retracting further behind the wall he keeps up.

“Don’t, Noah. Please. Talk to me.” I whisper.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Help me understand. Why all of this? Why am I here?” I wave my arms, gesturing around the kitchen.

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