Page 106 of I’m The Worst

“Why does she look like me?”

“It’s you.”

“What?”

He doesn’t look away from the road. “That’s your new identity.”

I flip through it slowly, trying to make it make sense. Lauren Johnson… I open the second passport, and a man stares back. Dark hair, green eyes, a strong jaw. He looks like… “Wolff?”

I flip between the two again. “Wait, this says we’re married. Cody and Lauren Johnson. I don’t⁠—”

“We’ll be boarding a ship in a few days. To Finland. We need to blend in.”

It’s so absurd, I almost laugh.

But nothing about this is funny.

“No one is going to believe we’re married,” I mutter, staring out the window again. “Married people talk to each other. They don’t—” I cut myself off. Don’t what? Don’t do what we just did?

“Doesn’t matter. No one can know who we are.”

I look back down at the passports, running my fingers over my fake name.

“Put this on.”

He holds out a small box and inside is a thin gold ring. My chest tightens as I stare at it, slipping it on my finger. He puts on his own without hesitation, the gold band looking almost wrong against his scarred hands.

“This is ridiculous. What if people ask questions? How we met? What we do…” I let the words die. What’s the point?

Sighing, I lean my head back against the seat, staring down at the ring on my finger. Married…to him. We’re getting out of Russia. I should feel something—relief or hope…anything. But all I feel is this hollow, broken gnawing ache inside my chest that won’t go away. Like something in me didn’t make it out. I close my eyes, swallowing hard, trying not to think about how badly I want things to be different.

I already know the truth… They won’t be.

Irun the routes again in my head. Every turn, every roadblock, every checkpoint.

There are multiple ports—Murmansk, Saint Petersburg, Varyan, Arkhangelsk—all with their own risks. Some more direct routes than others. The Nightshades are leaning on everything they can get their hands on—buying off guards, flagging manifests, watching for anything that doesn’t line up.

Which means whatever ship we board, we need to blend in on it.

I shift in the driver’s seat, and the stitches in my side pull hard enough to make my vision blur for half a second. I ignore it. Same way I ignore the tension settling into my shoulders, locking my hands tight around the wheel.

Everything feels wound too tight.

AJ’s been quieter than usual. Not that I care. I don’t need the distraction. The less she talks, the better.

I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s staring out the window, cheek pressed to the glass. The gold band on her finger catches the light.

Married.

My jaw locks, and I drag my focus back to the road. This plan is shit. I knew it would be the second I called Miranda. Fast passports meant limited options. Now we’ll be crammed onto a ship with other passengers for days, surrounded by questions, watched every second.

And she doesn’t do subtle.

Her face gives everything away—fear, anger, confusion. And her body language is worse. Always braced. Always ready to fight or bolt or hide. That gets attention.

That gets us both killed.

Fuck.