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He doesn’t move. His forehead stays pressed between my shoulder blades, his tears searing my spine. I can feel the tremor running through his thighs where they bracket mine.

“I don’t know how I’m going to do this, bunny,” he whispers.

Together.

We’re going to do this together.

Chapter 20

Beckett

I place a small bag of coffee in the cart, glancing down at the paper shopping list. I've had a phone for two months now, but I'm still nervous. I can't look at the news, even though I know the Eunice Strangler and the Sunny Bunny haven't been featured for over three weeks.

Ira tosses a bottle of strawberry syrup into the cart—it bounces off the plastic-wrapped chicken breasts and broccoli florets, and lands on top of the four-pack of ramen.

“That's not on the list,” I mumble.

He shoots me a shut-up look. “One thing isn't going to blow our budget.” He waves a hand at the shelves in the coffee aisle. “We both deserve a treat.”

I take one more look at the list.

All we have left to buy is the frozen yogurt we're both craving, and a huge package of bottled water since it's on sale. My eyes lift to the hot chocolate section, sweeping over the brands. Most of them are expensive. But there's one that Mom used to get for me when I was a kid.

Back when I was still Beckett Colby.

The can of Milo goes in the cart.

“Is it good?” Ira asks. He picks it up, flipping it around to read the nutritional information on the back.

“It’s nostalgic, but I think it's delicious. I know you don't like chocolate.”

“I’ll try it.” His finger slides down the label, and his mouth quirks up on one side. “I'm delicious, too.”

I don't like where this is going. After eight months together, I know the difference between a "normal" sentence, and a "here we go again," sentence. This is definitely the latter.

“I'm Milo,” he says casually, as if this is a completely sane conversation to be having at quarter to midnight in a California supermarket.

Glancing around, I make sure no one's within fifty feet before I lean down toward him.

“Please don't name yourself after a shopping trip.”

Ira's eyes catch mine, the smirk growing into the littlest of smiles. But it's still not his.

“I'm Milo,” he repeats.

Fantastic.

Milo Foster.

Matthew Foster.

They sound normal—mundane enough to pass for legitimate. We've been using temporary IDs, taking jobs that pay in cash and don't ask questions. The money is terrible, barely enough to cover the motel. Every Monday, we're shuffling around the room, turning out pockets and spending hours melting down, terrified we won't make this week's rent.

But we're still here.

One more step toward that new life we've been chasing.

The front door slams behind me, and Ira lifts a hand from our couch to wave over his shoulder backwards, thin silver ring catching the kitchen light. Even after a year, seeing him with red hair still throws me off—when I’m half-asleep in the morning, he looks like my younger cousin from behind.