“In this life or the next,” he says, understanding my meaning. We will not allow ourselves to get caught. We will never be apart, no matter what we have to do. He searches my face, looking for doubt, for any sign that I'm not fully committed to this.
He won't find it.
"Sit down," I tell him. "Let me clean those wounds properly."
He sits on the edge of the bed, the breeze blows through the open doors, clearing the stuffy air from my van, and I grab the first aid kit that will need restocking soon. The cuts from this morning were hasty and quick cleaning before we had sex and drove off. Now I take my time.
Antiseptic. Gauze. Careful fingers tracing every wound.
"He was strong," I say.
"I miscalculated how big he was."
"You could have died."
"But I didn't."
I press a bandage over the cut on his eyebrow, smoothing the edges. "Next time…"
"There won't be a next time." His hand catches my wrist. "We're done hunting. After this, we have to start again and be careful. A complete fresh start."
I think about that, starting over. Becoming ghosts. Leaving behind everything we were and stepping into something new. I thought it would scare me, leaving the thrill behind, but it feels like freedom.
"What names?" I ask.
"Whatever you want."
"I want to keep Roxy."
"Then we'll find a last name that fits."
“Hey, what is your last name? I never thought to ask.”
“It’s Eastwood. Nothing interesting. What about you?”
“Vale,” I say, and he nods, acknowledging it.
I finish bandaging his wounds and sit back, studying my work. He looks like he's been in a fight, but it looks like he has been treated, just like any other guy who has been in a brawl.
"We need to change your hair," I say. "And mine, alter our appearances before we cross state lines."
"I already thought of that."
"And the van?"
"We'll ditch it in California, I know someone who can deal with it after and get us money for it, no questions asked. Then we can get something else. Something that doesn't match the description."
I look around the van that’s been my home for the past three years. The fairy lights. The records. The space where I've lived and worked and survived. Leaving it behind should hurt, but it doesn't.
Because home isn't a place anymore. It's him.
"One week," I say. "We have one week to become ghosts."
"One week."
"And then?"
"Then we're free."
