Page 78 of Stranger Danger

“How was work?” he asks, shutting the laptop. He turns on the couch and folds his arms over the back, smiling at me. “Good tip day?”

I rip off the ridiculous wings and sparkly, bobbing halo and toss them on the kitchen counter. “Yeah. Louis called my name six times before I remembered to respond, so work was interesting.” The rest of the costume comes off in pieces until I’m just in boxers, still covered head-to-toe in glitter. “I think he thinks I have ADHD.”

“Maybe you should’ve picked a different name.”

“Why? I like Matthew.”

Ira groans, vaulting over the back of the couch and hopping to the kitchen, his socked feet slipping on the tiles.

“You picked it because it’s my middle name,” he says. “I’m no dummy.”

He pushes the dark brown curls away from my face and tucks them behind my ears. Then he lifts to his tiptoes to kiss me, sweet and gentle; he still tastes like cotton candy chapstick.

“Matt was a funny guy.” We both know I’m lying. “The best part of Horror Enthusiasts.”

His eyebrows knit together. “Which one was that again? Bean-bag-dude?”

“Bean-bag-dude.”

“Candy-dude was nicer.”

I guess. Not like any of them matter anymore—I really don't think they mattered to begin with. Not after I found Ira. Now we have everything we've ever wanted: freedom and each other. Someplace we can call our own. Movies that we try to watch for six days in a row, but never make it past the first kill before we fall asleep.

Except this perfect facade we've built is breaking down, bit by bit.

I slide my hands against his wrists, my thumb rubbing against his ring.

“How’re you doing?” I ask softly.

“Work’s fine.”

“That’s not what I mean, Ira.”

He mumbles something so quiet I don’t hear it, then throws his arms around my neck. I don’t hesitate to hug back, squeezing him tighter and tighter until he winces against my skin. Lately, I can't hold him tight enough. He always demands more, until I'm terrified to stop for both of our sakes.

“I miss my mask so fucking much,” he whispers, half-muffled. “I miss being Sunny Bunny.”

So do I.

There’s no ten-step program for this kind of addiction. We can’t talk to groups online, or take a magical pill that changes our reality. We’ve tried everything under the sun to help—splatter horror, snuff porn, increasingly dangerous sex that makes me worry that I might actually hurt him and enjoy it. The last time I choked him, I bruised his trachea.

All the urges still nestle low at the base of my skull, and I have to make a conscious decision, every single day, not to act on them.

I rub slow circles against his back and kiss the top of his head over and over.

Running was straightforward.

Starting over was hard.

This is impossible.

“Come work with me,” I say after another minute. “Carson told us he's retiring today. Brent says we're hiring starting tomorrow. It’ll take your mind off it for eight hours.”

“What about the tattoos?” His voice is even softer. Childlike.

“Lie. Wear the arm-warmers that go all the way up and say you used to cut yourself.”

Ira pulls back just enough to look at my face, tears hanging off his dark lashes and staining his cheeks. He sniffles, and I lick away the tracks, then press my lips to each cheek.