(content warning: internalized homophobia, homophobic slurs)

MALACHI FOUND AISHA sitting on the grass in a circle of her friends. She was pretty—smooth dark skin, hair in two poofy pigtails held together by colorful beads, smiling brown eyes—right? Malachi liked her, didn't he? She was smart and funny and kind. He had fun with her. He should like her. He was supposed to like her. There was no reason why he shouldn't like her. He did like her, or at least, he told himself he did. Tried to force it on himself, tried to look at her and feel all giddy and happy like he did with Drew.

Except—Malachi didn't want to think about Drew anymore. Drew was in the past; he was nothing to him anymore. He never had been anything to him. He'd confused his feelings, mistaken a strong friendship for a crush. He'd never liked him, anyways. Not like he liked Aisha.

Or at least he told himself so.

As Malachi walked up to her and her friends, she grinned and waved. "Hey, Malachi!"

Malachi stood by the circle and bit the bullet. "Aisha, do you want to be my girlfriend?"

The girls giggled and poked each other and Aisha. Some looked up at him and blushed like he'd asked them. The heaviness in Malachi's chest grew unbearable, making him sick to his stomach. He never wanted a girl to look at him like that again, and there had to be something wrong with him, hadn't there?

Aisha tilted her head. "I thought you were boyfriends with Drew."

Malachi stammered out a series of nonsensical syllables, he was so shocked. Not only did Aisha seem to believe the rumors, she didn't seem to care. Like it was no big deal. Hannah had a crush on Liam, Jenna was Braden's girlfriend, and Malachi and Drew were boyfriends. Like it was perfectly normal. He shook his head and managed: "That's just some dumb rumor."

"Oh. Ohh." Aisha looked Malachi up and down like she was considering his offer. "My daddy told me not to date white boys."

It was Malachi's turn to be confused. Both sets of his grandparents were immigrants from Iran. He'd never been called white before, and he didn't think he was. White meant European. Iran wasn't in Europe. "I'm not white?" he mumbled.

"Sorry, what?" Aisha asked.

"I'm not white," Malachi repeated, louder. "I'm Mizrahi."

"Oh!" Aisha grinned. "Then sure. I'll be your girlfriend."

All of Aisha's friends burst out in giggles and blushes and spurts of poking each other and Aisha and sending off shrill ooooohs. Malachi felt like he was in a horror movie.

"Cool." Malachi said. And then he walked away.

"Wait!" Aisha called. Malachi turned back to her. Her face was bright red. Nervous giggles burst from her mouth. She clamped her hand over her lips to quiet. "Can I hug you?"

Malachi shifted uncomfortably. He didn't want Aisha to hug him. But she was his girlfriend now. That was what girlfriends and boyfriends were supposed to do, wasn't it? "Oh. Um. Sure."

"Okay." Aisha giggled and jumped to her feet.

Malachi wasn't sure where to look or what expression to put on his face. He stared at his shoes until he saw Aisha's Twinkle Toes closing in on him. He hadn't realized how much taller he'd gotten than her; he could see clear over her head and had to tilt his face downward to see her. She was still bright red and giggly. Malachi stood still as Aisha wrapped her arms around his waist, standing on her tip-toes so she could rest her chin on his shoulder. She smelled like... Bath and Body Works' "Cucumber Melon" perfume, like a summer day. Nice and sweet.

Malachi should like it. Malachi should like this. But he didn't. He felt frozen, trapped with her arms around him. He hated this. How did people do this? No wonder his parents were so miserable with each other. He tried pretending he liked hugging her, but there wasn't an inch of him that did. He couldn't bring himself to move, to hug her back.

She quickly pulled away and smiled up at him. "Okay. Bye. See you tomorrow."

"Yeah," Malachi agreed.

He walked away from her, trying to force himself to feel the way Drew made him feel. Like his whole body was buzzing, on fire.

Except he couldn't, and it wasn't, and there was something wrong with him—wasn't there? Hadn't there always been?

***

A LORDE BALLAD tumbled out of the speakers, soft and nostalgic. Malachi never would have pegged Reza as a Lorde guy. He seemed like he listened to German death metal.

Reza drummed his fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the song. "Why do you hate me?" he asked.

Malachi fiddled with his camera, trying to seem busy so Reza'd leave him alone. "Are we really doing this now?"

"We've got ten hours of road ahead of us. Now's the perfect time."

Malachi leaned against the window, looking out at the dark, snowy trees along the roadside.

"Come on," Reza pleaded. "Don't leave me alone for all these hours. I might literally lose my marbles."

Malachi kept his eyes trained out the window. A billboard passed by advertising the nearby lodging.

"I'm just going to keep talking until you respond to me. And I can talk for hours. In my middle school yearbook, I was voted 'Most Likely to Annoy Someone to Death.'"

Malachi heaved a Malasigh. "Lucky me."

Reza grinned. "There you go! I'm no longer at risk of losing my marbles."

"Thank goodness for that."

This was the closest Malachi had ever been to Reza—trapped in this car with him for ten hours. He didn't like it. Anger thrummed in his veins just being so close to him. But for the first time, he wasn't completely blinded by rage when he looked at him. He just looked like a normal, tired college student. Malachi noticed a deep, jagged white scar cutting across his cheek, just below the bone.

"So, why?" Reza pressed. "Why do you hate me?"

"You think I killed my best friend."

Reza pursed his lips together. Another Lorde song came on his playlist. He really must have been a Lorde guy. Huh. Who woulda thought? "No. That's not it. You've hated me since you first met me."

Malachi shrugged. "Maybe I could sense it."

If Reza wanted to talk so bad, why did he want to talk about this? Why not make small talk about the weather and the road conditions? And why did Reza care so much about what Malachi thought of him?

"Oh, come on. Tell me the truth."

Malachi decided his best tactic was deflecting. "Do you really think I killed her?"

Reza stared at the empty road ahead. "I think there's a chance."

Malachi tossed his hands up as if to say Told you so.

"To be fair," Reza added, "I think there's also a chance that her mom killed her. Or that Adrian did. Or that I went into some fugue, blackout state and did. Everyone's a suspect."

"Then why focus on me?"

"Because I think there's a slightly higher chance you did it."

Malachi scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest. "Why? The boyfriend always did it."

"Are you saying you think it was Adrian?" Reza countered. "Because that's not how you sounded when he got arrested. What was it you said? Bullshit?"

"Because I know Adrian. If I was an outsider looking in, he'd be my number one suspect."

"Why? Because he was her boyfriend? That's even worse than circumstantial evidence." Reza ran a hand through his short, curly hair. "Who's your real number one suspect?"

"I don't have one. I think Mila faked her death."

Reza let out a long, low whistle. "That's one hell of an assertion. You got any evidence to back that up?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"If you can convince me otherwise, maybe I'll stop thinking you did it."

"Yeah, that's how convincing works." Malachi groaned. "The phone number I found in Mila's dorm."

"Yeah. That Becky lady or whoever, no?"

"Peggy. Remember our talk with her?"

Reza cupped a hand over his mouth. "She taught her to shoot and fight and drive and all that stuff. And she sold her a gun."

Malachi nodded. "If she was going to fake her own death and go live off on her own, I don't see why she wouldn't want to know how to defend herself. And why else would she need to learn how to drive, unless she planned on running?"

"What if she knew someone was after her?" Reza countered. "And she was learning all that for self-defense? She could have learned to drive in case she needed to run."

Malachi frowned. "No." That didn't sound like the loud, opinionated Mila he knew, who couldn't prick her finger without the whole world knowing. "Why didn't she tell me? Or her mom? Or any of her friends? If something was going on with Mila, if she thought she was in danger, someone would have known." It was the same reason why the sexual assault survivors club flyer was so odd. Mila didn't keep secrets.

Or at least, Malachi hadn't thought she did.

"What if she'd thought it'd put you guys in danger?"

Malachi put his head in his hands and groaned. Reza was so frustrating. "Why are you so critical of everything I say?"

"It's a murder investigation. The potential murderer's sitting next to me. I need to be critical."

"It's not a murder investigation," Malachi insisted. "She wasn't murdered."

"That's how the police are treating it."

"And you trust them?"

Reza shrugged like he didn't, and rightfully so. "Maybe you're right. I don't know."

"What about the alleged sightings?" Malachi asked.

"Alleged sightings," Reza emphasized.

Malachi rolled his eyes again. "You sound like someone that doesn't believe in ghosts. Alleged sightings. What horse shit."

"I don't."

Malachi stared at him, open-mouthed. "What?!"

"I don't believe in ghosts," Reza admitted.

This was the final straw. There definitely would be a murder investigation, and Malachi would be the only suspect. Mila wouldn't be the victim. "You don't believe in ghosts?!"

"Never have. Never will."

"Come with me on an investigation," Malachi mumbled. "Then you will."

"What, are you asking me on a date?"

Malachi's entire body went red. For a second, he saw double. His chest constricted. "No!" he sputtered. At least, he hoped it was a 'no.' He was so flustered he could barely tell right from left.

"Kidding, kidding." Reza laughed like he enjoyed making Malachi uncomfortable. "I wouldn't date you if you were the last person left on earth."

Malachi was glad Reza shared those sentiments. But that didn't help control his terrible, angry blush. As Malachi fought it down (though the harder he fought, the worse it got), Reza looked out at the endless road. Another song came on his Lorde playlist, and then another. Malachi thought he was finally safe and peered out at the world through his camera. And then Reza spoke again, ruining the moment.

"I don't..." he mumbled.

"What?" Malachi asked.

"I don't think you did it," Reza finished. "Anymore. I don't know."

Outwardly, Malachi rolled his eyes. "That's what I've been telling you this whole time." Inwardly, he felt an odd sense of relief.

"I know." Reza rolled his eyes right back at him. "Dumbass."

Malachi's lips ticked upward. "Douchebag."

***

OVER DINNER, Malachi announced: "I asked Aisha out today."

"Really?" his mom spooned mashed potatoes into her mouth. "That's great, honey! What'd she say?"

"Yes," Malachi mumbled. His heart lurched in his chest. His mom was so excited he was going out with Aisha. She'd cried over the possibility he'd been with Drew.

His dad clasped him on the shoulder. "Time you became a man, son."

***

THROUGH A COMBINATION OF WILLPOWER and energy shots, Malachi and Reza made it to Indiana before the sun rose. When they finally got there, they booked a motel room and did some digging on the cop that allegedly saw Mila.

About an hour-and-a-half later, the cop knocked on their door.

Malachi clambered out of the old lounge chair he'd been sitting in. He pressed the record button on his camera and tucked it in the bookshelf, where the cop couldn't see it. He knew how they felt about being recorded, and he wanted to film every second of this.

"May I come in?" the cop asked with a gratingly flat midwestern accent.

Malachi gestured at the table where Reza was sitting as an invitation in. What was this cop, a vampire? Malachi had been awake for the past twenty-four hours and had spent more than half of them with Reza Gutiérrez. He wasn't in the mood for this.

The cop was young and blindingly white. His brown hair stuck up around his willow's peak in spikes like a bully from a 90's movie. That was the only noteworthy aspect of him. Malachi could imagine Mila punching him. As if in agreement, a purple bruise flowered on his chin, roughly the size of a fist. Black tinged its edges like a lightning strike.

"That from her?" Malachi nodded toward his chin.

He rubbed the bruise and took a seat in the chair Malachi'd been sitting in, across from Reza. Between them rested a notepad, a pen, and a city map. "If it was her."

Malachi shut the door and paced the room. "Tell us everything."

The cop nodded. "It was a normal day. I was watchin' traffic. I saw this car—"

"Where? How far from here? What kind of car?" Malachi meant everything.

"An old sedan. Dunno what model. I've never seen one like it. It was lime green. Brightest car I've ever seen." He rubbed his bruise again. "Not far from here. It was on US-40 past the movie theater. I can give you directions." He sank lower in his seat, getting more comfortable, like he liked all this attention. "This car was swervin' all over the road. At one point, it got in the wrong lane. Nearly hit a van head-on. I thought the driver must've been drunk, so I pulled her over. But she was sober and real pretty—"

"Pretty?" Malachi echoed. Blood roared in his ears. "You pulled her over and thought she was pretty? She's a missing person!"

Reza stared at the cop like he wanted to kill him, but that happened to be Reza's resting expression, so Malachi wasn't sure.

"Sorry." The cop's face turned red. Malachi wanted to punch him where he was bruised. "Seemed like a routine stop. I still thought she might be drunk, so I was gonna give her a breathalyzer test. Next thing I know, bam! I'm knocked out cold. When I came to, she was gone. Filed a report, but no one had heard of that case in these parts then. I put two-and-two together when I saw her on the news. I mean, her hair was different, but she looked exactly like the photos of Camila. Same eyes, same chin, same everything. She even had that same scar on her forehead." He grabbed the city map from between them and circled the theater, outlining the route to it. "What'd y'all say your names were, again?"

Malachi locked eyes with Reza, silently asking if they should tell the truth. For once, Malachi and Reza were on the same team. For once, Reza was the only person Malachi trusted, though he didn't want to admit it. Reza made a face back at him like What harm can it do? Malachi knew from the fae folk a name could do a lot of harm.

"Reza. And this is Malachi."

Malachi bugged his eyes out at Reza. Seriously?

The cop slowly turned to look at Malachi, pacing behind him. "Malachi what-now?"

Malachi couldn't meet the cop in the eye. He stared at Reza. "Abramtzik."

The cop fiddled with his badge. "You were arrested in connection with her murder, weren't ya?" he asked. "And released on bail?"

Malachi froze, his heart pounding in his chest. Why had they trusted this cop? Why had he trusted Reza?

A vein ticked in Reza's forehead. He nodded his head toward the door. What was he thinking...?

"You are aware," the cop continued, "that it's illegal to cross state lines while you're out on bail? Far as I'm aware, you were arrested in New York."

Panic and anger exploded in Malachi's chest. How dare this cop come and pretend to help them? Malachi rose to his feet, his hands curled into fists. He didn't know how to fight. Didn't even know how to properly form a fist. Were you supposed to tuck your thumb? He knew he'd read it somewhere, but all he could think of was his red-hot anger. The closest he'd ever been to a fight was when Drew had...

Malachi rubbed his crooked nose, a constant reminder of that day.

The cop stood and held his hands out in front of him like he was trying to mediate. Him! A cop! Trying to mediate! The room was so small, when he stood with his hands in front of him, his fingers grazed Malachi's chest. "Woah, woah, woah. Settle down. We can sort this out."

Reza leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process.

All Malachi felt was anger. All he knew was anger. If his father had taught him anything, it was that: anger, and how to act on it.

"Fuck you," Malachi hissed.

"What did you just say to me?" The cop asked in a tone that made it clear he knew exactly what Malachi had just said to him.

"Fuck," Malachi enunciated, "you."

"There's no need for—"

Malachi wrapped his fingers around his thumb. That felt right. His arm reeled back out of its own volition, his back bending with the force of it. He shot his arm toward the cop with all the strength he could muster. His fist slammed into the purple bruise where Mila had punched him. Pain exploded in Malachi's hand, but the cop was still standing. He was like a brick wall.

While Malachi was distracted, the cop tased him in the stomach.

Malachi's body went rigid. Dear readers who get periods, imagine the worst cramp you've ever had. The debilitating, all-consuming cramp that brings you to tears and incapacitates you. Imagine it starting in your gut, just to the left of your belly-button, and then quickly spreading to the outer reaches of your body.

Malachi wanted to say something, wanted to yell, to scream, to cry, to beg him to stop. He thought he did, that he'd at least said something. But no words came out. It lasted thirty seconds. It felt like a lifetime.

And then it stopped. But the pain didn't.

Malachi's body buckled. He slammed into the scratchy emerald green carpet.

Reza jumped over Malachi's body, pushing the cop away from him. He puffed his chest out, trying to make himself seem bigger than he was, and sneered down at the cop. "What was that for?"

"Sir, please take a step back. He attacked me. I was only protecting myself."

"He doesn't even know how to throw a proper punch! What threat was he causing you?"

"Eueueueugh," Malachi moaned, frozen to the floor. Gravity had multiplied. He was magnetized to the ground.

"Sir, I'm going to ask you one last time to take a step back," the cop insisted, his hands toying with his taser.

Reza lunged at him, whipping out his switchblade faster than he could deploy his taser. He slammed into the cop, ramming him into the wall and pinning the knife to his throat. The taser fell from the cop's hands, bouncing off the floor.

"Move," Reza threatened, teeth glaring, "and you're fuckin' dead."

Malachi roiled around on the floor in pain. He remembered seeing Reza play with the switchblade before, but he'd never seen it in action. Who the fuck really is Reza Gutiérrez? wondered the tiny part of his brain not focused on the pain. And why does he have a knife?

The cop opened his mouth to scream. Before he could, Reza dug the knife deeper into his throat, deep enough to draw blood.

"Malachi," Reza mumbled. "A little help here."

Malachi could not help him. "Eueueueugh," he explained, regretfully.

Reza swore under his breath. "Take your belt off," he ordered the cop. "Take your goddamn cop belt off or I'll bleed you dry."

Something stirred in Malachi's stomach. He couldn't tell if it was fear or another round of pain.

Slowly, the cop unclipped his belt with all his police goodies. It fell around his feet.

"We're gonna move nice and slow, no?"

Reza roughly grabbed hold of the cop's arm and yanked him toward the bed. Somehow, he got him on the bed and pulled his own scarf off, tying his hands to the bedpost. He ran and grabbed a towel from the bathroom, shoving it in his mouth. He added a couple more knots to the tie and then quickly grabbed his bag and Malachi's, pulling them each over one shoulder. He grabbed Malachi's camera and tossed it in his bag.

He knelt by Malachi. "Do you think you can walk?"

"Eueueueugh," Malachi replied.

"I'm taking that as a no." Reza helped Malachi to his feet, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Even half-delirious with pain, Malachi noticed how strong and sturdy and warm Reza felt beside him. His woodsy cologne washed over him. "Come on, buddy. One foot in front of the other. We've gotta get out of here. Please."

Reza would lose everything if he was caught. His scholarship, his admittance to NYU, his place in this country. And yet here he was. Breaking the law to help Malachi. He really was an idiot.

Malachi wanted to help as much as he could, but he couldn't remember how to walk or move his legs. He pushed one foot forward, which required all the strength he had inside of him. Then another, then another.

"Well, thank Christ," Reza exclaimed, even though he was supporting most of Malachi's weight.

They stumbled out the front door and onto the concrete alleyway that served as a hallway between the rooms. Above them, the rain poured from the sky, although the overhang kept it off them—for now. Reza slammed the door, turning the DO NOT DISTURB sign around so it was clearly facing outward.

Somehow, they reached the ground floor. As they picked their way through the parking lot, the rain soaked through their clothes. When they reached the car, Reza helped Malachi into the back and climbed into the driver's seat. Malachi lay there helplessly, staring up at the roof of the car. For an inexplicable reason, Reza turned off his Lorde playlist and blasted Ricky Martin's "Livin' La Vida Loca." He gunned it, and the car shot out of the parking lot.

***

MALACHI AND AISHA SWUNG IN TANDEM on two swings, their hands clasped together. In the early spring air, they could both get away with an unzipped coat. Most of the snow from a storm last week had melted; all that was left were the mounds of snow pushed to the side of the playground.

Malachi wanted to be seen with Aisha as often as possible. At the end of the school day, they met in front of her classroom to hug goodbye. During recess, they played together and held hands. On their "dates"—to the better malls that Malachi and Drew had never dared step foot in, to the Olive Garden down the block from Malachi's apartment, to the park in Aisha's neighborhood—Malachi would kiss her (always hurriedly, and only ever on the cheek) whenever he saw someone close to their age pass by. It was all a show, a ruse, an elaborate act he put on. He hated himself for it—hated every minute of it.

Through Aisha, Malachi hoped people would forget about him and Drew, forget about it all, forget anything ever happened between them...

As they swung back-and-forth, back-and-forth, Drew walked up to them, stopping out of reach of their kicking legs. His face was as red as a blood moon, his hands curled into fists at his side.

"You're cheating on me," Drew spat.

Malachi froze in mid-air, gaping at him. His swing slowed. Aisha hadn't realized he'd stopped, so she kept swinging, her arm jerking Malachi's.

"What?" Malachi asked.

"You're cheating on me," Drew repeated. "With Aisha."

Aisha let go of Malachi's hand, giving him a look as she dragged her toes in the mulch, bringing her own swing to a screeching halt.

"You're delusional." Deny, deny, deny. That's all Malachi knew how to do. Deny there'd ever been anything between him and Drew. Deny he'd ever kissed him back. Deny he'd ever called him his boyfriend. Deny he'd ever liked him. Deny he was gay, deny he was into boys, deny something was wrong with him. Deny himself.

"I'm delusional?" Drew echoed back at Malachi. "Well, thank God I'm not a cheater."

"You're obsessed with me." Malachi spun the tale as he went like a spinster of gilded golden twine. "You've been obsessed with me ever since we first met. It's sick, really, how you think we're in love. You need help, Drew. Mental help." He hated himself for every word he said.

"Malachi..." Aisha mumbled, guiltily looking at her Twinkle Toes.

Drew looked between Malachi and Aisha. "What are you going on about? We were together. Emphasis on were. Because whatever it was we had, it's... over now."

"We never had anything," Malachi insisted. "It was all in your head. You're just a sick-in-the-head fag that—"

Drew's curled fists collided with Malachi's nose. Red streaked across his vision. Pain splintered through the center of his head—the pain of bone colliding against bone nearly knocking him out of his skin. The force of the punch knocked him off the swing. He flew backward, landing on his bum in the mulch. Blood poured from his nose, splattering against his clothes and the ground in front of him. Tears sprang from his eyes. He looked up at Drew, stunned.

Aisha screamed and jumped out of her swing, her hands cupped over her mouth. She backed away, pressing herself against the pole holding up the swing set.

Drew stood over Malachi, panting, his hand cupped around his closed fist. He winced. Malachi remembered how soft his hands had felt when he'd held them, remembered his hands, his hands, his hands...

What a mess he'd made! Malachi was already crying, but he wanted to cry even more. He hadn't wanted any of this. This was everything he'd been afraid of, but a billion times worse. He'd been scared someone else would hurt him. But it was Drew that had thrown the punch. And Malachi the one that made him do it.

Drew ran his bruised knuckles across his lips. "Don't ever call me that again."

The recess monitor ran over, blowing a whistle between her lips. The sound of it rattled through Malachi's skull. He threw his hands over his ears, wincing. When she got to them, she gingerly helped Malachi to his feet. Drew ran in the other direction, but the second Malachi was standing, she turned to him and shrilly blew her whistle.

"ANDREW HOLLAND!" She screamed.

Drew froze. He slowly turned to face them, his face even redder than it'd been when he'd first walked up to Malachi and Aisha.

"Inside," the recess monitor demanded. "Now."

***

THE RAIN PELTED the windshields; Reza's wipers could barely move quick enough. Eventually, Malachi regained his ability to move and speak. He had some questions for Reza.

"Why did you help me?" Malachi asked, his voice hoarse.

Reza shrugged. He hunkered down low in his seat as if that could make him see better through the rain. The wipers whipped across the windshield. "I know you're innocent. I didn't want you getting in trouble because you broke your stupid bail rule. You shouldn't've been arrested in the first place. You were only protecting me." He mumbled the last part, just loud enough for Malachi to hear. "Only far I protect you in return."

But Malachi hadn't been protecting Reza. He'd been protecting the evidence. But he didn't have the strength to argue. He only had it in him for so many words and needed to make them count. "You think I'm innocent?" Just yesterday they'd talked about how Reza wasn't sure if Malachi was.

"I don't think," Reza corrected. "I know. I saw how you interrogated that cop. It wasn't like you were trying to throw him off your trail. It was like the only thing you cared about was finding Mila."

"Oh." Malachi tried to compartmentalize this, but he was in too much pain. Reza didn't think he'd killed Mila. So why did Malachi hate him? He was having trouble remembering. "Why do you have a switchblade?" Malachi asked.

"So no one'll fuck with me again," Reza replied, which only raised more questions. "We should get to Amarillo tonight."

"Texas?" Malachi asked.

"That's where Mila met that Kalani girl, no?" Reza explained. "We need to put as much space between us and Indiana as we can. They're gonna have a warrant out for us."

"We're outlaws," Malachi realized.

"Headin' into the wild, wild west. Damn right we are."