Beverly was distractingly nervous about meeting Red's family. But there was no need to be. The two of them weren't together, it didn't matter what Red's family thought of him. Or what his real name ever was.

But he couldn't help wanting to make a good—great first impression.

Red was absentmindedly humming along to a song that played on his radio, all the whole carefully watching Beverly through the corner of his eye.

Beverly had been trying to let go of whatever anger he felt toward Red, considering there'd be no use if he would inevitably move out. But just the mere thought of telling Red fact-to-face, he was so, so curious as to how the older man would react.

Would he rejoice?

Would he frown?

Would he be angry? The last bit of Beverly's thoughts had him quaking in his sneakers, as they scraped against the flooring of Red's truck.

"What's your real name?"

The question erupted from Beverly's lips before he had the chance to stop them. It was something he'd been wondering since he first met Red. Because surely, a woman wouldn't name her oldest son after a color.

Or at least, Beverly wouldn't.

"What?" Red was confused, why did Beverly want to know his real name, wasn't Red enough?

"I can't call you Red in front of your mother, so—what's your real name?"

Red's fingers clutched at the base of the steering wheel, his jaw working. If the circumstances were any different, he'd have no trouble telling Beverly his real name.

If he weren't from a broken home, if Beverly hadn't ever had to live without his parents, and the mourn the loss of his only grandparents. He'd surely tell someone he had feelings for his real name.

"It's Matthew . . ." Red's words hung low in the air, him waiting for Beverly's response.

"Matthew, then, where did Red come from?" Beverly's eyebrows cocked toward one another, his fingers working at his sweatshirts strings, as he watched Red conjure an answer.

Red didn't want to waste time getting into the grimy details of the only relationship he'd ever had, of the one person he'd screwed over more than anything or anyone in his entire lifetime.

So, he settled for the short, unfaithful version. "A girl I used to know gave it to me a long time ago. I guess it just stuck."

The answer seemed like pure bullshit, but Beverly didn't feel like signaling another mere argument by prying.

"Oh."

Red's eyes washed over the familiar scene of the forest-filled streets. On each side of them, were layers and layers of old, tall oak trees.

The sun had set over an hour ago, but Red was almost so sure that he'd be able to make it at least across state lines before having to rest. But one look over at a snoring Beverly, and he knew he'd have no choice but to rent a motel room.

He pulled into the deserted parking lot of Motel J, him leaving Beverly and all of their belongings in the truck, while making his way into the dirty, old, rotting building.

A man stood at the front desk, a furry mustache above his lips, as he sucked in the essence of an old cigarette.

"And how may I assist you, sir?" The man whose shirt read, Viktor, almost purred, him continuing to take swigs from his cigarette.

"I just need a room."

"Well, you're clearly the only customer, so every room is available. So is it gonna be one bed, two beds?—"

"One bed's fine."