Three weeks into being David and Elena Martinez, we got invited to a neighborhood barbecue.
“It’s normal,” I told David as we stood in the kitchen debating. “Friendly neighbors, casual get-together. Elena Martinez wouldn’t say no.”
“It’s also a bunch of people we’ll have to lie to for hours,” he said, already half into a polo shirt that made him look like the definition of suburban husband.
I raised an eyebrow. “We’ve been lying to everyone for three weeks. Grocery clerks. My professors. Your boss. What’s the difference?”
“These people aren’t just faces we’ll never see again, Elena. They’re neighbors. They’re the kind of people who wave at us when we’re mowing the lawn or bring us cookies at Christmas. It feels different.”
He wasn’t wrong. Smiling at the cashier or making up small tal
